Shiny Yellow Stockings

Man of glass
fractured
you stood
you sat
you smiled
you cried

No longer, in residence anyone of your name
remains.
Spirals of memories –
children’s games
fishing boats trawl waters deep
dream catchers with their secrets to keep
flickering images of black and white
reliving fragments of others acceptance.

Mother dear you’ve stitched that piece before
I know, you knew, that one day
someone would come knocking on our door
think you can wear that blanket
of ignorance for always, strip off that outer
coat of varnish –
scrub away the tarnished debris
You should have been an actress
encore after encore
with everyone screaming more
more, more – but not me!

In shiny yellow stocking, I held
my step father’s hand
in my shiny yellow stocking I
simply – did – not – understand.

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Names.

Wilderness – against the raw naked wind
days of futility – torn between
these empty lands of fortified migration.
Gravestones on mass, innocence fallen
senseless tracks
cut deep amid the whining grass.

Intense of red
the flowers of fury, placid folded.
Heads frayed, touch the ground
between the rows of sleeping.
Killing time, eyes closed
bare footed, waiting for their
mother, brother sister – lover!

Dust of battles long time wrestled.
Therefore, shall the young ones remain
in all but their name…?

Indifference.

There is gentle in her body’s poise
in all speaks and all she moves.
Her turn of head gives pleasure guilty.
Smile my way – if just this once
be tender in your guarded shape of love.

I’m not asking of your fire
for burning your image, deep into my brain.
Not for the seasons blessed, fleshed into your words
allow me if only – your inquisitive admirer be.

Bend me outwards at the footsteps of pace
close, all doors,
once your loves makes hasty tracks
scold me ten fold – time for time

Yet tell me as your daughter
if you please
That once I raised the sun to vision your view:
Even on your blackest day of pain

 

Poppy
April 4th 2015

Memories.

You bite
full mouthed, like a rattle snake in masquerade
fatalities numbers gathering, in the course of
your sobriety

Can you swallow the sound of the truth?
Or are you absorbed  in my words of respect.
I never aspired to wound you – think me not your
butcher-bird perched on high waiting to assail.
As for all who loiter in the realms of your retribution
let it stand, how roses black, dressed in shaded vale
did decompose as a child filled her time –
waiting to be your Daughter:

Whilst sanguine nasturtiums, did weaken to
recollections of distant grey – only to wake outside
the believing of my childhood, extracting nothing
beyond  the liberty of my mind…

Poppy May 2014 ~xx~