Pebble Poem

This poem is a pebble
Or on the pebbled path
To homelessness, alone,
An unpolished stone
In the shape of
Inevitable loss,
Where barefoot ramblers
Wince and stumble
From discomfort rubbing
Against their soles,
Between camomile toes
And a heart of
Lemongrass.
Reminiscence aloft
From parabolic domes
On domiciles all tossed
Into an open ocean’s
Samphire-scented arms.
Someday, far in the future
These words will be unearthed
By a scientist’s assistant
Who later came to harm,
And where then will
A coast resurge, wild
Spume, renewed oaths,
Where will be their gardens
Beside the stony path.

This pebble is a poem
And in my hand, a gift;
Transient, impermanent,
Miracles are not
The genesis of men,
But germination,
That’s godliness,
Oak from a seed,
Galaxies from an atom,
A poem inside me,
The rest is axiomatic.

Kingfisher Song

You were too eager to please,
I chided myself, so keen to
Write that the venerable pen
Leapt from your desk and in
To your head where it bled
Through the clenched fist
Of your thoughts, the other
Hand, where I could not write,
But fell asleep in fields
Unfurling fallow whites.

Bald world, as blanched
From colour and sounds as
When the midwife caught you
Like steelhead trout in
Nets of coastal fisher-folk
Who could not speak themselves,
Brine burnt their throats;
They held their plunder up
To the sun, trident-spiked,
Piscine mouths in pristine
Exhibitions of shock,
Joyous affinity as one
With the kingfisher god,
As later priests held up
Broken bread and the veins
Of the grace and the good.
I’ve observed how a ritual is
Repetition streaming through
Survival’s gills, waking up,
My pen still in my hand,
Without scolding myself,
Then wrote.

A Midwife’s Song

The barren bones of a poem inside me,
Some people have got it, and some have not;
I exhumed the soft tune of a sonnet,
Some people want it; most poets forgot.
I dress the dead metre with words and wax,
Our patrons in the palace were shot;
There are no survivors of their syntax,
Their betrayers reworked each person’s plot.
My adversaries expurgated wit
By blackly burning the books of my life;
Mistaken, my imagination lit,
The embers gave birth to a blue midwife.
This is the poem, newborn on my bed,
Where words and verses and whole worlds bled.