FALSE FACE
Put on a false face and pretend
To be someone else. I’ve
never
Been good at that, I can’t lie.
Once I remember dressing up
As the joker but now the joke
Is on me, I dress down each day
And don’t recall my childhood.
I was born and one day I’ll die
That’s celebration enough.
This is my face but
It’s not false.
ACTIVE IMAGINATION
ReplyDeleteJungs active imagination comes
Into play seeking memory.
Looking at my school photo again.
I forget the teachers name, in fact
I forget it all, even me. Imagine
I was once a boy in a stripped
Jumper, imagine Stephanie
Was still alive. Picture me
Someteen with little Fiona
Flying (Stephanies daughter)
In my arms, in a red polo neck.
In the irish countryside beside
A ramped up Ford Corsair.
Glam-gypo a wanna be bowie
Dressed in a fur coat looking like
Alladin insane singing down
A hair brush, crazy days I don’t recall.
A black and white photo of all the cub’s
But I have no memory of that there couch.
Standing on a garden fence, defiant
Of what I do not know. Its black and white
Early seventies that’s all I know.
Me with a ball and a brother beside
A hedge I was dragged through back-
Wards on a kerb-stone puddle street.
SACACA
ReplyDeleteA man stretches his back
Back and a little bit more.
The red behind his eyes
Closed are a little tore.
It seeps into his very day
And takes it all away, like
A river spirit: Laundinha.
It seeps into his bones
Marrow from the soil, like
Virgin mirrors, screening
Cinema. It sprouts from
A weed that holds ground
Firm, its spreads like wild-
Fire, lights up the sky.
This is a lantern paper
homage to the dead
INNER WALLS
ReplyDeleteThe icon is rubber stamped like
A Turin shroud as if Anton Chekhov’s
Grief were still here rolling over lost ground.
We need to rid the past if we are to be found.
Take the icon and the shroud and crucifix
The lot, banish iconic superstition
Only then will we be sound. It’s not the walls
Of immigration that keep us all apart
It’s the inner walls of separation that
Stops our bleeding heart’s.