Apron

Your aproned neighbour is never far from the wall, her jam jar a convenient ear piece. But her ready mouth remains shut against ancient screams as your door makes its ungainly departure from bent hinges.

Your world of perfect safety, easyspeak politics and righteous well-being crash around you as they come, they come. With guns and knives they arrive,
as they always will.

And in that brief moment you wish,
not for your own salvation,
But for the peace of mind, in adversity,
Of having acted in accordance
with morality. Not in compliance,
but more difficult -.dissent.

With truncheons they break your tranquility,
and still protesting unerring loyalty
you are herded, herded into a metal
truck. Here she is, your neighbour, too, apron torn and dirty, still clutching her jam jar,
white fear bubbling at her lips.

Quiet Stance

Running, Lifting, Holding, Lowering, Returning.

Should we lose the ability to return, chaos ensues,

limbs flail akimbo, and the body, if not checked, may break.

 

Running, Lifting, Holding, Lowering, Returning.

When two legs are spirited from under us

our landing position should be as relaxed and natural as possible.

We may then, with insight, place one foot in front of the other foot.

Returning to quiet stance may yet be the strength of us.

 

 

 

 

Bird

In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid;
his young wife and child went missing when the bird fell from the sky;
and his neighbours come a-running from the homes that can’t be saved.

This man is digging with his fingers for the little girl he made,
desperation in his shouting that the bird took her away.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid.

There are tears across his country, but the grit is in his eye.
He is calling for his baby, but his throat is raw and dry;
and his neighbours come a-running from the lives that can’t be saved.

So many lonely people left by loved ones swept away,
by the restless wings of predators who fall upon their prey.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid,

but who falls upon the ground to dig his future from its grave;
and a miracle is lifted and is held up to the sky,
and his neighbours come a-running to a life that can be saved.

And a cursing and a wailing fill the hole that has been made
by intangible corruption in the shape of many graves.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid;
and his neighbours wipe the rubble from the tiny life they saved.

The Choosing

Angry as a woman ever was—
her file of life a medical lexicon
she left it all behind and plunged into the sea
assaulted by bitter rainfall on her weeping skin
body escaping from confines of wet crumpled clothes
and hair of seaweed falling through galloping waves.

All things come to an end and even pain
with all its earthly wires and strange responsibility
cannot hold us unless we will consent to stay
to keep human vigil for those who choose to swim away.