january

(a literary homage to ‘december’ by zoe boekbinder) in january so young i was not a year ago dark nights because you were so far in deserts cold while in sun-strewn rooms i felt so old february then brought you back hearts flew high as they shed their black march my life was hard and torn as nights grew cold you kept me warm april escapes to keep us sane as long as it was you i’d take any train may was mere autumn and life went on nothing to report was going wrong june and birthdays winter and hope … Continue reading january

a words with friends and christmas poem

we dined on the finest nosh that the bazaar could provide some would chug on eau de vie brandishing an awl of their tribe fearful that a foe comes from the gulch next door protect the pa from a golf course future mesh fences protect or add allure to the broken yacht where the moon wanes and an old man clutches either a broken lath or instrument aiding ye olde yean a confused ewe in the torque of the earth asĀ  her gut will ache elsewhere christmas while a disk plays fa and la viruses wiped by some dev pass … Continue reading a words with friends and christmas poem

raw

pink is the colour of bare, fresh skin not yet ready to be touched by the airs and the graces of the world it is the colour of strange hair bleached and stained in a fit of madness again and again until it defines the unloved pink is the colour of love and of hope a thousand cards for mid february sent between lovers with soaring hearts the colour of childhood for half of us at least dainty shoes and socks kicked about tossed asunder for nobody wishes to be so constrained pink for pain for madness for heartache for … Continue reading raw

stolen from us

when minds have changed filtered through years and whispered words grown to believe in goodness in the dark grown to believe in letting go and moving on and leaving the lost behind sitting on a bed in a room in a faraway place where the people who once were there have been stolen away and all that’s left is that void to curse into that the future and friends have been stolen from us Continue reading stolen from us

the breaking in of the gifts

a pristine page unwrapped and untouched ready to be pounced upon with pencil or ink or careful strokes of both inhaling the scent of parchment imagined papyrus dreamed of soaps wrapped too closely time for desecration (just realised that this is the sixth to last piece of this crazy year long project. my god. it really is quite astounding on so many levels that this has come full circle, all things considered. let’s see if we can make these final few really count, hmm?) Continue reading the breaking in of the gifts