no little lips…

coffin

no little lips to suckle pert nipples,

no tiny head full-breasted resting,

your brailled areole stupidly stippled:

pointless any emotional investing.

 

love-leeched lines, so unwitting,

senseless,  night-bedding soaked:

milk drip mocks, no longer befitting;

unblessed – strangled prayers spoke.

 

long after midnight, starkly alone,

absent hero-husband blithely snoring,

only to God her flayed pain groans:

silent-still baby, powerful goring.

 

knees buckled on cold, cold floor,

head sunken on tear-wetted arms,

shaken, whip-stripped to very core –

unblessed your umbilical tharms.

 

pathos prayer written, so apt,

read with sob-shaken diction,

rugged heart not handicapped:

faith-utterance vanquished friction.

 

no more tears, no more damn dying,

death banished by heavenly hope;

no baptism, no needed qualifying,

belief balances on tense tightrope.

_________________________________________

tharms is a word for twisted gut. I use this as an ugly metaphor for that stillborn umbilical cord.

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girls do funny things with feet

funny feet

 

girls do funny things with feet,

crazily angled, stunningly sweet;

Adam alone: incomplete.

 

thought-absorbed, humming heavenly,

slightly uncertain, gentle chemistry:

petite punch, winded pleasantly.

 

clarifying questions, heartfelt eyes:

shy and strong, womanly wise,

sunny smiles, fully apprised.

 

tender teeth bite lip: slight doubt,

hypnotising, hands dance, act out;

privately acclaimed my silent shout.

 

elegant and ardent, assured stance,

rhythms erupt, demure her dance;

rhymes paralysed, boyish glance.

wax disc on a base of brass

father once played piano jazz,

sheet music he didn’t know;

not for him ragtime razmatazz

– never joined any pub combo.

 

some studio time once rented,

recorded a seventy eight disc,

short blues tune, self-invented;

two copies – little financial risk.

 

wax disc on a base of brass,

that teen pianist played by ear,

rhythm on washboard of glass;

hiss now makes it hard to hear.

 

who else on our suburban street

recorded plaintive piano blues?

hear him holler, stomping feet,

stool-rock severely tested screws.

 

anarchist brothers boyishly toyed

with legacy platter, played using pin

pierced cone, experiment enjoyed;

– long absent now, no disc to spin.

a rhyming sinner’s song

rhyming sinner

I look in mirror – reflected: mere sinner;

sixty years on, still blundering beginner,

big motor mouth with shrivel-small heart

  • ever thankful for God’s fresh start.

 

I’m speeding towards heaven or hell

– final destination, only God can tell;

fallible foot stuck on accelerator pedal,

finish line sought, not halo or medal.

 

crazy things done, stupid words said:

my mind reflects, my face turns red;

multi crises dominate post-mid-life,

married thirty years: two boys, one wife.

 

I’m neither very rich, nor pitifully poor,

some people left me, some shown the door,

some few still remain faithful friends:

this rhyming sinner attempts amends.

 

how many years left to make my mark?

will I go gently into death and dark?

will I tackle my selfish sin head on?

will I be celebrated when I’m gone?

______________________________

photo: Dora Kazmierak  www.instagram.com/dorakazmierak/

let loose frission!

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Wonderfully reckless wind and waves:

shoreline smashed, white fringed rave,

undisciplined salt swell, badly behaved.

 

Shout! Storm tumult makes hoarse,

hand anchored, bodies bow to force,

rusty railings gripped tight, of course.

 

Turbulent salt-water, surge splashing:

kettle-drum boom, cymbals crashing,

blown-about boats, sails crack-thrashing.

 

Seascape electric: let loose frisson!

Exhilarating, forced into submission,

sea spirit shouts –  warily we watch and listen.

 

 

 

mist smudges edges of the old estate

mist

 

down dimmed tunnel of broad-leaf boughs

canopied the walk, much hoof-ploughed;

deciduous decay under sturdy gum boots,

over-head crow dissonance firmly disputes.

 

I tramp the track, listen to stream giggling,

Jack scent-detects: nose ever niggling,

foxy ears erect:  terrier on full alert,

borders receive repeated canine spurt.

 

train engine echo-thrum in far distance,

its horn-trill signals, somewhat insistent;

a jet rips open the early morning skies,

movement in bushes, nature’s shy spies.

 

tyre-worn track leads to hill-field gate,

mist smudges edges of this old estate;

Jack seeks guidance, we change direction,

breakfast calls an end to our rural reflection.