The child view of the horizon
is like a half moon
caught in a sombre sky
unaware of the light of it's full capacity.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Arrival
In the
shadow of a suitcase
the map
starred, stars calling
back
heart
beating
back
history
calling
back
darkness,
leaving no stain, calling
back
the shadows
of the memory
the
breathing of the forest
the heating
of the rocks
have uttered
the heartbeat,
beckoning
come back.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Listen
To those
who tell me that a little child
cannot see the far away letters
on your shining testing machines
that she needs expensive wait your turn specialists
in the streets with fixed statistics and incomes
when
most of the children in this country are
swollen bellied hungry,
vitamin deficient,
smoking drinking beating parents
careful
put your head down
the drums are beating
to those
who tell me that a little child
must please put back the books
in the squeaking clean bookshop
full to capacity with expensive coloured books
she is disturbing the system
when
most of the children in this country
will most likely never have their own coloured book
waiting for the non arrival of a text book
learning under strikes and limited light
eyes strained
walking far to buses and lifts in the dirt
careful
put your head down
the drums are beating
the dividing line is cracking
the dividing line, is cracking.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
For Ashlee
Another night
another fright
in the hour without witnesses
where, in the hot breath pillow indentation
do your dreams go?
bits and pieces, what we wore
a letter to Father Christmas
a favourite walk on the dust dirt road
blinked out
blinked in, under stars
swallowed down, the First Picture Book of Poetry
as the nausea creeps closer
the puppet show monster
the world through the wrong side of a daylight telescope
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
For Natalie
From a rock collecting fairy queen
strong beyond belief
against dark nights, shadows, thorns
my little star child has broken
shattered into pieces, alone
in the never ending traffic lights
breathing down on her
the lone child
the brave one
has become lost
floating in the screaming sea of faces
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The Belonging Bubble
The house does not come as a surprise
it is where I would build a house
where anyone would
where a magician would throw down
a brick and mortar casserole
of happiness, paused dreams
no regret, silence
a recipe for the foundations and the finish.
With the ease of an eagle
taking flight from the cliff behind that house
as the border marks a new province
my breath slows
and an identity of belonging
rests easily back on my strained shoulders
like a well worn, familiarly scented
beloved shawl.
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