Tag Archives: poem

Make-Up Remover

The face you wore tonight is now

smeared on my sheets, my

pillow, my face, and your

parloured hair is decidedly

unkempt, your sleepy eyes

between locks accepting this

new openness, this

new nakedness.

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Near Midnight

Near midnight I heard geese honking

though there were no ponds nearby.

 

Migration was in the air but

would they set off at night?

 

I scanned the sky for some

occlusion of the Moon and stars but

 

saw nothing, though their cry

called me to find and follow them.

A Mother and a Daughter

As she was going she

went back to those

childhood woods where she

could hide for hours and

be naughty but you

resented your absence from a

world where you

weren’t conceived or

even imagined.

Paper-Cut

The Producer wanted blood and

the writer added a bandage but I

persuaded them that a simple

plaster plucked from rawness

better revealed the inner pain

like a paper-cut

like a poem.

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.

Ms. Petrolhead

The mechanics sniggered since

she looked so tiny

next to their monster and

she had to pull the

seat up to its

last notch and

crook all the mirrors at

odd angles but

key in the ignition

high-heel to the floor

all they could do was

cough as she

vanished.

Photograph

The best he could say of his face was

that it was “lived-in”, though

who lived there at the moment was

open to question.

 

Does he pay the rent on time?

Keep the house tidy and the

garden well-maintained? And

just what is his credit-rating?

 

And the people in the house?

Do they love him? Or do they

wonder who it is that

looks like his photograph?

Porosity

Most of us are porous,

emotions seeping slowly through to

leave us dry again, though

some come through storms

soaked but only

seeming solid.

The Kiss

The kiss, the wrestle of tongues,

seems uniquely human, the

need to explore that new person’s

mouth more intimate, more

intense than all those

further fumblings.

Little Women Making Loud Noises

I’m not sure Ms. Alcott had

this in mind but I love

loud women in my life,

singing their songs full-throated,

spearing their words through

vain assumptions,

shaking pulpit and

parliament and shouting

“harder, faster” into my

receptive ear.

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