no little lips…

Twenty six years ago, my wife and I experienced stillbirth at 48 weeks….what a shock that was. How did it happen? Only God knows…I have written about it from many angels over many years. A recent attempt at capturing that horrendous drama in a literary way.

NO LITTLE LIPS
______________

no little lips to suckle pert nipples,

no tiny head full-breasted resting,

braille raised areole stupidly stippled:

pointless now 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 her 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 balanced on tense tightrope.

girls do funny things with 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 Base of Brass

Father once played piano jazz,

sheet music he didn’t know;

not for him that razzmatazz:

no jiving smoky pub combo.

 

Studio time once rented,

recorded seventy eight disc,

blues tune self-invented –

two discs pressed, little risk.

 

Wax grooves on base of brass,

teen pianist played by ear,

rhythm on washboard glass;

scratches make it hard to hear.

 

What other father on our street

recorded plaintive piano blues?

Hear him holler, stomp his feet,

stool-rock severely tested screws.

 

We boyish brothers toyed:

legacy platter played using pin-

pierced cone, anarchy enjoyed;

• father would see such as sin!

 

 

let loose frission!

Wonderfully reckless wind and waves:
maritime shoreline seawater wash-paved:
unruly surge swells, so badly behaved.

Turbulent salt-water, surging & splashing:
kettle-drum boom, concert cymbals crashing:
storm-swished fabric flapping & thrashing.

Shout! Tumbling tumult makes me hoarse,
tight hands anchored to railings, of course:
wind-blown bodies bow to gods of gale force.

Seascape alive with such explosive frisson!
Exhilarating, coercing submission:
sea symphony elates, kick-starts ignition.