A Lesson In Ignorance

Here is her pride, rain-wet,

standing on unsteady feet,

bowed backbone arched

above bandy baby legs.

The child is looking down

at the washed out worm

that is barring her path

like a great orme.

She will not step over

nor will she go round

nor can she ignore

this curling creature.

Mother comes up to her

watches the wriggling thing

alongside her daughter

and laughs.

She moves forwards

and stamps on the worm,

leaves a bacon rind smear

across the pavement.

The daughter stamps too,

missing the streak,

but getting the message,

learning, remembering.

This is how to treat them,

the creatures of the world,

this is what you do, my pet,

you kill them, little girl.

What Shall We Do?

Shall we carry on like this, the way we are, close

but not quite together? One couple that is

two distinct people, different in every way

except for our love for one another? Shall we

continue, side by side but out of step, walking

through life together, but in different directions?

Is that such a bad way to be?

I would rather be with you than anyone, so

why can we not just get along, plod on, and give

and take what we can from each other? Let me

write and think and things, give me headspace

to play in. You can do what you love, too,

dance and jig your days away, be unique.

The more I see of other people, the more I know

that we’re not freaks. The couples sitting in the

bars, driving past us in their cars, saying nothing,

thinking something like ‘I wish I was elsewhere’.

There is the truth.

We both were different at the start,

we never were the same,

now both together but apart,

that’s how it will remain,

and when we each face up to that,

we’ll both be glad again.

I Love It Less And Less

Out walking this weekend,

I passed through open spaces,

places that were green,

wooded, unseen. Sometimes

I saw only the good, sun and

blues skies, mist and frost,

lots of birds and trees

I could not name,

nothing man-made, no

dwelling-places, though

I heard the sound of him,

his cars and jets and roar

of dirt-bikes, ugly voices.

His noise annoys me.

Always has. It is late

at night. Alone, drinking,

thinking of my outcast state,

here, in this place of mine,

a space designed

for those like me

to live and die in,

for just surviving,

more and more,

and every day,

the less and less

I want to stay.

The Dark In Me

Oh, god I love a good great stormy sky.

It calls to me in ways that sunny

days just never could. The good that should

be there in every heart was not in mine

right from the start. I am made that way.

I love the dark more than the light, the night

more than the day. Good people just

unsettle me, regretfully, though thankfully

they are so rare. I don’t care. There

is no place to hide

the dark in me,

the side that people see, though I

have tried. Besides, there is no point.

I am what I am, and you are you. All

we can do is be true to us, to what we are,

light, or dark. And sometimes, to my own

surprise, I rise to it, my darkness,

I prize it.

For who in all this world would crave

to be not dark, not light,

but grey?

Not A Morning Person

It’s the usual routine.

The morning avoiding, waiting

for her to become human again.

She is not a morning person.

We dance around ourselves, hide

in rooms where the other is not, move

to the hidden spaces like soldiers,

avoiding sniping. I get a shot at

for what I have not done yet, the

boring chores that, more and more,

interest me less and less.

There is more to life.

After a while, we find our places,

separate spaces where we can be

alone together, out of range

of each other, while the dead morning

falls. I wait until she recalls

what our nearly normal is. However

did it come to this?

Life can be so good.

I wonder why we always

manage to make it

not so.

A Sea Of Dreams

A storm is coming. The

rain is starting. The drizzle 

trickles down the window pane, and the

clouded light dims the room. In the gloom,

all alone, I can see clearly, hear plainly,

the rain falling, calling, a pitter-patter

chit-chat that picks at my mind 

all the time, whispering, ‘listen, listen

listen to me’. I can see sheets of

spit unfurling from the sky, sailing down

and down the fathoms of air

from the mothership clouds

above. A remembered dream

comes to me and I recall with

unease the ease of the fall from

the mast of a sailing ship 

down down down

into the unending sea,

deepening and

unbreathing me,

awakening me as a child to the

failing family, the unfathering,

lost and drifting and abandoned, to

the worries of a world that I still

do not understand

as a man.

I am breathless once more at the 

memory restored. 

And the rain falls faster

and the world turns colder

and life grows harder

and harder to know.