Pink poem.
On one hand
the space
on a
white page
is not
(at times)
warm enough
for words
that could,
should
be nestled
on pink paper.
On the other hand -
window frames gum trees
and an early kookaburra
flits in and out of
frame.
my window is has no future.
At night, like words on paper
it reflects the writer.
For Suzanna. -
While we sit
(Close but worlds apart)
amidst the spark of words...
In other places
Lhasa's masters grind their heels
on the children of Green Tara.
Mostar's children,
wide-eyed, hungry for laughter
and summer
stare across a bridge rebuilt
not on hope
but suspicion.
(Hope spans fingertips - suspicion generations)
From Hebron's streets
paved with history
blood and razorwire
child poets check the shadows.
And in Bhar al Gazal
Sudan's cool dark forests
drink deep from rivers
whose banks are littered with
the bodies of the planets
tallest people - brought low.
All this - and somehow poems co-exist.
The Collector #1(Tue 11 Feb '97-12:51 PM)
Rather than waste his days
He pulled the hands from clocks
compiled the seconds
in small boxes
The hours he stacked,
too neatly beside the door.
Days he split-
lumber for his stove-
All this he could do.
But not the nights.
Nights crowded him,
begging to be filled, ripped
split or torn asunder
by light/joy/happiness.
It was at this point
he turned away.
Some things are too hard.
The Collector #2 (Tue 11 Feb '97 - 02:39 PM)
Not to be outdone
he tore
the sharp brass blade
from an old sundial.
Dissembowelled the grandfather clock
removed the pendulum
and waited
net in hand
to catch any fleeting
second,
tic
or toc
that
might have lurked
awaiting
time to flee
To his dismay
when stepping out
no matter how still
he stood
his shadow moved.
A human sundial
with his hair ruffled by time.
Last Revised: October 2000
