neither here

it is my lot to live in between colours, words, cities, continents. no story is my own for i live between those of others. i can claim no mountains nor any sea. i belong to no one, no one belongs to me.

the end

it happened suddenly
and all the endings were washed away
each book, each story, each song ended
as questions i could not interpret, nor answer
this is a new madness
that of the living

angels

we are angels, you and i
and thus may never dream
no past or future for us
near perfect beings.
no tears nor giddy laughter
no hunger nor any hate
do you ever wish you knew
what sadness was
so you could paint it on your face?

listen, its singing

some see the beauty in the desert, are ensnared by the song of the shifting sand. for them the desolation holds a wild peace in its palm, and the parched land echoes of a primeval calm. but the song that is sung by the wet earth at night will never have a rival for me. it sings of plenty with a wanton tune, of abundance and riches in dark emerald hues. the purity of the desert may have its charm for some, but the jungle shall cradle my bones tonight.

transit lounge

there are a few places where we're all just the same. airports for one, morgues too I suppose; most places of transit, when you've left behind who you were and have yet to arrive at being anyone else.

bloody women

celebrate the ones that did not
die buried alive but lingered on
the ones who used their blood
for ink and others that bled
without uttering a word, cheer
for the ones who lay drenched in red
amongst the remains of dead flowers
and don't forget those that live by proxy
nooses around their neck
attached to ever hungry young bellies
crying their old tears

waiting for rain

it's hard to explain
a yearning for rain
but there a few who understand.
those who have cried away all their tears
and can see their futures dry,
faces brittle and hearts parched and cracking.
their eyes still shimmer from time to time,
the haze will clear if you look a little closer.
these are those with deserted souls,
praying for the rain
that never came
to settle the dust.

forgotten onions

love deferred
lives in the dark secretly
sprouting roots and shoots
it tastes of earth and carries on

still

still the water
don't breathe, hold back
the breeze from stroking the surface.
still the water
don't let your heart beat
or a sound disturb the silent trees
lest a leaf fall and obscure it all.
lock away the children and hold
all your calls. to the world say
stop and still the water

--------------------------------

stillness is stone, cold
comfort for the soles
as you climb through the night
breeze, up past the moon's full
breast nursing peace
stillness is stone, old
grooves cup your feet
on their ascent towards the lights
of candle-like stars dancing and teasing
like the hem of your skirt
stillness is stone, carvings
in caves emanating in waves
the womb's call to pray

lemmings

at least they know
are sure and secure
of the path to take
the goal to run towards
hurtling like stars
into the arms of infinity
while we amble along
dying accidentally
while crossing the road

another's

whose sin was it
that bore you
into these alabaster arms?
when you bloom
will you shame them
with the scent of it?
or even worse
turn around one day
and see yourself
shame them all
with the truth of it?

heaven sent

i found god
and then religion came
to carry her away
i found god
silver and slippery
and they cast their nets
about me saying
it was their catch of the day

----------------------------

lay low those halos
and let angels speak
with human tongues
do away with arabic,
hebrew, aramaic and such
let them stub their toes
and cry 'bollocky bollocks!'

transfixed

sleeping in the afternoon
gives me nightmares
of smouldering embers that turn
to raging flames while still i lie
amidst their hell
unable to move

endless night

i stumbled away from her so weary
knowing this birth was mischance clearly
a liason of old shadows nearly
bore me straight to sin

blood caked my arms, my breasts, my face
yet i could not halt the frantic pace
heading south from the evil place
that place where it begins

but how far, how fast can a newborn go
leaving tiny tracks in emerald snow
from birth to death the path is slow
mere existence is my sin

shh...

i'm waiting
hiding in the jungle
waiting to see
who'll come for me
waiting to be fished out
cleaned off
and told i belong on concrete.
the jungle is as quiet
as a jungle can be
perhaps no one is coming.

limbo

how stubborn are we
castaways of cultures
climbing over the walls
only to peep through the cracks

transient trysts

this is the tourist variety love
the buy-one-get-one-free kind of love
just passing through madam? why not
rest yourself here with me kind of love
try a taste of the local culture love
if you like what you get leave a nice tip
- that kind of love

remedies

the horror, the horror
murmur the girls at the parlour
this layer of the working man's
tan marking the climb
(the wrong way) down
and hushed whispers discuss
whether to bleach it off or not
perhaps a traditional rubbing off of
while friends and family debate
whether a suitable boy would make
it alright, make it all white again

family resemblance

daughter you have stolen
my face and i cannot bear
to see how you wear it
askew as if it were true
that it now belongs to you
to do with as you please

a chance of rain

a hush fell

oppressive

like unfallen rain

then a voice

heavy and humid

spoke to the waiting

brace yourselves
for here it comes!

slicing through
sharp and cool

clarity accompanied

by the

d
r
u
m
m
i
n
g

of patient

condensation

whose time has come.

touch

your fingers
flutter
and come to
rest
like lazy Sunday
afternoons
in mute response
to mine
tracing
the outline
of your bare
back

mother, not wife

i thought of telling you what the children did today
but you no longer want to know and it isn’t my place
to say any more

woman

i carry all that remains
of you with me
not just in my heart
but divided up neatly
in heart, handbag and uterus
a soul, a snapshot, a memory

write writer write

maybe it's time to embrace
that other face; the one
with the solitary fate
to stop finding side streets
and shortcuts and head
for that winding way,
the destination that has remained
constant since the age of six
maybe its time to combine
life and a living, becoming
at last who i was meant to be
poet alone with her poetry

single

because life happens
i won't wait around
for it to happen to me
i will walk out on my own
and just happen to be
a living and loving
version of me
i will sleep in my bed
diagonally
i will rise with the sun
and sip a truly girlie tea
cinnamon or camomile
i will go out and smile
at all that i see
and refuse to explain
when suddenly night falls
and i want to go home
to be alone and sleep
diagonally

only just

i only want
the love of one man
so let it be
yours tonight
i only want
to hold your hand
to hold it forever
but just for tonight

discovery

i went on holiday
and that’s where we met
me and who I could be
it was awkward at first
common ground was hard
to find and we had to turn
to talking about the weather
it was a sunny day
and it was raining
somewhere else

the same room

tears fall from the ceiling
and the walls shudder and heave
at the memory of bearing
the weight of my sorrows
of holding me close as I died.
coming back now i can see
it has yet to forgive and forget
about me.

possession

They’re crowding me out.
The picture frames from past lives.
The dusty books from college years
with philosophies I used to share.
All those clothes I used to wear.
These odds and ends that hold me down
and don’t take no for an answer.

past/present

it already feels like an impossible dream
my very existence at this moment seems
to be fading slowly away into the pages
of a dust colored old photo album or magazine
of some sort, relegated to the back shelf
and eventually forgotten.

farewell for now

why do I look at myself as if for the last time?
it is not as if I shall cease to exist after all
as the plane touches down on the runway
and kicks up the dry hot sand, nor is it likely
that my skin shall slip right off my bones
and lie in a crumpled heap on the dust
to be replaced by my patchwork suit
that coat of his desires and her dreams
of their perceptions and those crazy scenes
so why do I feel as if I need to say goodbye
to that slightly left of center me?

sweet

hey angel face,
do you know
what’s even better
than a bowlful
of sugar cereal?
yes, indeed
that would be me
a lucky charm
tucked right into
my belly button.
stay in touch
it's been crazy
let’s get together
sometime later
and I’ll tell you all
about the weather
in the south