Walking in the Light

shag-rug-cleaning-los-angeles

We could dance on Gravity,
We could burst the Sun,

We could be that horror Alien who stole your child.
We are star metal touching galaxies though glass,

Spying on the universe from a distance,

sombrero

We could look after water,
Or it’s facsimile.

                                                                                                                                                        evocative short poetry

On Loosing People

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How I wish I had another chance at,
Caroline,
I would rub her stomach until,
She fell asleep,

And sit there some more,
Catch her  when the nightmare ,
Threatened to be too real,
I’d tell her stories about the past,
about dragons and princesses and,

Hero’s,

I’d sit still beside her all night and,
Close my eyes and find her in,
dreams,

Of sand castles,
And sunflowers,
And puppies in the rain.

                             -evocative short poetry-

Where Do Socks Go?

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The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

Loose Birthday cards too,

Steal up on you,

Perched as they are atop,

Passports

from a long time ago,

On leather surfaces by

open briefcases,

Dragging with them memories,

Sweet enough to have you sitting there,

well past that very important appointment,

With a Very Important Person,

In bed beside you now,

Like an angel,

Asleep.

Wayward sock appears on top of the,
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

As was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

-evocative short poetry-

Love the sinner, not the sin

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I go to church and sit at the back while you tell me I’m going to hell

I go to church and sit at the back while you announce the Dates for ‘Men’s Breakfast’

I go to church and sit at the back while you undress my sin, wanting to love me naked

Stripped, beaten, unrighteous, unholy, I sit at the back and go to church, every Sunday.

I go to Church.

I go to Church.

They will stone you in God’s name

short poetry, politics, religion, government

It’s a revolt.
A revolution.

And in the name of God, they are building schools,

Delivering doctors, door to door.

They are conveying the message that people care,

And that no one is forgotten but,

Cameras are not allowed in some places.

People hoist burning American Flags which melt and,
Scar children with big brown eyes.

Women will not talk about this;
Allah is a man in uniform.

-evocative short poetry-

♦picture – Radu Sigheti for REUTERS♦

Dehli

gay-couples-all-love-is-equal-braden-summers-11

And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Wrapped in Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan’s catching the breeze,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

They are moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,

Elegant fingers prodding opulent buttons,

Elaborate mechanisms,
Stylish manoeuvres,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their fabulous Sari’s, flying in the wind.

-evocative short poetry-

Careful as you go

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A time will come,
When you don’t even,
Own your own body,

On the side of the road,

A full breakdown not a common,
Puncture,

Leave your heart, it’s broken,
Total mechanical failure.

What will you do?

Trust what you have given?
Love, a blue opinion?

You have only what you spent.

You think you can ride your habits,
You should be fine,

It’s just, the vehicle is suddenly inoperable.

Laugh,
Your soul no longer requires a fading heart.

evocative short poetry

Card trick

life, cancer, poker, gambling, memories,
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.

-evocative short poetry-