Inner Child

I try to ignore you, keep you away,
You sleep in your tiny bed,
Covers up to your ears,
Rhythmic breath beating time
Until you demand attention again.

You are my unacknowledged sigh,
The bloated disappointment
As I wait for an absent friend,
The chill of resentment

As another takes the stage,
The strangled cry of despair
As the door shuts too loudly
And footsteps fade to a rustle.

This is all you, stripped potential,
Graceless, denied,
Dormant, staring, silent
Except for the heartbeat we share.

If you were to speak,
Would you strike out in anger
Or resolutely state facts?

 I do not know how to parent you.
Should I be your saviour
Or your friend?

 We walk two very different
Tightropes together,
Hand in hand
Each other’s safety net
Until the next crisis
Leaves us both weeping,
And running from the storm.

The Phil Collins’ School of Romance

Everything she knows about love

She learned from Phil Collins.

She learned that love can’t be hurried

That against the odds

Something is in the air

That leaving can be easy

That sometimes you just don’t care.

The big lesson came early.

Pulls away at a sign,

A glimpse of affection,

He shunned at the time.

You dust yourself off

Pick up your heart

Stow it away

Forget it ever came into view.

When he marries another

With a soft shaky voice

As she watches close by

Taking note not to cry

You dust yourself off

Pick up your heart

Stow it away

Forget it ever came into view.

When he tells you he loves you

Then disappears from sight

Leaving you bewildered,

And shivering in fright

You then dust yourself off

Pick up your heart

Stow it away

Forget it ever came into view.

She learned not to trust

She learned not to hope

She learned very early

Not to give herself rope

Just dust herself off

Just pick up her heart

Stow it away

Forget it ever came into view.

She hopes against hope

That situations will change

That the gods and the stars

Will the times rearrange.

Will she dust herself off

And pick up her heart

Stow it away

Forget it ever came into view?

For she knows that she’s worthy

She knows that it’s there

But waiting and hoping

Just lead to despair.

But until the day comes

When her love can run free

Not sit hiding in silence

Or run up a tree,

She’ll just dust herself off

And pick up her heart.

Stow it away

And hope it may come into view

One day.

Searching

A country road. A tree. Evening.

Two tramps meet and wait

For something that never arrives.

Just as everything depends on a

Red wheelbarrow

And Mrs Bloom screaming “Yes!”

Cracks  the world into

Another dimension.

As Frankel sits within the fetid

Emaciated, stink of humanity

Searching for meaning

Amongst the hopeless

The desperate and the damned.

Just like the diamond-filled sky

Over marmalade trees and

Tangerine rivers which

Blight the dreams of the many.

For I am the walrus,

Goo goo ga joob.

The absurdity lies in the inaction.

For what if they searched for Godot

Or the wheelbarrow was blue?

If Mrs Bloom’s orgasm was silent,

Non-existent, an unknown Protestant pleasure.

That Frankel marched to his death

Shuffing skin and bones

Of the tattooed, hopeless, stinking throng.

For it’s not in the waiting

The absurdity of hoping

For a different result

That kills the lives of men.

It’s the never said I love you’s

The silent wanting

The thought that nothing changes

On a word, a look, a sign,

Which kills the dreams of many.

It’s the inactivity of waiting

That’s the saddest, most absurd

Utterly desperate action of all.

Saint Godric Dreams of Other Times

You never forget the smell

The dank, damask musks,

The secret acrid vinegars

The flower scented hair

That rests on your chest

Snoring gently, twitching occasionally,

Muttering lists of nothings 

As the boat rocks around you,

Eastward bound to Jerusalem.

Ah, the freedom of the sea,

Rolling, never still, never silent,

An unquiet of redemption and destruction,

As you skate along the surface

Sails full, ropes taught,

Sun blasting your fragile skin

As you squint into the white horizon

Endless journeys across water

Eastward bound to Jerusalem.

So here I lay, flailed, failed, prostrate,

On a mattress of moss, with a blanket of leaves,

Penitent, pining, prickled, poked,

Searching for silence

An ultimate peace

Demanding a vision of ultimate hope

Yet I dream of the time

And the girl and the sea

Eastward bound to Jerusalem.

The Unwanted Gift

I know they meant well.

The wrapped extravagance

Sat on the table

(An unexploded bomb waiting to be tripped)

Begging for comment

Desiring attention,

The pink and blue bows

Cascade over the box

(Some would call it precursory smoke)

A silent reminder

Of obligatory hope

At such a happy time.

(My smile was forced, burned on with napalm)

A gift brought to us

In paroxysms of joy

The final hurdle crossed

Loins ungirded and fecund.

(They cannot see the inside, the desolation and fear)

Here is the gift they

Longed so much to give,

Sitting between us

(Twinkle twinkle sparkling wrap, how I wonder where they’re at)

Waiting on the table

Quietly ticking away the seconds

Before every paradigm

Of our collective happiness

Shatters the ether

Like a nuclear blast,

Detonated by the words

“She’s gone.”

Pandora

We will box up all the bad in the world

Lock it away, seal it up and place it

In a sacred repository.

Somewhere safe where no harm will come

Nobody will be able to see

The potential damage

The pointless harm

The unheeded destruction

The futile pain.

We will lock it all away

And let the innocent care for this burden.

An obedient child, caring, unsullied, meek,

A child who has not seen the world

A child who will not know the world.

A girl child.

For only she can carry the burdens of the earth

Not knowing the sacrifice

A willing, unwitting pawn.

They gave me a box.

We gave her a box.

“Don’t open it,” they said.

“Don’t open it,” we said.

“You don’t need to know what’s in there,” they said.

She knows better

Than to have a mind of her own.

I know about gifts

They are never any good.

Just ask Silent Cassandra

Or Shrinking Sybil

Or that gormless plank Narcissus

Gifts are never bring happiness.

Not that this was a gift.

More mine to care for.

A beautiful jar, lid held fast,

Heavy, hollow, round.

Whatever could be so horrid

To be held in such an object.

Carefully, I opened the lid.

And my mind went blank.

“Don’t open it we said,

Silly girl. Silly, silly girl.

Only the innocent

Can hold these furies.

Once seen, there is no going back.”

It’s not the hatred or bitterness.

I can cope with the pestilence and war.

Death, riding a horse of no colour

That doesn’t bother me.

Anger, greed, gluttony, sloth

None of these matter.

They escaped, blighting humanity

Like dye dissipates in water.

It’s all part of the fabric of life.

Silly men, silly silly men -

To think a simple jar could hold

The potential damage

The pointless harm

The unheeded destruction

The futile pain.

It’s not what’s out of the jar

That gives the grief.

I look at the jar

Lidless, forlorn.

Inside sits the most awful evils.

I look at the remnants at the bottom of the jar,

Hope and opportunity.

And I weep the tears

Of a million widows.

Crumbs

Why have I always accepted the crumbs

Foraged for love like dog seeks out food

Searched for acceptance and twiddled my thumbs

And wandered the globe, all unseen and crude?

How is it I've wanted, yet never had,

And longed for another, unknown desire?

Gormless and graceless and seemingly sad

Warmed by the notion that will not retire.

Why have I waited so long for this myth?

A notion that carries all peoples’ belief

That wholeness and goodness are seldom blithe

And love come too all with blissful relief.

Crumbs cannot feed the famished and fawning

They give enough hope, and ignore warnings.

Lilith II

Why am I the one who has to be brave?
To endlessly place one foot, firmly in front of the other
Banished to the rocky outcrops
Alone, fragile, mourning, hating
Surviving on wits,
Thriving on the pickings like carrion birds
Scavenging over long dead morsels
Feeling no honour as I steal in the night
Mourning a life that was never provided
Forlorn in the hope of vindication.

I can only be me.

Should I blame you for not loving me
And abandoning me at a time of contempt?
Or should I blame myself for not fighting harder
Wearing the shame and hatred as my banner
For the rest of the planet to see.
Woman wounded, victim or instigator,
The whore to the mother.
The bully to the scapegoat,
The story changes with time and heartbeat,
The narrative wanders over the world.

I can only be me.

The woman you fear as she bleeds
The woman you hate as she stands against you
The woman you try to suppress with your slaps
Your words and your silence.

I can only be me.

Placing one foot in front of the other
Stoic, mourning, willful.
And brave.

The Little Star

Looking out, looking back in time,

Before the wrinkles, the grey hairs, the bills,

The too wet/too dry/too hot/too cold

Of the weatherman’s drone,

Back before the humdrum was ordinary

And the ordinary was unwanted

And life was measured between pints of beer

Scoreless draws and delayed trains.

We go back further, looking skyward,

Back to the essays and endless conversations

Of Jude the Obscure and Robespierre

And how the Proletariat will never win

And how Thatcher stole milk

And how scraped knees and hopscotch were far more

Important than the nightly news.

Back to the time of short pants, Sunday best,

Weekend roasts with grandma, cloth nappies

Hand knits, bowl cuts and standing quietly

Never saying a word. Adored, held, safe, secure, sleep.

Then gasp, BANG! Heartbeats. Then Silence.

The little star, out there, somewhere,

Looks forward towards time, towards you.

Seeing the potential as it searches the universe for signs

A light that you may or may not see.

You both scan the dark, where your gazes

Will meet, somewhere in the middle of time.

Lilith I

Liliith I

I have learned to sit and scream
Betrayed beyond grief
Beyond hope, beyond life,
Sitting in the mud that bore me
The mud that raised me
The mud that makes me whole
Mad with the knowledge
That I am nothing more
Nothing less, than complete
A perfect mix of elements
Heat, moisture, wind and dirt,
Pristinely unclean
Perfectly, beautifully hideous
Unseen in plain sight
Shunned from the world.

They cannot see my strength.

They cannot see my power.

It is not for them to know
As I remain perched, howling in the brambles
Moaning with the West Wind
Covering myself in excrement
Piss flowing over my feet
Blood, clotted, drying tangling above
Skin  stripped bare, scaly, scarred.
Hidden in plain sight
Wanting to be loved once more.

They cannot see my truth

They cannot see my pain.

For every night life flies from me
Like a lemming over a cliff
Flowing predestined from my womb
A morning tide of sorrow.

All for standing in my truth.

All for wanting to be equal.

All for wanting to know love.

Amazon

You cannot tell me that I’m an Amazon Goddess

Walking fearlessly, head held high, chest proud

Bare against the breeze, hair tangled down my back.

Feet nimble on the crags, legs strong, fast, solid.

For I am not a warrior. I do not have the presence,

Banshee voice, ferocious, eyes focussed

On destroying anything and anyone in my path,

Skin smeared with the blood and bile of my enemies.

How can you see me as a woman of war?

I do not have the attention or faith to fight.

Crouching behind boulders, scared, terrified

Watching as others claim their just prizes.

Maybe you see what I cannot see. Me in my pack,

Walking fearlessly, head held high, chest proud

Knowing not when the battle will soften or end.

Bundled together, a battalion of soft hardness.

You know that I don’t see the weakness that is woman.

We stand firm, at war with the world, at war with ourselves,

Skin smeared with the blood and bile of our enemies,

Oozing, seething, drowning in our own seeping juices.

Maybe I cannot see that in being soft, I am strong,

In standing proud, insular, I am a part of the whole,

In being fearless, I walk an unknown path, silent alone,

Walking the unknown road of every woman who ever lived.