Irony of category
that pushes a thumb through
explaining the relief
of your thoughts no longer
by a wall accidentally close.
You evanesce between smiles and tears
your beautiful form defies disintegration
threatened in wildly hectic moments
that bleed into your ear
with frightening weight.
Any small stroke that tells you she’s gone
is like a knife slicing your heart
and you wonder how deep in time
the blade reaches.
Rolling and Tumbling
Van’s Moondance beating as hard as their hearts as they kiss in the gorgeous coiled spring sunshine.
Their lips run the whole scale of sensual saxophone riffs,
what a magic night they’ll have indeed;
their skin will burn brighter than the sun
warming the sheets, the table tops, the carpets,
negotiating the new equation that equals one.
They’ll scorch memories into the air
and snuggle until they mingle into one mess of love
moaning her and hymn to the silences they will pray they know entirely.
The previously searing sun disappears behind a cloud, humbled by their fire,
arms enwrap, hoping they are supporting and not gripping, holding so that secretive, singular and dissipating words do not escape from mouths intent on loving.
This temporary son of York awards them the Sundance Trophy for such beautiful love.
To Be Somewhere Near
Forgive this child his impulse
born of overhearing you vacillate
between function and grief in disintegration;
he wishes he was all grown up
so that he might proffer an adult hand
that you might squeeze in a paroxysm
of tremendous anguish.
He cries onto his balloon on a stick
when you endure the cruel wretchedness
of formally crossing out a life so full
of narrative energy; a human story so well
rendered that you, as mother, talk its
continuance to your own daughter
and a temporal bond of silken strength
is embroidered and its beauty renewed.
And we, as accidental acquaintances assemble
and eagerly wait for a role in your life drama,
hoping for a speaking part so we can tell you
of your beauty and how lucky we feel
at you having bumped into us.
This child finds one of your tears
and is fascinated by the wonderful colours,
he compares it to a soap bubble,
but doesn’t understand how long
the kaleidoscopic emotions will continue
to shift from rainbow to monochrome
at even the smallest twist or turn.
Forgive this child his ignorance
he’s a little in love with you
though I see his rationale
being drawn to someone
One day I’ll teach him about grief
just as you have taught me
and perhaps he’ll instinctively know
how to offer appropriate support
to someone like you, so he’ll not play
with your sadness unless you desire them
to lubricate laughter and that we, he and I,
might be in that needed where for you
rather than merely accidentally near you,
at a necessarily punishing and painful distance.
If only his unknowing beaming could be
used as a strut to span the chasm
you cross, to make your journey in black less terrifying.
I call him selfish for not knowing that you have those you love around you that seriously reduce your falling.
He comes back to me puzzled and frightened
at witnessing your cruelly random fragility.
When you cry we both want to be in an alternate reality, one where we might whisper, contributing to a breeze that soothes your hurt and can carry words of succour in a voice you needn’t recognise.
I tell him oftimes, in this other space, how our absence is the best action we can take when such as you are overwhelmed by realisation of her absence. I explain sometimes it is best to be mere light when such as you are carrying the weight of darkness about in our alien landscape.
He and I smile when seeing you at all.