Category Archives: Prayers

Cloud-Arks

I want to board those

strange dark shapes of the horizon

those cloud-arks

fully-freighted and

already shipping out south on a

freshening breeze

bearing me

wherever they please.

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One Last Cigarette

One last cigarette

outside under the

frozen stars

notebook closed

finished with poetry though

somehow poetry is never

finished with you

Extreme of Consciousness

I wonder what will o’the wisps will

grace my last extreme of consciousness?

My mother’s breast, or the

push against for a day

playing on a birchen hill?

A first kiss? But which one?

Whose? That virginal,

immediate, desperate one or

that which reconciled life?

The first fathomless stare of a

newborn? Or the sly complicit

smile of the grown child? That

first tentative touch? The satiation of

good sex? The hand grasped in

night’s desires and terrors? That last

damnable disagreement?

Will you mind if my

mind wanders back to my

first kiss or rolling down a

birchen hill or my

mother’s breast?

Mind

I wondered if my mind would

mind my desperate attempts to

find, amidst the flotsam of

jottings, the flutter of

post-its stuck everywhere,

unsticking whenever I

open the door,

littering the floor,

whatever it was I

set out once to do.

Resolution

The old year resolves into

endless rain

washing it away and

draining quickly through our

chalk to hopefully

fill our aquifers our reservoirs our

ballast and keep us

buoyant on choppy seas as a

New Year again tests our

resolve.

Shod not Shoddy

Wordsmith, shoe my poem!

Solder thoughts to the

point of my pen;

rivet words

row by row until they’re

watertight;

melt emotions and

anneal them into

something new and less

brittle;

Wordsmith?

shoe my poem fit to

strike sparks off

long hard roads.

Anaesthesia

We so anaesthetize dying that

family and friends may as well be at a

pre-Funeral, unable to touch and

talk, reminisce and laugh through

what might be pain but may

also be love’s last kiss,

abolishing last words

famous or not.

Missing in the Multiverse

We are multipresent in the multiverse,

always online, available as

avatar or bare-faced,

named or anonymed, at the

press of a key or a button

emailed, messaged, skyped, blogged to

so many it’s hard to know who you have

missed, why they might be

missing, whether you will be missed when

you go missing.

The Anti-Beatitudes

Curséd are the nice, the ones who

don’t get in your way, who

open doors and don’t expect a

thankyou.

 

Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who

don’t dart up their hands, or butt in, who

see a space but don’t see themselves

inside it.

 

Curséd are the generous, those who

don’t take credit but give it and get

nothing in return but

forgetfulness.

 

Curséd are the myrmidons, the

hard workers, the al-desko set:

someone else enjoyed their

lunchtime.

 

Curséd are those with talent but no balls

watching those with balls but

no talent rise effortlessly

above them.

 

Curséd are those whose work gets farther away

as the roads get rammed earlier and

later until jam going meets jam

coming back.

 

Curséd are the worriers who

churn in their hearts’ syrupy valves

the clogging cares

of others.

 

Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,

each feeling the other neglectful while

neither has anything like

a life.

 

Curséd are the children who wait at the gate

for a late parent whose tears, heard

through the wall, will eviscerate

their youth.

 

And above all curséd are the people whose

goodness drips off your life like

beads of rain off an

impermeable.

Morning Questions

When did I become this stranger?

What strange land has replaced my home?

And who is this woman offering her cheek

not her mouth for a kiss?

Who took down the mirrors? Removed the view?

Who chose this terrible colour? And who stuck

that picture in my passport that makes

people look at me so?

Who shouts “Qui Vive?” I know

coppers get younger but when did they

get so threatening?

Why must I move on? Where to?

Whose clothes are these? Am I

really that size? Or have I growed

like Topsy, in the night?

Is it night again soon?

Have I slept? I can’t remember.

Am I meant to be this wretched?

Is this how I usually feel?

Is this who I really am?

Diana Marin

Fine Art Photography & Poetry.

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