Malaria in December

I tried spinning
reality round its axis
for a while but
the old remnants
of dark December
seemed to work
their way
into the very fabric
of things.
Tell me
what to do
against the dying
of the day –
and the ghosts that
go with it?
A margin of poetry
in my life.

Published in Eunoia Review

I heard you died this morning

I heard on the phone

that you died this

morning.

And suddenly,

my chair was

a piece of wood

with cloth on it;

My book

a block of paper

with black ink on it;

The TV a plastic

and glass object

with filth flowing through it.

And all the food in my

fridge was cold and damp;

rotten.

Then the day lifted,

and the sun came out

and November was here.

And you:

a lamp turned off,

melted into the light.

Published in Rose Red Review

Ruin

I live in a ruin.

Beside: the stormed

beaches of Normandy;

Alongside: the remnants

of Dien Ben Phu;

Inside: central New Orleans.

Any battle you care

to remember;

A disembodied self -

not quite the self

anymore.

Published in Brevity Poetry Review

Dismantled

Here I sit, dismantled:

ice cold lips

where sweet whispers

once were.

Sealed in spite.

Published in Napalm and Novocain

Fine as Wine

So you really are gone.

Anyone there?

The flight of steps

leads to a dark-lit

wasteland of

humid bedsheets.

The room where

I died is where

you exposed me.

Cold, cold bed…

Thinking of Langston Hughes.

Life is fine,

Fine as wine…

Hey, Langston,

just for me:

sprout a

symphony of colours

out of the sound

of blue.

Published in Napalm and Novocain

Grief

Dumbstruck.

I was blind.

(...)

Grief.

Anger.

Pain.

Silence.

You've gone.

Next to us,

an old man

reads a newspaper.

Alone:

English boys

don't show

their feelings.

I'm cold, in August.

Grief.

Words have

been emptied

from my brain.

Fear.

Published in Napalm and Novocain

Sunshine

One more day, I awake to sadness

In our ghostly room

Because you’re gone

I walk to the kitchen,

Through the empty corridor

That was ours.

And I make myself coffee

That I pour into your cup.

I go for my morning shower,

Your toothbrush has left,

And your towel has disappeared –

Only mine are there now.

I have a lonely breakfast

Looking out the same window we used to;

I watch the news channel

And wonder where you are now.

Then I grab my coat;

My wallet,

My keys,

Go out into the day.

And realise why I called you sunshine.

Published in Red River Review