All In Green

i like the rain upon the fir tree

sweet drops of drifting cloud

softly falling fresh and constant

endowing us with life

winter’s campaign is ebbing

northern wintry wall recedes

revealing true the good earth’s

dappled browns and greens

storm systems gather

as our world spins round

from a tempest in chennai

comes a wild monsoon that drowns

we are tilted through our axis

twenty-three degrees off-kilt

summer points us toward the sun

and winter hides us away

an impact from ancient millenia

made our glowing night sky face

to rule the ebb and neap tides

as round the sun we spin through space

with the sun and moon

our seasons whirl and ebb and flow

spinning round the whole wide world

turning through each season’s show

so we know the burn and the bitter

not stuck in either the long year round

and though winter can be brutal

without the cold no spring would sprout

still these little drops grace the fir tree

and softly wet your hair

spring remains at arm’s length

but suddenly i don’t care

ever softly turning

toward a new day yet unseen

today i know for certain

spring is coming all in green

~e

In Cheerless Rooms

chairs of wood and vinyl wait

in cheerless rooms

with stagnant clocks

and nurses in soft shades of blue or

green the gross tint on the wall

and tiled floors of ammonia reek

while coffee sipped in paper cups

won’t speed our purgatoric wait

rails of chrome reflect fluorescent

lights in drowsy patterns there

arms and legs in casts that itch

hoi polloi shift their feet

wheelchair girl rolls in among

unconscious on and on she moans

a nasal voice wants doctor young

while we all sit impatiently

all the magazines are old and folded

in a mouldy corner television blares

ads for arthritic cream or muscle pills

that shed quick pounds and tone your pecs

nurses come for needle pricks or x-ray pics

or instagrams–emergency is overrun

they’re understaffed and children scream

or put quiet questions to sleepy mums

who check their phones for sexty tweets

and tell the clerk 'my son's been here since'

in the back technicians scan methodically

between their breaks and flirty barbs

the air is stale but tense with fear

unnoticed panic builds and urine spills

we hold our noses, collecting

in worn loaferware but no one comes

~e

Within The Thrall

rich the days when muse does call

tasty words are joined and fit

verses surge within the thrall

and pages spring from poet’s wit

weighty words that rhyme and transfer

a chosen meter’s pace and flow

mots of grit and grace and grandeur

gravitas bits and verbs that go

pained those days of idle keys

of writer’s block and hands gone still

curse the fates and times like these

occupied with lesser skill

out to nature and her minions

busy with their daily chores

for inspiration and opinion

and fresh air to fuel the forge

brew a cup, renew thy labours

browse thesaurus customary

read the tea leaves and the paper

and find the rhyming dictionary

fickle indeed the muse’s lot

thro’ moods by turns buoyed and glum

she brings the juice and spits the hot

and strings together pearls that hum

let all who know of words’ reluctance

resisting rhyme and symmetry

seek the patience and the guidance

to await the muse’s sympathy

hail the mistress and the medium

of all creative synergy

who, raising art above life’s tedium

with her kiss provides the means

~e

Our Graven Names

from quarried deeps' darksome track

on one broad flag of granite black

our house in solemn tribute etched

with stately cross and holly sketched

dates of death and birth beside

our graven names woe betide

~

those four names our tale recounts

but one in bold casts a doubt

a tale of sunlight tinged with frost

a future bright ’til he was lost

the other three lay farther on

beloved wife, daughter, son

~

on february first’s snowy eve

two cars near as they homeward weave

four return from nana’s home

the children sleepy, still and prone

a drunkard departs his local tavern

he starts his car impaired and craven

~

until they meet headlights ablaze

unfocused eyes vainly gaze

just like a moth drawn to flame

the drunk steers into the oncoming lane

a shout! the crash! and noise like thunder

seeping oil and blood, flesh torn asunder

~

horror among the heap of cars

a father killed, a mother marred

here is strewn a mournful lot

a whimpering child, an unconscious tot

o what drink and drive has wrought

bodies aggrieved and futures caught

~

come keening sirens and faithful men

of fire, police and ambulance

what new frights of night's debauch

what grisly work awaits thy watch

load the gurneys and blankets spread

save the living and recover the dead

~

a little girl bawls in the frigid night

“teddy, teddy” her plaintive hight

the policeman thinks she wants her bear

and tries to move her from the wreckage there

but her brother's name she repeats

until the toddler’s found beneath the seats

~

to hospital, to morgue–off we hurry

only two of us alert to worry

to surgery, to x-ray, to intensive care

o doctors o nurses please mend us there

find our families, bring them in

and notify our next of kin

~

once four we were but now are three

years shall wither ere we all see

never again will we be sound and whole

our lives are rent, in three a hole

fore long we are moved and each is alone

tween hospital wards and family homes

~

but one of us heard the processional hymn–

the wee blonde girl whom her uncle carried in

from the church to the cemetery where he was laid

the grand to the credit in a long motorcade

the coffin was sunk into snow-covered earth

where a priest presided oe’r the burial dirge

~

thus each spring three visited the grave

in silent vigil we stood and prayed

tidied the plot and watered the plants

we were hushed as around we glanced

but we'd always questions driving back

trying to fathom this fourth we lacked

~

time increased and the stricken past faded

children were raised and a mother’s hair greyed

three grew inured that no fourth was there

and went about our lives nearly unaware

until one day we could accept it no more

and a grieving came that had not before

~

decades hence the mother’s health waned

old wounds transmuted into chronic pain

she fell one yuletide and her hip was replaced

a new knee followed amid rehab’s aches

one august morning her weakened heart faltered

sitting up in a chair, then she died, like her father

~

once four we were before the deathly change

then we were three in a grand trine chain

three lonely orbs in blackening space

the cicatricial three fallen from grace

then all-a-sudden just two remained

only two in the end who’d survived that day

~

and we two fend by divergent means

one averts and the other convenes

how sudden are her villainous reversals

down Life’s garden path transversals

no photos survive of us as a group

proving we were four ere our drop in the stoup

~

this is our tale's whimpering end

its teller's unaware what way next it may wend

let those who follow hear our cautionary tale

its moral is clear but offers us little avail

four graven names will be all that remain

bred in the bone to survive and sustain

~e

Evening Bell

to you:

        fair siren of my distant youth

        i bring thee disconcerting truth

whom these hands have wrapped in love’s embrace

        my gaze upon thy shining face

                 who left me but to end in bitter ruth

         Truth i promised and thus do i adhere

               if you shall exercise the will to hear

                    you have sailed to distant shores

                    striven for heaven and its rewards

                           what profits she the world but not herself, dear?

                    Hark: ‘to thine own self be true!’

                         thus wisely spake the bard a pearly jewel

                         tis time to shed youth’s showy zeal

                         to find thy voice and grasp what’s real

                              to break the vows you once approved

                         Come home; lo the evening bell doth ring!

                              take up thy bow and find thee worthy string

                                    apply thine art and mastery

                                    before it grows too late to free

                                               the voices of the young who make you sing!

~e

Spice Trail Harvest

batik butterflies

in white and grey

flit like waves

on bengal bay 

morning climbs

Sri Lankan hills

spice trail harvests

cinnamon quills

further east

from maluccan trees

voices carry on

clove-scented breeze

legend of woe

for the indonese

came a cropper

the dutch VOC

still people climb

to earn their keep

old gnurled hands

the spice trail reaps

and every year

the middleman buys

at ridiculous rates

and profits multiply

so next time you flavour

your drink or meal

with vanilla or pepper

you’ll know the deal

remember those hands

when you reach for spice

a lifetime of labour

at a discount price

~e

Blackguard Birds

i hate the mated house sparrows

inhabiting my roof

i hate their matching costumes

and their wheezy cries

rusty brown and grey they are

with faces painted black

jaunty masks to preserve

the element of surprise

sly and brash and mean are they

stealing nesting holes

evicting purple martins

gaining homes but making foes

taking nectar from the flowers

and breaking others’ eggs

blue jays and barn swallows

return to find the dregs

house sparrows flap about

bathing in the dust

blackguard birds without care

wee devils in the boughs

~e