The smell of new curtains

It came from the right side like God, or a deer, a

Migraine warning;
Chemotherapy strikes at any time.

Where am I going wrong?

Under community skies and red roofed buildings, immaculate
And unfinished,

Holding on for next week’s rent,
Even if you were alive,

I’d not have listened,

Missing a father to say what’s wrong
In his opinion,

Old enough how,
To hear sterner words in music,

To understand that the clinic serves Japanese-Americans and Kenyans alike,
On the dusty Main Street of the farming village,

The dusty, ochre-coloured Main Street covered,
With maize drying, and

Women slipping from bus-stop to bus-stop with children in their hair, that was
Probably,

Paid for,
By a man with a plan – the clinic,

And mum’s words,
Soft and gentle and supportive,

And different from yours;

I can take it now daddy,
Where did I go wrong?

I can make things right now,
The deer came from the left.

And whilst hindsight works in accidents we do not see coming,
At least Cancer gives us time.

 

♦Photo♦ –  laurieanichols.wordpress.com

-short evocative poetry-

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After

Cancer, palliative

2004_150 002

We spend our days,
Getting ready for tomorrow,

Hoping the past will not catch us,
The bad eating, the saccharin juices, when

Now is the only moment, to

Love, to
Speak,

Re-pack your life, forgive –
Go,

On an adventure or,
Simply state your piece,

It will be alright.

We may yet,
Save the climate.

♦photo♦ – High Museum Art of Atlanta

 

-short evocative poetry-

For my friends battling Cancer.

The sound of an African funeral

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They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between the ground and,
his casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,

Humming,

They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that

though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

Morning Come

1819274www.webstockpro.com

Your thoughts are on pink.

Pink elephants with floppy ears,
Pink polcadot pillows,

Pink rabbit-eared flip-flops with,
Non-slip soles,
Pink cereal,
Pink hair bobbins, and
The bright pink coffee shop,
You would take her to,
To apologise and review,
Her new pink shoes.

Why must everything be so loud?

Bedraggled mops slop over,
Tired hospital tiles,
The mobile phone on the bed-side table,
Won’t stop vibrating and the,
Bed-springs squeal,
Each time you move.

The smell of antiseptic will not overcome,
The stench of sweat on soiled sheets nor,
Iron in new blood,

Hush,

Nine months of nausea,
Nine months of chocolate,
Will come your way again,

Hush.

Morning come,
Morning come.

Careful now…

 

short poetry, Africa, hope, future, children, freedom, potential

 

And look!
There’s an African!

Oh!

There’s another!

So fragile,
Precious stones off,
Every limb!

Careful now,
May come a time,

When evil cloaked in,
What is right!
Leads goodness into night!

 

words move, Africa, reconcilliation, ownership, economics, future, death

See – Exile
photos – Pierre Holtz & Paul Cadenhead for REUTERS at TotallyCoolPix.com

Aphrodisiac

short poetry, evocative, environment, growth, spiritual, freedom, new, fresh

why don’t you?

lift your arms and
heal yourself

stand taller than you
were made

be stronger
than fear

mould dreams into
rainbows

why don’t you
set root and

paint the world
green with envy

you are alive

simplify your needs and
grow wings,

or stand still,
and skin lizards,

decorate yourself
with war paint,

shake off the dust,
why don’t you

uproot yourself and
walk a mile

in any direction you like,

you must at least
try,

To rage against
this idea

that you cannot

and perhaps
the sweat off your brow

will seed
fertile ground,

coat handsome men with lust
for life

become
aphrodisiac

photo –webstockpro.com

evocative short poetry – words move

Looking for the rain

short poetry, depression, clouds, isolataion

 

You’re covered in the shit of life.
Great big clumps of it.

Hands jammed so far down,
Your pockets,

You have become,
A statue in the park.

Someone once told me,
Look up when you’re down,
There’s God in the clouds.

Rabbits in tuxedo’s and hedgehogs exploding,
Bands of men with strong pointed noses,
Streams of women with long flowing scarves,
Platters of cheese and housewives in Bath-tubs,

Stoves and kettles and cottages
with smoke-stacks,

-hot-dogs
and Einstein
And soldiers reloading-

I could use some rain.


photo –  MEG BHA at Gossamer Dreams on WordPress/123rf.com

evocative short poetry – words move