The Artsy Honker

I didn't finish. Other things came up.

Sixteen poems in a month is still more than I've written in years, though. I'm glad I did what I did.

I discovered that I enjoy it, that sometimes I do have something to say that doesn't lend itself to prose.

I learned that I can still rhyme, though it is hard work for me to do so.

I've been reminded that I'm really terribly soppy. A quarter of the poems are love poems... oh dear!

I might write some more, from time to time.

I would traverse mountains for you,
     cross countries and continents
     to start a new life at your side;
But you're nearby.

I could keep watch outside a castle,
     raise armies to defend you,
     vanquish every earthly foe.
But you live in an ordinary terraced house. It doesn't even have a moat. And you don't make enemies easily.

I long to capture the tears of the unicorn's cousin
     and mix them, according to ancient recipes, into an elixir
     tasting of lilacs and gin
     that cures all ills, heals all pains
     and present it to you.
But you'd only blush at the fuss and find someone who needed it more.

So I try to be sensible, and follow the world's rules in showing my clumsy affection.

I hope you understand.

The train.

Dazzling strobe sunlight flashes
syncopate against
trundling on uneven rails.

February, and how to survive it.

First, the socks. An extra pair
before leaving the house.
Don't forget!

Put your skates over one shoulder,
hanging by laces.
Walk to the rink.

Boots off. Skates on. Squeeze feet in.
Pull the laces tight -- no, tighter.
Take the guards off the blades, stash them in your boots. Wobble to the ice.

Then glide. Slide over fissures and bumps.
Push away from the edges, sail out to the centre of the rink
(mind you don't catch your toepicks in the rough patches).

All is freedom, motion, laughter, until the cold toes and cheeks are too much.

Then the unlacing; relief balanced by stiffness as circulation returns.

Fumble the blade guards back on with cold-slowed hands, skates over shoulder again, boots on.

Trudge home with your blisters and your memories.

If you're lucky, there'll be enough milk for hot chocolate.

She's safe now.
Life is going well:
Good job
Great friends
Generous, loving husband.
But remembering the shouting
The long hungry nights trying not to cry
She still hides food in her bedroom:
Just in case.

You'd failed, abandoned us; you'd left.
Why should I think you could come back?
We struggled, lonely and bereft.
Your easy absence was our lack.

How to continue, left behind?
What good news could we truly tell?
And then, this weakness of the mind:
They said that you'd come back from Hell!

I can't accept it, won't conspire
To lie to people in their grief.
I need to see your wounds; require
A tactile witness for belief.

And yet, I thought I saw you wince
In love and care. And even though
It's been some twenty centuries since,
I've seen you bleeding here below.

You've picked me up, I've touched a welt;
Those scars are real, I will allow.
Mayhap I know how Thomas felt.
"My Lord, my God" -- I know you now.

The sun is swiftly setting;
Soon the night will fall.
There's no way of forgetting
The sun is swiftly setting.
My trembling hands are letting
Notes drop while winds squall.
The sun is swiftly setting;
Soon the night will fall.

There was a time
So long ago
When I could rhyme.

It wasn't mime:
I used to know --
there was a time.

The bells would chime
and stars would glow
When I could rhyme.

I could knead dough
Or say hello.
There was a time

I wasn't slow.
The words would grow
When I could rhyme.

Back in my prime
The seeds I'd sow.
There was a time
When I could rhyme.

Sanctus


My heart turning
I wake again
to tinnitus, at first,
then brightening murmurs
rising hum of heavenly voices.

I bow, vision seared,
tongue burning -- hosanna in excelsis.

They've been here singing all along.