Whole day

mornings don’t bother me at all:
the white canvas of the foggy window
nurses the already wounded light.
i can deal with mornings and their starting pains.
i embrace them.
the whole day should be a morning.

in afternoons the black birds of reality fly by
and scream, their knife stabbing starts,
tearing the day further apart.
this too will be a day like any other, and grey is
loneliness and memory and grieve.
even fresh coffee has no taste this time of day.

the demons of the dark curse me
with self-pity tears.
once in bed,
I am impatient to sleep for a chance
to start this thing all over
again, and again, and again.

because the alternative is worse.
because, perhaps
one day will be different.
one day will be whole,
the morning stretched.
mornings don’t bother me at all.


The balance

she weighs the thought by the weight of her child
as she carries him up the stairs –
the boy seems lighter –
but she won’t speak of this with the father.

slowly she reaches the landing,
where she forces her thought over the balcony
as it would crash the bed of the little one,
as it would shake the house on its base,
and the walls be tumbling down.


Inside the candle’s flame
the truth perhaps.
We stare away from darkness.

Do you think in my waves,
do I catch yours?
The flame stays put.
The truth stays there.

Your hands seem calmer
now the night sets in.
Out there the unknown creatures howl.

We are not there.
They are not us.
There is no saver place
than in a candle’s flame.

Don’t fool the fool

Don’t fool the fool with foolish gems;
He is too wise to understate,
Too happy for the words to mind.
Don’t fool the fool with foolish gems.

Don’t leave in Autumn for a better place,
See it through, the rain and storm,
Be like a fool and do not care.

There is a peace in turmoiled mind,
Acceptance of a higher kind
Only a fool can understand.
Don’t leave in Autumn for a better place.

Be too wise to understand.
Let words be such when nothing rhymes,
Don’t fool the fool with foolish gems.

As such. You are too wise to understand.
Accept me as the fool who minds.
Don’t leave me now it’s Autumn.


The ruins

The start of a life is a brick to a building, many more to follow
though the house is never complete. It needs a balcony for better views,
an attic to forget, a cellar for hiding, an extension or two after each surgery,
a garden to bury in.

And then the whole thing collapses, the ruins taken over
by oblivious weeds. Such are the streets our minds wander off to
in deep of nights, awaiting anaesthesia.


Some shadows give a preview of the dark,
Tree leaves dancing on a kitchen floor,
An omen for the day the tree is dead.

We need no more proof that all is our imagination,
We are here; the tree is not, yet do we see it move.
I’m here for now. My shadow has its own life to continue.

Visiting the ruins

We are in the abbey with no roof, yet
seconds before they disappear behind limestone pillars,
monks can be seen, disguised as seagulls,
chanting words can be heard, a murmur of Latin prayers,
mistaken for the roar of the North Sea.

When I make a photo of you looking over the harbour,
standing next to you is an astonished man
with a tonsure of a Benedict
who opens his mouth in the way of Munch’s Scream
but I only hear Kittiwakes yell and his wife calling him Pete.

I capture your smile outside the abbey. You face the tea room.
Behind you in the abbey continuing prayers,
chanting, movements of medieval life.

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