“Fear of the unknown and the other is the root of almost all hate. It is born of ignorance and fed by those who would keep us divided.”
―
The Unknown
Tag: Art
The Ruby Forest
“Don’t lose yourself in your own fear.” Anonymous
Homecoming
I hesitate over the Hollyhock seeds,
a gift from an unwelcome visitor,
plucked from her coastal garden.
She wished to cultivate friendship
but this is not a land for expectations.
Some days there is too much sky
and the earth shrinks in subservience.
The northerlies and easterlies razor
high hopes to humble proportions.
I prepare soil sheltered by fencing
and umbrella bamboo, fronds scorched
by storm. I shake the Hollyhock seeds
into my palm. Alien, irregular. I sprinkle
and mark the spot with a scallop shell.
Three years on, a hot September, I return
from hospital having almost missed
first bloom; tall, triumphant and sizzling
cerise in a land that favours the small.
Closure
Time and lavender do not heal
your marks like a signature at my door.
My plastic skin splits beneath flaking
layers of paint. Wind and rain penetrate
my openings. No one hears the alarm
and soon decay sets in. The floor
sags underfoot, the walls are festooned
with festive mildew. What goes around
comes around. Time is a serpent biting
its tail, a palimpsest. If I close my eyes
real tight I see you running, a flash
of orange on green, a broken traffic light.
Feel the Burn
city people drift
to the country
set fire
to their shoes
seven geese beneath
the alder tree
deep scars
like zeros
dreaming of the stars
many bonfires
on mars
like heroes
wagon trains grinding
a northern trail
again
and again
escaping like smoke
funeral pyres
remain
white settlers
scheming of scarlet
heaven on earth
cinders
like skin
float up in the dark
broken chimneys
crumble
to moss
country people drift
to the city
set fire
to their shoes
Resurrection
I’ve won this battle but I can’t win the war.
Like a vampire back from the dead,
I regenerate in fancy dress disguise.
This moustache doesn’t suit me at all
and spaghetti legs flip/flopping
every which way – most unnerving.
My spine is trying to reach the floor,
running low on back bone and needing a nap.
My arms whirl in decreasing circles,
muscles have given up the ghost.
Where is the sultry woman in the gold silk robe?
My heart still beats in dedicated syncopation,
an expectation of holy communion, the red
wine that I must sip not spill. My heart
forgives any casual blasphemy,
rebellion of malformation.
And I, the unbeliever, swear to uphold the creed.
On my left shoulder, smooth as ocean
a lonesome fish swims against the tide
and dreams of new beginnings.
Where is the chamomile child spinning down the hill?
She forgets the scars and stripes, puckering
my wrist, tribal markings. A rite of passage
or a reclamation of self? Mutinous but lightening.
My translucent skin, wafer thin, is a manuscript
revealing the indigo text of an alien race.
Where is the pearly newborn hidden in her crib?
So near and yet so far. I must cut deep
to draw blood. Beneath the thumb is the scared
and sacred spot where the pulse beats.
Wet Cat Painting
Sometimes you have to go with the flow. I had a catastrophe with my new painting today. I had just begun with delicate washes of grey, lemon, blue and violet when my cat Spider crashed through the cat flap – soaking wet and dripping after falling into the stream at the bottom of my garden. She shook herself, splattering water on my masterpiece and then lay down on it. So I decided to transform it into this….not my usual style but fun. I’m calling it April Showers.
