February 2nd, 2014


I may have done myself a mischief


The metaphors of which our life is made
shift underfoot like boats that pull from shore.
My hand that broke once bangs against a floor
and aches again like heart. Pain is delayed

until we know what's break, and what is bruise.
Hopes can be lies, but so are many fears.
You strap up, wear the brace, keep it for years.
It's when loss is accepted that I lose.

Smashed bone is simple true, but love is mist
that swirls and changes. Breath your passion deep.
It will not choke you. Sometimes, half-asleep,
you trust and smile. But then an aching wrist

wakes you a little. There's a nagging pain
sweet goddess have I broken it again?

Evening's first poem - more on the way


Minutes and decades on their mayfly wings
I do not notice them until the sand
runs out. Another red bill in my hand
that I must pay. Each nightingale that sings

a different generation. Memory
says there were more birds once but still I hear
those notes, that hold me, still. A different year
a different lover. Or perhaps it's me.

How could I tell if it is I that change?
Some things are constant in me, but my heart
falls for each beauty, tender at the start
then bittersweet then doomed. I must arrange

these things thus. Die for love, and am reborn,
pressing my heart blood from each passing thorn.

I should have written this a couple of weeks ago..


We lie so much, pretending to be chaste.
No quiver and no blush. We keep our face
poker chip cold, sat in the sticky place
our heart's become. And then we come unlaced.

Something undoes us. It might be a cake
a cookie. Tristan standing on the deck
sipped knowing at the drink that meant his wreck
and she drank too. So that a heart can break

a clit can sob, we eat or drink small death
in memory of love. Something that's true.
It stops me lying when I'm holding you
for moments I am blushing short of breath

as limits break and promises go dumb
I tell the silent truth and gasping come.