All 2 entries tagged Poetry

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March 30, 2008

You Are Going To Leave Me

You Are Going To Leave Me

You are going to leave me. Of this I am quite sure:
You are going to leave me.

I know it when I see your green socks in the tumble-drier.
See your towel lying there.

I know it when I walk past books you’ve talked about in shops:
You are going to leave me.

I lower my foot from the kerb and realize I have not checked for cars
Because I thought you had left me.

I catch myself wiggling my toes through holes in my socks.
What are the point of good socks if you are going to leave me?

I am not hungry but eat the cake in the kitchen anyway because it is there and you aren’t.
This is how it will be after you have left me:
Icing and crumbs.

Your green socks are without holes.
Mine have been pulled out to threads.

I think I see you on the other side of the road, lost in shivers of traffic.
Then you are too soon gone:

Like June.

April 30, 2007

She is a poem

She Is A Poem


She walked and wore turquoise:
One of those in-between colours.
I read her palm and learned how her life
Moves in fits and starts,
And how she writes.

She aims for people.
Vessels of their walking story,
Bodies bind their characters to flesh,
With restlessness in skeletons,
Abandonment in hair,
And each a rhyme or stanza toned by observation
She writes down.

Falling in love was a broken nib:
Freedom; denial,
Falling out a splash of ink,
Electric fingers loosing creativity,
Sketching out herself as slowly she condensed.

A real life winds images to skin,
And now her surface marked and printed by her own event,
I see.

Older, she makes for her favourite tree,
Eyes and notepad waiting to be filled by
Poems passing with their children in the park.

The sun shines as she steps along the path,
walks, and wears turquoise:
One of those in-between colours.
I've read her palm and learned how her life
Moves in fits and starts,
and how she writes.
She is a poem.

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