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The War Before Springtide

I want to feel alive;

to feel Mother Nature’s

Heart beating in mine

I want time to stop.

I want to hear the sound

Of a bird’s serenade

But all I hear is the click

Of a soldier’s grenade

I want to see branches

Dancing in a cloudless sky

But all I see is military troops

And their missile strikes

I ask myself why the world

Chooses war instead of peace;

A futile commitment

to a heartless regime

I want a song of silence

To engulf us like a wave

I want Mother Nature to

wrap us in her arms and say

That when there are no more

Angels left in heaven

The branches will extend and assume

Their final prayer position

And when there are no more

Earthly wounds left to tend

We’ll gather and wait

For the war before springtide to end

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Eucalyptus/Family tree

In the car’s back seat

I crane my eyes up at 

the Eucalyptus 

of Louisville street 

and imagine my parents

sowing a copper-coloured seed,

hopeful and expectant,

as if throwing a coin 

into a wishing well

I called it our “family tree”

and outgrew each ashen branch,

until one day they severed the bark

and I smeared my grief 

in the blood of its silver leaves

Even now, as the years have passed, 

the Eucalyptus remains 

rooted in my mind:

our family’s sacred offering 

to the passage of time.

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On a bench in the garden

On a bench in the garden

The birds trace 

a silver line around 

my existential dread 

And the past returns

kaleidoscopically:

fragments of chaos

revolving inside my head

My paperweight heart

counts each one and

pins them down 

like a diary note

On a bench in the garden 

I wished the sun 

could melt trauma 

like it melt the snow 

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Covid crows

They’ve been here all year:

a constant omen

in the wake of contagion

Plagued by the heat of a summer morning

I awoke and watched their offspring

gurgle and scream

from the chestnut tree;

abandoned between its branches

Now through winter’s lockdown

I pass them by

as their coal-black, cawing bodies

heave with each cry

and mock my solitary footsteps all the while

Today the guardians of Burgess park

gather ceremoniously

next to a trampled mask

for another socially-distanced murder

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On the margins

The past decays

upon the present

like a pressed flower; fragile

and suffocating

inside yellowed edges

Petals for words

papered a sodden trail

in my throat and I’d take note:

emptying them out

one

by

one

from the deathbed

of my mouth

The shape of me:

indented and constrained

between the lines

now writes itself (and rights itself)

on the margins of truth

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Anonymity

I prefer anonymity:

To stare through a glass darkly

Knowing that the face

On the other side

won’t call back at me

As I slip into  

the buzzing crowds of 

A London tube station;

just another black figure 

in a Lowry painting

Because beyond 

the limitations of a name, 

‘heirloom’ is no longer 

the heir that looms

And my mind ceases

to become framed

By what haunts me

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September

The first of September comes round

Quietly shutting the door on summer

Bringing with it the dark dread

Of an uninvited guest

 

At its best:

Crisp, golden mornings filled

With promise and the lingering scent

Of dew-drenched leaves trodden under

The feet of the hopeful

 

At its worst:

The rat race starts in earnest

And “back to work”, will be the first

to make social headlines, trending across

Every platform and every screen

Huddled commuters and split-screen computers

That make you want to scream

 

“When will it end?”

 

Meanwhile, the phrase “back to school” is

Mouthed and underlined on every teacher’s lips,

Making student eyes roll and mood dip

You might call it a common form of

“Pupil behaviour”

From those waiting on a September

saviour

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Spectators

Silver leaves line

the road I travel through

Cherry blossom trees

Too fragile and fearful to bloom

Storm clouds gather ahead

and a crack of blue sky appears

The birds of the air feel its heaviness

And scatter as it nears

In this bleak city

We entertain thoughts of mortality

Misplaced and displaced

Spectators of our own calamity

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A Rainbow Flash in Monochrome

Part one: The White Collar Parade 

The smell of money on them

More pungent than liquor

Their suits, creaseless

Neatly folded like bank notes

from a robbery

An army of uniforms;

The white collar parade

Filtering in and out of

the cobbled chaos

I try to dodge them all

Bullet through the air

Without a care

A rainbow flash

In monochrome

~

Part two: The City that Coughs You up and Spits You out 

Each day, I pass the homeless man by

Just one of many

In the city that coughs you up

And spits you out

Little does he know

I’ll be leaving this place for good

Packed up and fed up,

Dragging my career behind me

We exchanged a glance

But no words

His sky blue eyes looked up at mine;

Pained and questioning

I walked on, like I always do

Wondering who was feeling more sorry for who