Family portrait

If voices had colour,
mum’s would be yellow
for she was mellow
saying hello
at the doorway
chases ma blues away—
school wasn’t easy
being picked on as measly 
yet for me she was there
we had to go nowhere.

If voices had colour,
dad’s would be black
dark, deep, bleeding slack
with a sense of hollow
he’d always wallow
in games after work
and want braised pork
thus well-fed he was
cushioned by his arse
while mum, she’d pass.

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Same path

I walked down the path
same as every day
trees waving arms
lake rippling
feet dragging
mind full.

Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve lost my temper
last night in bed—
reading was no crime
I should’ve obliged
turning over 
not turning off.

Perhaps I could make it up tonight
a nice dinner
spaghetti and meatballs
swimming in starchy sauce
I’d pick a lamp as well
to liven our abode.

Perhaps I should lighten up more
take it easy,
yell less; listen often
“how was your day?
pray tell, honey”
for I care what I hear.

Perhaps I too should get a book
keep occupied
and read together
as Ted and wife
world knowing poet
wannabe aide.

I walked down the path
just as every day
feet dragging
mind full—
eyes blind,
ears dumb.

Nightwalkers

I was awake all night
comforter failing to deliver
air streams crashing 
bashing on my window
forcing theirselves upon it
as lawmakers, 
shoving on cars
petty thieves—only harsher.

Resilient stood the glass
barring entry, the faithful dog
shielding striking shards
from breaking 
entering, shattering
life, like a terrorist mob
while I crumbled
cold feet, in fear.

Unforgiving, it knocked on
knocking down swaying barks
snapping lives like beans
stranger in the night
estranged from the soul
in menacing hatred
blowing out hope
guns bellow in the street.

In search indeed

Scarred
by years,
once shiny face
browning, peeling away
as charred pepper.

Awaiting
while winter dews
seeping through
sweeping hope
of restoration.

Solitude
the trusted advisor
a partner in part
on date nights 
out in the open.

Breathing
coldness piercing
ornament for the porch
a hollow cage
in search of bird.


Inspired by:

“I am a cage, in search of a bird.”

Franz Kafka

Ageing ungracefully

Sitting across me
on the table
arms wreathed
perched on lap
shoulders resting
after battling
years.

Groans the chair
on her behalf
heavily fragile
with crow paws 
by the eyes
pecking age
weighing down.

Wild winds rage
beyond reach
we sight each other
in each other’s
silver hair, dotted cheeks
failing soul
cheeky smile.

Wheezing for air
in open space
as cling-packed
shrooms, dried
awaiting pop
that livens one
snuffs, other.