You meet your match in a lover

 

Flame.

It has spread from Uterus to Pelvis,
Knee to Throat,

You meet your lover in a match.

You argue over the movies he selects,
Can not stand the way he drags his,

Builders boots,
Across the carpet.

The cancer has spread,
And you can not share the medicine,

Anymore.

Some say you meet your lover,
When you have something to learn.

They say, they appear at just the right moment,
Lovers,

But my lover is dying,
You meet your lover in a match.

 

♦picture – webstockpro.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Could you love Frankenstein?

 

Back when valuables were,
Sealed,

In polythene bags and,
Kept at bottoms of freezers,

So that after burglars had upended the,
Drawers downstairs,

-thieves whose parents you know from down the street,
boys much nicer when they were,
young enough to enjoy,
their birthday parties with,
parents in dracula costume,
too expensive for household budgets,
but bought anyway-

You only lost what you could afford.

Alsatians die too early.

Actually,
Pets die too early.

Tea-cup terriers,
Handbag sized pals,

Great Danes that look like,
Cows,

And are good fun provided you have the acreage,

Friends all,

Chosen by sloppy licks when puppies or,
Fully grown from the Blue Cross Rescue down the road,

Pets die too early.

And would you zap your lover if you could?
Is Frankenstein a horror film?

 

picture – Corbis Images, Juan Medina for Reuters

evocative short poetry – words move

Three trees

 

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the Bastard,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that

Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away in family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.

 

♦photo – personal♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Card trick

 

Dance music,
Damp heat and talk,

Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro’s ruffled,

In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,

Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,

Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate…

It’s a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,

Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,

Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,

Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,

Heavy with love and breakfast but,
One will not survive.

 

♦photo – personal♦

evocative short poetry – words move

The courtyard

The courtyard is alive with the spit of angry bullets,
And baked hard by the scorching sun.

Clouds of smoke drift in,
In patches,

And are,
Collected by moans,

That become tiny whirlwinds,
That suck on the dog tags on dead men’s chests.

See - Why we fight, Soldier
♦photo – 67pics.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Exile

 

Long ago under a large Banyan tree,

Or could have been by a Mountain,
Or surrounded by Aztec Aliens,
Or nestled amongst the pyramids,
Around a crack in the earth,
Called the Nile,

Clans
-like arms to the body or toes to the feet-
would meet.

“The village is hungry,
Who will go?”

Men would gather and wait.

Those with sight,
Would step to the precipice,
And hand over brow,
Describe the land,

Others would record,
Curious creatures with furious breath,
Clattering battles and victory.

Together, shaking charms and crying-
Hayanga! -

hey would race across the plain,
Some, left into the scorching sun,
Others right,
Into wind and thunder -

The footage broke as Mayan mothers bathed their naked babies,
And husbands flung arrows at loggers.

A society will die without its exiles,
Thrown out for some way of being,
Its pioneers leaving for lack of oxygen,

Shunned as Westerners,
Too,
Rich speak poise,
Too,
Down through the nose,

Yet -

If all we do is reach backwards,
Only backwards to find ourselves,

We find ourselves freshly raped,
Just raped,
Always raped.

 

See Immigrant
♦photo – Harry Benson at gettyimages.com & Juan Medina for RUETERS at totallycoolpix.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

The Motorcyclist

Between steering wheel and
Cigarette lighter,
Is a glance to the rear view mirror.

And the cocky grin of,
The rider behind.

All I see is eyes,
Glinting, and

Sleek, body fit,
Jet-black
Body suit,

Fluid,
But wait.

A twitch in the wrong place,
Sends me back to the mirror.

Becoming a blur to my right,
The old lady up ahead,
Makes her move.

Three trees

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the Bastard,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it,

That Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that,
Trembles in the slightest breeze,

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away,
In family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.

♦photo – personal♦

evocative short poetry – words move