Here, memories collide,
passing between needle points
on mountains or along
sandy shores;
it’s rueful …

No crows fly by,
watch the grackles feed
on city sidewalks
Greenery turns faintly

when you’re nineteen,
it’s yours

Rooms may cry,
never missing
your presence

Barnacles scrape
your knees if you hit pilings
(be cautious while wading)

Today I wear stings from a
thousand angry hornets
fleeing from their nest
(unflattering jewelry)

I’ve lost a cocoon
to wrap around me
(trying to stay in tune)

They’ve polarized me
with rough phrases,
burnished tongues
breaking my exterior

I’ve drawn chalk circles
at my feet for protection
(they’ve become a blur)

I still see colourful strips
of taped vinyl on the walls

Process notes: If this sounds disturbing or a bit angry, well that is because I am in fact “disturbed and more than a bit angry”. People and their motivations are perplexing to me. Especially when they are children. Has anyone else ever felt like a fish out of water? Teaching children of privilege has many downsides. They don’t understand the word “no”, and if you grate against their world, well best to hold your breath cause surely you will drown. And a side note: I appreciate correct spelling, how about you? Now, I am even angrier after an email I just received, ugh!!!!!

Mysterious, how we hide from others,
with inside-out personalities
honed in an aged wood,
a finely-tuned instrument;

the slightest strains warp it,
far-reaching Cheshire grins
showing weary lines,
their corner seams spilling out

characters from a Lewis Carroll
novel, walking ‘cross wobbly tabletops,
where china teacups clink,

conquering gravity
on tiptoes balancing; spinning
prestigious threads,
a milliner creates his world

I am truly heartbroken…

Where I’ve rested a hand amongst colour’s
marrow in my desert sky, crocuses
spread wide as breastbones grasp
deep within stillness

Pivoting, adjusting to massive
spaces, a clatter of constellations
perhaps leads to silence

I ran grabbing flurries,
melting in my hands,
wishing angels beneath
me with wings to take frozen flight,
as you watched crimson drops
sliding down my face — I cried

II. Buds and greenery shine

I sat cross-legged, touching dandelion
petals, kissing the day’s
wishes, ants scurrying before my
feet, moving the earth into
their kingdoms — I dreamed

III. Sun and sand

I floated on waves, buoyant,
light as a wisp of salty wind,
grazing sunlight brushing my
skin, turning it a tender, pinkish
hue, when an angry undertow pulled
my toes and tried to pull me
from you — I breathed

IV. Burnt leaves changing colours

I pounced, chanting on freshly
raked piles, mud staining my clothes,
each smear an adventure, an ending
of cycles, living and dying where
fires singed my senses — I wondered

Each season my universe …

Pure silhouette cycles false-shattered hymn
sung in triple reflection, conundrum undimmed,
fickle in tune to its morbid amens,
a silent and subtle mistake,
or a prelude cosmetic disdain

She sits at the watch, all intentions pure
as a cat on a ledge who refuses to purr,
an unsunken bridge where a ghostly allure
refuses to bend or to break

And the dour unsettling final encumbrance,
tarnished in mirror and refused to renew,
a soft-tattered whisper sings beauty to
twilight enlaced

She sits at the watch, no more caring to see,
for in vision she leaves no more you, no more me,
this delicate heart, refusing some needed embrace,
stained and bemused in disgrace

Coloured in darkness,
she sits at the watch

Eat, love, pray,
Havana dreams,
the river of lost voices;
speak low (when you speak love)

balancing her sacred limbs — so fragile,
stringing threads; forming flags of intention,

losing indigenous thoughts of significance;
morning rituals elaborated in falseness

Sometimes angels visit her

A hook, digging in,
removing dubious strands,
dotting greenery as

a landscape’s knife slices
the sky’s veins, leaving
contrasts on poinsettia petals

aligning before me, winking,
wilted, chanceless …

Everything’s clear, watching
birds bathe sunshine;
nothing grinds
morning’s vibrations