Being as I am

Not a crime, but part of my female self–physical creation,
My own core, surviving.
A learned definition, but a new thing:
Green and unique.

In the heart, like music, I notice it,
almost subconsciously.
Now, a space filled and present.
Linger, watch, see. My time – quiet.

Love this person with less and more,
Pay attention.
I flow through space with ease,
Sometimes connected,
And trust the future will be rich and sweet.

Pocket

If I should ever have to choose to be

a pocket or a coat, my answer is a pocket, plain.

Oh yes, to wrap the world in warm is fine,

to comfort children caught by snow or storm,

to zip and tuck unhappy souls on luckless roads, no doubt.

But still I think I wouldn’t choose to be a winter coat.

 

Why then, you ask,  a pocket?

 

If  I may catch the crumbs of something good and gone,

contain the angry fist, relax the anxious palm;

if I may hold a handkerchief where precious tears are pressed,

keep safe a favourite glove, or perhaps a letter felt and left;

if I may hold a secret till it’s ready to be spoke,

then a pocket plain and simple would I choose above a coat.

 

 

Butterfly

Climb into this chamber
of reflective domestic surfaces
where your thin girl lies
with translucent skin;
needing to breathe.

Old roses glow
upon blue veins; roots,
stems and features flower
upon a pink pillow. Pins
prevent movement
beyond permitted parameters.

Listen outside your barred
summer window, to sparrows
eating pea shoots and
gooseberries refusing to soften,
as obstinate rain falls.

Fall through the thoughts
of your girl who courts inadequacy and
barely controls the urge for
flight, often alighting
on chairs next to dark
denying eyes, hands fluttering.

Disliking draughts,
you stopped her dance today,
that way you have of
whispering, shifting into
graceful rumba hold, to
pas des deux her from the room.

Bit by bit you have
snipped blue dazzling wings.
Poor attempts at annihilation;
each cut recalling the agony of
her birth, and worse,
the pain of subjugation.

Frightened, feel her
twisting, pulling ’til
your body aches, then
begin to build associative pictures
from tiny be-curtained roses.
You taught her this, once.

Remember early indulgences,
childhood nonsense, spinning round,
she laughed and ran with you,
indigo wings breaking
household things in real joy.

Hours slip towards evening
and she takes and shapes you;
shadow miasmas crossing moving lips
on a vague sense of hope.

Deep inside your broken mind
beset with guilt and consequences
is something carefully creased.
From your unwrapped imagination
she draws two gifts;
a single red tipped match,
and minuscule glass paper, folded once.

Once she had a dream of being alive,
and she was born, damp wings
stretched and held,
innately patient, biding your time.
Wings dried,
but bold beauty bore weights
of conscience and responsibility
like baubles of lead.

Looking past dread
more potent than death,
with a swift shift of consciousness,
with will suppressed,
as manifestation of choices never made;
with freedom thwarted
and joy never realised,
you strike the match
and as the ash of your blue butterfly rises –
you watch the world turn.