Mourning Morning

 

jules-pascin-sleeping-woman

 

My mother’s house surrounds
me in a shroud: the tinkling
of the teaspoon as my father stirs
his tea, his tea; the chug of the washing machine
that never dies. The tubular wind chimes casting
their cool auric spell around us; the complaint
of the floorboards bearing up our lives.
And the busyness, of the birds in bush nearby… I

lie with eyes shucked open, not turning
to what waits to be let in.
I hear the phone shriek—and again—
then footsteps up the hall; the sound
of hesitation at the door—
as I elongate this moment,
try to dwell inside before.

 

*first published in Bluepepper

 

 

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a Christmas passing

 

driving

 

a Christmas passing

travelling home on Christmas Day
full hearts and bellies straining
bush teeming on either side
of this glistening snake of humanity
from the front seat a few sighs
and then the benevolent curtain of rain parts
to let Great Uncle Tommy pass
through

 

 

*On Christmas Day last year my great Uncle Tommy passed away whilst driving home after a day spent celebrating with family and friends. This poem was first published on Justin Lowe’s excellent site, Bluepepper.

 

 

 

Flowers

flowers2
I  have had a new poem, Flowers, published in Deep Water Literary Journal. You can read it below, or go to Deep Water and enjoy some of their truly wonderful poetry, fiction, and art.

The journal publishes “works which engage with the psychological and physical aspects of the darker side of the human condition.”

Please take a look, and perhaps consider submitting something yourself.

 

Flowers

Flowers, swaddled
like the babies you keep
losing, are a meagre offering to place upon
the altar of your abysmal grief;

their dilated eyes
and flaring heads
are sucked
into that cruel void.

I can feel
your pain’s gravity distorting
everything I dare approach with.

The hospital a monolith
to suffering, our suffering —
but how could a mere building
contain such suffering?
What kind of feeble bastion
against the unbearable black seed
that grows inside is this?

Standing, bereft, in the stark car park,
hungry for a shred of grace to ease my heart,
the only suggestion of God I find:
a flickering light; the aroma
of rain; electricity
quickening the air.

A Sudden Absence

Vilhelm Hammershoi, femme dans un interieur, 1905

I have had a new poem, 
A Sudden Absence, published 
in Bluepepper. Read it below, 
or better still, read it online 
at Bluepepper, where you will find 
an array of fine poetry on offer.
This wonderful site, edited by 
Australian poet Justin Lowe, 
has recently been included in 
Pandora,the National Library of 
Australia's Web Archive — which is  
a testament to the high standard 
of poetry it publishes. Just sign 
up via email to receive a regular 
dose of good quality poems into 
your inbox. Enjoy!

A Sudden Absence

When a sudden absence opens
where before there was a lover, or a child,
(a child’s worse, we must all agree
a child’s loss is worst), the everyday
grows almost perverse.

Routine grinds around and round the lack
and identity, devoid of vital purpose
withers back…

Autumn’s raw draft rankles from her room —
but I don’t look; instead I close the door,
and try to cover up by loving
the others a little more.

 

 

 

 

School Cycle

413
Many thanks to the fabulous Blue 
Hour magazine for publishing my 
haiku,'School Cycle'. 

I wrote these poems earlier this 
year, around the time my youngest 
child started school.She was 
absolutely fine  I, on the other 
hand, had a rather pathetic mummy 
crisis! 

Yep, it was all about me...but I'm feeling much better now. 🙂

You can read the haiku here, along with plenty of other great quality writing!

Rapture

walking-in-rain-gray
I have had a new poem, Rapture, published in Deep Water Literary Journal.

This fabulous new journal seeks to "become a haven for those who write about 
and produce artworks interpreting Darkness, whatever that may mean to the 
creator of the work". 

Their first issue for the year is themed 'Loss' - it contains some 
fantastic artwork, fiction, and poems. You can read mine below, or at 
Deep Water here.

Rapture

Looking through clear eyes
of imminent death, time
is a ponderous fruit,
hanging heavy and swollen
with possibility
in her pendulous swinging basket.

Globular and over-ripe
she blooms with all the days
you will not see,
a still life of
fecundity squandered,
without witness, unconsumed.

God, to take just one more
bite, and this time really savour
the sweet juices running
down the face
and the fingers sticky
and tingling with
the messiness of it all –

would be a rapture.
But, no matter:
we must carry on without her,

disentwining from this world
despite the drive to cling and cling and
aching from the amputated
limb of our projections, we are roused
by wise compulsion to accept
life has been spent,
and we must move on, relentlessly

on, without choice leaving
all those little things unsaid,
and undone,
without choice shedding
the slithery skin that houses us,
but locks us in, and further
our very sense of selves
must fall in cascades of disguise,
unravelling us for – the chill surprise!
of running naked, out into the rain.