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

Gun Vomit

Meditations in an emergency/tragedy: Guns don’t kill people/people kill people but people with guns do it faster/psychotics do it because they can/Ben Hur you should have kissed Massala instead of dealing in death/twenty and seven fireflies extinguished forever.

Useless, words linger/but for now: silence.

Published in Visceral Uterus

My very own body electric

1.
Morning in crimson,
slow-seeming awkwardness:
awaking,
not to reality,
but
to a dream.

2.
I sleep in my bed
the way you leave it;
Feeling thinking your
presence in the
morning leftovers
of nightly starry
comforting warmth.
A comfortable place
for sense and
non sense.

3.
Murmur exiled
from the soul;
Working its way
through
neural networks
and blind faith. Down
sinuous
pathways known only
to the hand:
motions on a blank
page: from pen into ink.

4.
Back into eyes.
Purest form,
brought forth;
A poetry of place.
Should I sleep to wake?
Or take
my sleeping
slow?
Light.
A faintest gift
to eternity.

Published in Emerge Literary Journal

Loss – Elegy for my grandmother

In loving memory, France Farmer (1918-2012)

I like it best in the morning,

when the cool air still

has something new to say

about the day to come.

Yet a little lamp has gone out

in my home today.

I have known it all my life,

and it has grown dark

all of a sudden.

But light comes,

as usual,

dawn is there,

as usual.

And soon everything

is humming and buzzing

as it should.

There is drilling in my street,

like yesterday;

Planes are taking off for

faraway destinations

– Alexandria maybe –

like the day before;

Subway cars are stopping

at their stops and

mothers are shopping

in their shops;

Children, restless,

are bored in school.

Like tomorrow, no doubt;

While you, dearest,

have gone gently

into that good night.

Words for the time being,

have lost all meaning.

All salt. All savour.

Yet listen well:

a murmur – a deep-rooted

feeling;

A whisper of a friendly wind,

murmurs of a stranger

to stranger yet than she;

say:

‘nothing again

will ever be

the way it was –

because you were:

and so are we.’

So go gently.

Go gently, please,

go gently

and rest,

into that good
morning light.

An unfinished article

Science is a strange kind of

cold

beauty – clear crystal

drops on a jewel blue day;

If you haven’t seen

the folds of equations

the structure of reality

in its pure form;

Then look!

Conceptual endeavour

of the mind behind the shapes,

shadows,

sense out of non-sense,

hidden structures

abiding by unvented

laws

of the swirling axis

of real…

Mind in the mind,

transience;

What possible figure of

speech

can warm the Void,

the Sun shining for unprotected

eyes?

Meditating in an emergency

My contribution

to meditating in 

an emergency:

This bloody trail,

an ax to grind –

my ambulance

speeding

blue and red

                     towards

unknown.

A November Ghost

She was here

now is no more;

gone straight

through

an absent door.

How I wish

she wasn't there:

her sorrow to hear,

her pain to bear.