Beginnings

Boys.

 

 

Boys smell good, have smooth bodies

to run your fingers over

 

& when boys love you, its early morning sunshine

with no clouds.

 

Boy’s wrap their arms around you

tell long boring stories of other girls

 

& boys can’t see the cracks in the pavement

or wonder when tomorrow will come..

 

Boys are dangerous, their love ensnares you

sex is always 2.a.m and continuing,

 

& the goodbyes raw and confusing,

boys make you cry!

 

I loved a boy once, he had green eyes

told me he would love me forever

 

& his morning kisses were sweeter than

anything I had ever known.

 

Boys leave you, often without warning,

they leave gaps in the fabric of your universe

 

tears in the structure of your environment

a monsoon in your heart.

 

I had a boy once.

 

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Poems from  Love Bites 2016 buy here

 

Crossing from Battersea

brown bottled river;

you going North, me trudging South

our fingers stretched to elastic

our footsteps sticky as we pull apart.

 

Your kisses always taste

like sunshine, light a fire

to steam London drizzle

into Rome twilight.

 

Our words paint pictures

in the air, I see you watch

my lips move:

imagining the taste of the sentences

swallowing my song.

 

You’ve watched me slide

through another’s fingers

noted the curves I’ve inspired,

only another pair of brown

anonymous eyes.

 

Light grows a minute a day

this time of year

and our kisses on street corners

grow pink blossom in January,

while sun meanders scantily.

 

We remember no huge

    “forever”

yet forever is where,

we always reside.

 

Ultramarine [January]

 

 

 

From Ultramarine.

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Cocooned in seal bliss bed curling warmth,

earth coated wedding dress white

grass contorted, trees jangling stalactites

far down beneath in dark concealing peace

worms spin their lonely journey.

 

Snow is no soft option as the griping

cold turns breath to smoke, dragons

in my heart whip and churn cry out

for recognition: the city is a still gown

of feathers in the frost.

 

Bright eyed children wipe frozen fingers

I have reached saturation, rising from dream seas

contorted glaciers of my mind’s synapses

snap bridges shut I’m washed by ice flows

glinting on moon dulled landscapes.

 

Breath turns as ultramarine becomes black

mind replays symbols:

 

Childhood taught me the need for ritual for the living, mourners hung in white robes, incense trailing pungent smoke, clashing symbols and then voices raised in grief’s cry. There was so much heat on those fervent tropical streets while children threw small candy to appease threatening deities. We would raid Chinese graveyards at half-light, swimming the monsoon’d alleyways to retrieve jangled treasure, crumpled photos of deceased Buddha’s left to protect, no sooner owned than somehow shrinking in stature. Sitting high on flat porch roof watching Ramadan’s procession, men with knives stuck through tongues, beating drums, chanting priests, swaying of naked bodies, and we knew they were bound for the snake temple, the creatures a slithering mass of poison the opiated faithful crawled amongst.

We sucked florid ice cubes daring each other to jump, fly the forty foot from sky to concrete, until I, trying out my seven-year-old flirtations egged the boy next door to his doom. We watched him fly, then crash, and later drew dragons on his plaster cast taking it in turns to knitting needle the itching.  Amah’s clattered in the crowds below calling errant children as we surveyed the crush in safe serenity.

*

Here on this seal morning it is the lack of heat that drives me down deep my hands stiff like my wisteria, gaunt and crusted with Northern winter.

*

 

 

Unborn

 

 

 

 

You,

child

 

of destiny:

 

you swim

like

 

sea – salt

wind:

 

as thin

as wisp

 

of fairy cloth.

 

I spun you

in my sleep

 

grew your

sea shell

 

tendrils;

 

love

incarnate.

 

I gift you

a life

 

of raindrop

laughter,

 

umbilical

mysteries

 

blood

of my

 

blood

 

 

my

joyful

 

secret.

Alchemy

The weeks

extend

 

like decades:

 

leaves fall

& sky shrinks

 

to blanket grey.

 

A last pink rose

uninhibited

 

holds her

lovely head,

 

as if to say,

 

‘Winter is forgotten.’

 

‘Winter’,

the word

 

sends icicle

 

down my spine,

as the sharp crack

 

of ice,

opens pond.

 

These are

sea days:

 

incubating

salty bath

 

of creation.

 

Fragile, naked

forms,

 

voiceless

 

until spring

gathers warmth

 

& we

become,

 

pure gold.

 

Dogs moan

& the donkey

 

sleeps;

 

the nightingale

has flown,

 

from the four

corners of the

 

city

 

prayer call

echoes.

 

No water

heat on heat

 

the tourist

buses prowl

 

the King’s Highway.

 

Tri coloured

flag, Bedouin

 

& their tea,

 

Hubble bubble

pipe smokes

 

at coffee

corner café.

 

I’m alive

in the Dead Sea

 

salt encrusted

Angels pose

 

dressed in

black mud.

 

Red desert

sand like Mars

 

a vast sea

of nothing:

 

wind carries

jackal’s cry

 

wolf prints

at breakfast

 

round supper

fire strums

 

the whine

of alien

 

music.

Time lapse

 

My body’s here

but my mind

 

is on the road

to Aqaba,

 

lost in a

dust storm

 

where the Jordan

knife -cuts

 

across the Holy Land.

 

Jordan, Palestine,

same blood,

 

ground bone.

 

My body’s here

but my heart rests

 

at Mount Nebo,

 

time stood still

reversed the years

 

Moses & the Israelites,

countless prayers

 

have left impression

in the breeze,

 

sacred, emanation.

 

My body’s here

my spirit  stayed

 

in Petra, where

dead talk in

 

whispers;

 

their carvings

soar,  glow gold

 

at sunset.

 

My body’s here

my soul is in

 

the desert;

 

a ceiling of stars

wind howls in Wadi

 

& the sand smacks

my cheek

 

galloping deep

into nothingness.

 

 

 

Petra

 

City of

the dead

 

soaring

 

rose sand:

Bedouin like

 

lost pirates,

kohl lined

 

eyes

 

cries that

split the

 

thin air.

 

I was lost

to myself

 

until I

climbed like

 

mountain goat;

found,

 

eagle spun

on anabatic

 

wind.

 

Yalla, yalla,

young boys

 

beat donkey’s

side,

 

wind whipped:

 

& I

 

endorphin high,

teeter

 

on the edge,

leaning into

 

my own void.