They
don’t knock on doors
not
all of them
familiarity
is password enough
family
is licence
after
all
and
they come
and
they come
and
they take and take and take,
and
little dolls
don’t
know how to cry
not
always -
they stay crumpled in a corner
they
just die
they
just die
they
just die.
LEAVE A COMMENT
Heart
played mind
sometimes
with the white pieces of clarity
and
sometimes with the black
of
unreadable heart twinge,
and
mind, playing heart,
likewise
played black now
moves
wrought in the fires of known-rule
clothe
in the dark ash of logic,
or
white
in
the simple clarity
of
as-is safety.
They
played and played
and
neither won
and
neither lost
and
never did they agree to draw.
LEAVE A COMMENT
She
measures height
how
far she’s come
this
magic-bean baby
playing
with theories of relativity
not
saying but wondering
'When
will I catch up?'
in
the ways of sisters,
measuring
the timber of rivalry
against
me;
but
she’s come far
from
cradle to crawl
stumble
to sprint
from
lift-me-up
to
‘I will reach your shoulder soon’;
come
night, though
she
turns into baby
takes
womb-shape
and I can't stop kissing
this made-for-love girl.
LEAVE A COMMENT
Men
and women
come
with bone, vein and sinew
and
other corporeal parts:
that’s
biology.
Men
and women
are
often hurt-made
and
love-seeded,
colour
and flavoured
ideologied
too.
But
men and women
are
but words
or
letter combinations
burning
unpredictabilities
and
punctuated out of season.
And
those rare creatures
slip
through wire
fly
through screen;
doors
don’t stop them
and
they are invisible
to
the sentinels of reason and rule.
They
dissolve the universe
and
re-draw sunsets
in
the colours of their choice.
Some
call them children
and they wouldn’t be too wrong.
LEAVE A COMMENT
