PTHH SERIES <7>
most honest answer from a man to me
even as you are
here bruised and
curled up begging
for a breath’s instant
of attention i am not
willing to give it
beyond fragile are you
so much that weeping
you can’t do so you
look to me for comfort
i admit that i take and take
and when i am asked to share
i only contribute hollow tin
words that dribble out
of a no longer necessary
part of me
i don’t pity you
and i realize that i don’t
really care about you
i string you along for
my base needs
your tears and hardships
disappointments and pains
do not steal neither my
appetite, rest or peace of mind
i am perfectly happy if
you die but if you live it
does not really matter
you are welcomed to
continue down this road
but if you turn back
i will not follow you
not one thing can make me
love you or want you
i can not say i need
anything you give
neither your joy or smiles
or sophomoric gifts have any
value to me
albeit if you want to enter
you have been warned of the risks
and know that i don’t love you
PTHH<6>
for Buk’s dad
the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me
for Buk’s dad
the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me
for Buk’s dad
the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me
PTHH<5>
haiku for a grieving mother
face sullen the weight
of loss betwixt her glimmer
lies she tells herself
The Table
As a taster to this summer’s publication of New Lyricist magazine (EiF)…
The Table
holes of my salvation army
i don’t want to be a Neruda love poem girl
i want my thoughts to be admired like the turquoise gold around the throat of a hummingbird
i don’t want a boy to be my knight in anything shiny valiant or stunning
i want him to see the blaze inside me through the holes of my Salvation Army black jeans
words less spoken 