How Far is Near? How Near is Far?
Mummy.
You said you’d
always be near but this feeling of blankness
detaches me from
you and all you ever were to me.
How far is near?
I thought you
would be closer to me
or are you beyond
the range of my physical comprehension?
Are these
misaligned perceptions in metaphysical space
and the reason why
your picture seems like a historical record?
Am I really
standing in a different place?
Yes, maybe you
haven’t moved at all and it’s me
who has shifted
her perspective,
transporting
myself into a future without you.
Would this change
of view create so great an emotional distance
that it cannot be
transcended by simple longing,
making your “near”
into my “far”?
So tell me please:
how near is far?
Diva on a Dive
Dawn came over the horizon
and changed her
name to Elizabeth.
She sang like a
bird and was built like a buxom one,
shoe-horned in
rather than heelgripped.
She couldn’t climb
a tree,
let alone fly.
Had she tried,
she’d have fallen.
Break a leg Liz.
Goodbye Sam, Hello
Samantha
Goodbye Sam, Hello
Samantha
The mirror’s bells
would chime I’m really you,
as the gas fire
cooked his blue cere brown,
or so we thought,
‘til the squeak
and beak upon a bloodied egg,
my voice against
her listening neck:
I’d
flatten you, I’m not your mate,
not
even when my jumper is light blue.
The Man with the Hat (for Laurie Allen)
Up ahead of me I
see him.
He’s a gateway, an
entry point to many doors,
a friendly
signpost on a lonely road,
a guiding hand on
an unfamiliar path
positioned
carefully on my journey
at a pre-destined
time.
He cared for his
mum –
just like me.
He knows the
hurdles I encounter,
the mountains I
will climb,
the loneliness I
suffer
and understands
how I feel better than anyone.
Everybody knows
him –
not like me.
A caring gesture
for one,
an encouraging
compliment for another
and a kind word
for all.
You probably know
him too –
he’s the Man with
the Hat.
Exiled to Freedom
Their inside was
my outside
beyond my grip,
that holding of hands
I was young in
hope, found in fear but he
was emigrating, to
leave me exiled
not yet
appreciating that I was free
not yet wanting to
be me
why would 007,
fast car notice me?
licensed to
thrill, he left me shaken outside
and stirred
inside, but I was free
no desire to be
pulled around by hands
but without them I
would always be exiled
time to find
another pair and then he
arrived from North
of Watford and he
had eyes on my
car, my bank account and me
and I began to
want to be exiled
his greasy face on
my clean hair, outside
combing it for his
future, his hands
pushing and
pulling – I had to be free
no, he couldn’t
have it all for free
yes, I wanted to
be happy but he
would not score
with me, his hands
orchestrating my
life, arranging me
I had to return to
the outside
I had to embrace
being exiled
that exhilaration
of being exiled
that appreciation
of being free
that familiarity
of being outside
that misconception
that only he
could create the
me in me
no need for that
sweaty holding of hands
now my life is in
my own hands
and I am old,
invisible and exiled
content not only
to be me
but also to be
free
and not the victim
that he
would create,
pulling me in from outside
I don’t hold hands
with anyone because I am free
I am happy to be
exiled because of what he
might have done to
me, had I come in from the outside
Thank you for these beautiful poems -- for their delicacy, dark humour, humanity and intensity... Each different, but all with a story to tell...
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