poem

We are light
long enough for the sun
to exit the sky.
Our hair turns red then disappears,
our senses, the valleys.
Undone years
become our eyes.

Waste, waste more time.

my best poem yet

the shiteing shitheads of doom
fill me up with glowering gloom,
follow me into my bathroom,
where they multiply and mushroom,
and I'm a foul smelling buffoon.
I'd get them with my harpoon
if I had one,
or if I had a clue
how to skew
the shiteing shitheads of doom.

Mother Bear

We're feral -
animals
back to the womb.

We climb
over you,
snuggle under
soft flaps of your skin,

sniff, gently
push away
the hair streaking
your cheek.

You are our burrow,
and our mother
bear;

we must
give you back
to the elements,

to the ground, air
and shit,

into fire, water and
breath.

In and out
you go,

dispersing
into white
spaces,

parts of you
eloping into
tomorrow.

So what connects us now

as the
concertina tube
blows in and out,

as your eyes
remain shut,

your toes out of
the bottom of
the bed to cool?

Two perfect white socks
pointing up
in the air.

I held your hand.
It was warm;
it was brown -

all those afternoons
in the sun
in our backyard

surrounded by geraniums
and
stone models of
tortoises.

Yes, warm.

What else is there?
This - a
silver cross?

Today you lay
in a white nightie top,
on a white pillow
among white sheets

A snowdrop
in Winter.

We brushed and plaited
your hair:
one bobble at the
bottom,
one at the top.

Said goodbye.
You opened your eyes.
Looked.

This is the hardest.

Now
a breeze through the
open car window burns my cheeks;

I see a moon, three quarters full.

Kind of beautiful
up there.

My phone rings.