The Contest

If only Eve could don a straw hat and vanish to the Isle of Paros!
Instead, she was trapped in the Garden, weaving hard lines

of blood as the beginning people judged her pink lady tears.
Where was her power over water? Lilith dried out in the desert.

They shall possess her forever and dwell there
from generation to generation.

As the mushroom cloud rose over the maroon lagoon
Eve wondered if it was, in fact, a good time for a trip.

She was wearing her lucky pearls and the new horizon
walking boots, birthday gifts from the ferryman.

It is He who casts the lot for them,
And with His hands He marks off their shares of her.

Sad to see swine die but she was really more of a snake person.
So she turned her last page with the left hand

of darkness and prepared to recycle her perfect skin,
gala smooth and hoping for first prize. Ka-Ching!

 

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Photograph created by the author

 

 

The Winter Break

The blizzard began, cherry blossom from a flame sky. The road home
vanished. Pink ice floes shape-shifted in the river, bumping
and grinding like clubbed seals. We tended the fire
and played strip poker. In bed you wore lipstick and a balaclava.

On the third day we tracked through the crystal forest. The valley
was a fandango of silence. I clawed at it with my bare hands.
You held your phone up high, immobile as the Statue of Liberty.
We returned to the cabin and played Scrabble with four letter words.

The windows became peepholes. I saw no footprints in the virgin drift,
only the farmer’s wife floating silver between the tree tops.
She was wearing a wolf jacket, her face upturned to the falling snow.
That night you thought you heard singing in the wind.

On your last day, you stopped speaking, stayed in bed, a tender huddle
of bones. I roasted meat on the log fire and drank Jack Daniels. I recited
the tale of our first New Year’s Eve, kissing in Times Square
while rockets fell. I could still remember the neon taste of your flesh.

 

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Photograph created by the author

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moth Dance

Alone in my hospital room at night I watch tiny particles of dust and fluff swirl beneath the reading lamp.  They say dust comprises of dead skin cells, we sweep them away when we clean, removing all trace of our former selves.  Our cells are constantly reproducing and every seven years our bodies regenerate anew.  Your body is repeatedly recycling itself but not your mind.  Your mind is an entirely different story.  Our brains become less active, neural pathways die, our memories fade and disappear, we lose skills and alertness,  sometimes we even lose our sense of self.

But back in my mean small room, Ward 3A.  I’ve been here fourteen weeks now.  A reluctant patient, more like prisoner. So every night I sit, sleepless and thoughtless watching the dust  and wondering if these are particles of the old me, a shedding of  my past life. Occasionally moths enter through the open window and dance wildly in the pool of light, their fragile wings clinking against the electric bulb. Blinded and bewildered they circle.  In the morning I find their wispy bodies spent and shrivelled on my sheets.

 

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Self portrait by the author

 

 

 

Ten Reasons to Stay Alive

1. The scent of lavender and pine on a summer breeze.
.
2. Sitting under the cherry tree in the noon day sun, light filtering through the leaves like gold satin.

3. Fast-moving, shape-shifting clouds carving up the sky.

4. The premonition of rain in the air and when it falls, the softness on my skin. The way raindrops gather and trickle on the window pane making patterns. The way rain strengthens the colours of leaves and flowers.

5. The miraculous existence of rabbits.

6. Birds that sing at night.

7. The rhythm of the sea, white surf boiling up on the beach after a storm.

8. The cool smoothness of sea pebbles.

9. The darkness of forests, the dry crackle of twigs under foot.

10. Biting into a ripe nectarine, the juice trickling down my chin.

 

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Photo by the author

 

The Gleaning

I follow mother’s crooked
path beyond the giant privet hedge
where once I found blackbird eggs. Perfect
spheres of eau de nil slipped through careless
fingers and smashed on paving stones set by father
years before. On the hill, the shed cowers beneath the apple tree
where once I found God. Perched up top, he was singing
Bowie songs and watching the neighbours through binoculars.
Ashes to ashes; Jennifer Jones kissed the coal man.
Dust to dust; Marjorie Moony hoovered nude.
I never done good and I never done bad.
I wanna come down right now and try
mother’s apple pie
but never
say why
never say
never say
………………….

 

The Gleaning is an example of a concrete poem where the shape of the page echoes the theme.  This one is supposed to represent an apple tree.

 

 

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Image by the author