The depth of the sea/politics on TV.

The television’s
riven through
idealism twisted
each one cleaving,
bleeding stores,
mincing dreams,
vying for my heart,
blinding me with
numbers,
telling me tomorrow’s
dreads are down to
that lot’s
blunders.

What’s ‘the people’?
Who needs care?
Where’s the line between,
my mind, my lungs, my gifts?
What’s ‘the current territory’?
Who knows where it ends?
Where’s the gate between,
the air, the birds, the trees?
What’s ‘the plan’?
And what’s it for?
What’s the cake, the pool, the deal?
What’s the ceiling? Strategy?
Who’s that with a cleaver on TV?
What does he care for the depth of the sea?

Freedom-envy.

Freedom-envy.

I feel cut off
as if I must impose myself
or cease.
As if it’s up to me,
to be.
Free is not any easy Lot.
Tied in and bound
a sense of being on,
endured,
as if a choice made earlier
matured – forms norms.
Freedom envy’s wrong,
twisted,
made to sound ok;
a sense of not belonging
tempts, seduces yesterday’s
regrets
to mourn tomorrow’s promises,
forget,
to live,
enjoy, today.

Love’s just Love.

Love’s just Love.

I didn’t think my family
would make my own redundancy
quite as vivid, cruelly clear.
Enlightenment found me, this year.

They drew me in. I fell in love
with the newest, tiny one;
they let me hope that she’d be near,
live in England, ‘over here’.

I showed her how the seasons change,
we lived in woods, we made up games,
She made me find my paints again.
I felt she was my soul-met friend.

We unlocked life and set it free.
Redundancy’s not liberty.

We’d plans for
camps,
worms in cans,
messages in bottles,
watching how the river’s weir
carves voles’ rough homes in hollows.
Planting seeds,
collecting eggs,
counting,
writing alphabets
on forbidden paving-stones,
chalk stained evidence on clothes,
picnics in the rain.
Time once passed and here again.

Whatever now may be,
we unlocked life and set it free
in perpetuity.

Redundancy’s redundant.
Love’s our soul-shared liberty,
living, pulsing, moving me.

Voids unearth humility,
(a face-off with the travesty
of having loved and lost)
hot grief’s molten spear-head,
hammered, shaped, cooled, as yet
unsharpened, in the novice
black-smith’s hands
rakes through flesh,
a jagged retrospective,
wounding, bleeding
new perspectives.

What has been,
was once not,
always is
and will be,
yet again.

Redundancy’s a temporary name.
Love’s just love –
nameless and unchanged.

Love’s Loss

Love’s Loss

Asleep, a radio,
heat,
the window, birds;
I move the cat;
it’s there at first unnamed,
for an instant
unremembered,
making a difference to rain.
A bright day’s worse,
its optimism grates
nagging, laying blame
on absent
serendipity;
they send me prayers about
serenity.
Stirring tea, washing, slow;
not polishing my shoes,
careless over what I wear,
my hair.
Love’s loss.
Moments paralyse.
Tooth-brush scales
Grief’s despair.

Sounds like May: inside and out.

Sounds like May, inside and out.

Outside

An undulation, raising and pitching
underpins evensong, Blackbirds, Finches,
a motorway faraway drifting in airs;
the Starlings in the roof stilled,
washing spins,
next-door’s phone rings;
a dad roars,
squeals,
a trampoline;
Sheep, lamented-lambs’ moans
exhausted,
settle to occasional grieving yawns;
edging clippers clank on brick-shed walls,
doors grind, in need of oil.
One-wheeled barrows thump
home.

Inside

An inculcation, raising and pitching
undermines evensong’s Blackbirds, Finches,
An obsession, droning on, punctuates breath,
the worry of a roof, stilled,
thinking spins,
no one ever rings;
once we roared,
squealed,
a love machine.
Kids, lamented, goat-eared groans
out-wearied,
moved to settle, now long flown.
Skateboards cobwebbed on shed walls,

Doors, closed.
One-wheeled barrows parked;
home.

Sounds like May.

Sounds like May.

An undulation, raising and pitching
underpins evensong, Blackbirds, Finches,
a motorway faraway drifting in airs;
the Starlings in the roof stilled,
washing spins,
next-door’s phone rings;
a dad roars,
squeals,
a trampoline;
Sheep, lamented-lambs’ moans
exhausted,
settle to occasional grieving yawns;
edging clippers clank on brick-shed walls,
doors grind, in need of oil.
One-wheeled barrows thump
home.

I hate the East.

I hate the East.

I hate the East.
It swallows up my family.
It stole me from my Mum and Dad.
It took away all I had known
and filled it with a void.

I meditated over this.
I hoped I might abstain
from western misery and grief
that now runs through my veins.

I hate the East
for robbing me
of Bon and Indi, Hou and Ro,
who think the East’s the place to go.
One day they’ll hate it too, I know.