.Room With One View

'I mirror your misery in the only way I know;
Pen words to the page and allow them to flow'

Peeking through the door just below the hinge
You lay on your quilted mortuary slab
On the bedside cabinet dry roses sit in green water
The air is stale and heavy with sadness.

Brother holds tight my hand, we dare not enter
And disturb you; father warned us, she’s fragile
He said during dinner, like an egg.
I never saw the connection, we laughed
Till he caught us behind the ear,
That’s your mother, the one who bore you,
Dressed you, fed you, and nursed you.

Yet its not you. It’s the sickness that sleeps
All day, and whimpers in the small hours of night.
It’s the dark blood that rotates your smile,
And drenches your pillow with tears.
Why else would you lay there gaze fixed
At the tree tops, watching the birds come to and thro.

Brother has seen enough, he sniffles silently
On the dusty landing, I accept your strength
Take him in my arms, but I have neither your bosom nor touch

Dress Rehearsal

White had always served me well:
Improving the faults of my genetic code
De-sizing the breasts, slimming the thighs.

Harold said he loved every inch of me
He died a happy man.
I married in white, never considered myself
to be angelic; colour has such a transforming effect.
To a certain degree.
-It cannot veil the face of death.

From the tube of toothpaste with its insides squeezed
out, hanging meekly over the rim of the holder,
to the apple that shrivels on the sill
visuals of what’s to come.

Why worry about what to wear vanity fuels the living
Will those that mourn mind what drapes this skeleton form
Should I cover up to lessen the impact?
Black seems to formal
I first made love in a dress of sleek silk darkness
I remember how come morning it lay on the bed
Like a naughty child that had just broken a vase.

Yellow is far to bright for such an occasion
Red is blood, a colour too close to my heart
I go with white, today it is sympathetic
It falls over me like a just spent lover
Loose, but loving.

Tomorrow may see a change,
maybe lilac or mauve
Harold would wait hours whilst I dressed
Patiently perusing the papers,
Humming or happily watching.
Yet will Death?

The Well

Long lengthy pulls to raise the bucket, past walls of damp and dark.
Each tug tightening rope to hand
in the silence of brief pause
Water spills, then splashes down into the never seen
Father, hauls with the ease of mature hand
His sweat, sweetened from old spice
Gathers in the grooves of his furrowed face.
Mother is cooking, not seen but smelt.
Flowers rise on the window sill,
a mixed bunch of chosen beauty
Picked alone, in the privacy of dawn.
Where she coasts between fuchsias and magnolia
Unbound from apron and working attire.
I rest under the apple tree, sipping cloudy lemonade
Swirling my finger in the cool pool of citrus
Forming a whirlpool, watching cubed ice twirl.
These young bones admit defeat, yet he throttles on,
An ancient machine maintained by a love unspoken.

It is here, here where the love blossoms-
Where the pool of memory first begins to fill
Where it is clear and unmarred from the
Murkiness of old age- This moment as he strains
From the haul of water, catching my gaze and smiling
Stopping briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow.
As mother bends and blows gently upon heat softened biscuits
Her face a summary of affection.
These are the scent of late summer rain,
The song that envisions the past so vividly it pains
you to allow it to end. It is this normal
Breath of family life that will exhale long
after the lungs have failed.
And as the sun retreats
and father obeys the dinner call
we stream inside, leaving the memory settle
Till they have both long gone
wherein it will rise again like the pail
heavy and full, heavy and full.

Dawns Orb

Behind black clouds
The moon, half consumed
Struggles to enlighten
The already dark streets.
Like a bloodied
Beaten
Missionary
Seeking forgiveness
Beyond fists
And feet.

It’s not mine to own
Yet in the silence of others sleep
Light lends its ear,
And in-between tired sigh
I give my confessions
To the mute cloud caught priest.

Do the shimmers on the puddles
Tell tales,
Safe in the knowledge
That the pace of city life
Silences all that is said,

It's a game, a mocking of man,
This bright orb,
Burning and boiling
With the eternal memories
Of horror and beauty
Death and resistance.

See how its turns the caged animal
Into a innocent porcelain doll,
In the right light,
And perfect of positions,

Mock, mock, mocking

Blood can lure the most fearful eye
When glimmering into dusks fading paint
Till comes the sun,
Congealing and staining
The place of wrongly timed exit.

Go now, shelter behind the cloud
Absorb and understand
The evil that scans beneath you,
You have heard my words,
Let them translate
In a petrol rainbow puddle
For isn’t this all man made?

On Googling Death

On January the 17th 2043 I shall die.
Of this, the website 'Your Death Date' is certain.
Drunk last night I Googled death,
there was much I demanded to know-

Why, when I was only five, had he
slipped in shadowy form through
the foundations of the family home
slinking under the duvet like
father after a late night no-phone-call binge.
Lassoing tight her lungs till come morning
we found her, ashen and withdrawn-
her eyes caught in mid question.

And why, as we sobbed beside her bed
did he allow humour to enter the
scene, disguised as two silent crows
peering in from atop the burnt garden tree.

Why not have us discover in the company of angels
there chubby unscathed hands fondling her hair
till lifting her their whiter than white wings fan
her parting words of love and reassurance
upon our calm and understanding faces.
Maybe those next 11 years would have found
themselves forked down a different, far more amicable river.

On January the 17 2043 I shall die: so said the website I clicked upon
In the mantle of probing darkness, alone I pondered-

Would death take seat on a white plastic hospital chair
orceshtrating the bleep of the machines
as cancer burrows itself out of house and home.
would he scoop down like a seagull
through clouds of burning gasoline
scooping me from the roadside to lift me
from the shrapnel of bonnet and bone.
Into the firmament of the endless gathering mourned.

Or will he take note of these words
and instruct the angels to decline upon me fanning their wings
Upon those who will surely be by my side.