BREADLINES
Grain re-sown from Shell-scarred fields Processed in familiar form Unending rows of White Sliced Stretching in uniformity On long trestle tables Then neatly cut Into dry flat squares Which rasp the tongue Thirsting for life
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FATHERS AND SONS
We talk Of failed fatherhood Authority abuse Indissociable for some From the benevolent but stern Michaelangelo grandpa On the ceiling Of our minds As we mutter ‘Our Father’ We don’t talk Of the 33 year old male Perched high On the confidence of youth
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THE CLOTHES WE WEAR
Constrained Within the cut Of a brand new Small-shouldered coat The arms flail awkardly Bare to the air While wondering how To hide
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LIFE CHOICES
Life Made a home In a handful of dust Set in resistant ground Would the dry land Withhold consent A host rejecting This foreign body?
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THE BIRD THAT FINALLY LOST IT
I am the songbird that swears. No tamed caged fowl, me With garish green wings No sir ! I rattle those bars And I mean to soar Over tower blocks out To the cliffs and the sea
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TRANSPARENT
Over the years Our bright acrylic traits Slide, dissolve Pale into watercolour Undefined edges Fine lines Soft colours That fail To arrest
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CONNECTION IN A DUTCH JUNGLE
A wild bouquet The exotic and the plain Loosely grouped Watered and refreshed In a huge glass jar Catching the light Timeless words cascade Leather-bound On shelves as we dine
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PENTECÔTE
You broke silence to speak Through people From the wrong side of the tracks Using foreign words we can’t make out … Tu as brisé le silence Par la bouche de gens Peu fréquentables, de langue barbare Que nous ne cernons pas
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HOLINESS
Today this is A barbed and wounding word Seated angular and cold On a shelf way out of reach However tall the ladder …
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Mud at the wall 