Mother

The village had been built jigsaw pretty,  
cottages were white washed and thatched,  
they lined the lazy lanes and quiet roads,  
centered by a pagan cross  
daubed with yellow roses  
and vibrant climbers.  

I caught the cold air, the last  
to leave the pub, it bolted shut  
behind me. The light didn't bleed  
onto the night, stars crowded  
like snow flakes over my hands  
between my fingers, wrapped  
all around me, only me.  
 
Such stumbling quiet can only be heard  
by the drunk, I was inside its vacuum  
carried blind by beauty.  
A wrought iron bench was waiting,  
its arms welcomed me and curled intricate  
fingers over my shoulders.  
 
At first I could only sense movement
approaching  as timid as a shy duck
being enticed by bread.  
A rustle beneath a hedge,  
the earthenware scrape  
of a dragged plant pot.  
 
The night had begun to trust me  
its light came out from corner clouds  
watching roof tops fall on to gardens  
even shadowed doorways shifted  
in to grey-scale. That's when I heard  
the chatter, everything spoke in an old  
language, garden forks talked in rhyme  
as they turned over flower beds,  
plants self pruned and shifted positions  
whispering in a dialect of dark green.  
 
Every garden, the whole village was alive,  
fallen leaves where being raked, blades of grass  
snipped short, plants were discussing  
how they should arrange themselves.  
A discarded coke-can tapped on the side  
of a rubbish bin that snapped open  
to swallow.  
 
I tried to move for a closer look  
but the iron bench moved inside me,  
thin needles had entered my skin,  
energy surged  
across the connection.  
 
I could feel every movement,  
every part of the village,  
the cold brick of the cottages, the warmth  
of bodies as they slept in their beds,  
the padded footsteps of cats as the strutted  
the tops of garden walls.  
 
I began to panic, a body rejecting  
its donor heart, images flashed,  
my mind a flicker book, billions  
of people connected to the earth  
energy drawn from one to another.  
I could see the whole planet trying  
to heal itself, using the created world,  
man made object colliding, collaborating.  
 
I could see the whole plan  
as it mapped itself to my mind.  
I relaxed and allowed myself to go deeper,  
It was then I heard her voice.

Innocent like a dream made of white Indian silk
Smiles of yours batched in boxes saying "Nick"
You turned into a puppet of your life show of freak
                               You had to obey
                                your step father and pray

Your search of luck led you to a young boy
and made the hunger a reaper in your beggaring convoy
An inglorious ending of a glorified love toy
                         And you were left with a son
                         single, spontaneous, teenage mom

You cross the church's  doorstep and hallway again
Taking vows of devotion and service to eternal pain
Two victims of the ridiculous idea of human fate
                            Your daughter!  Holy fury!
                            The case for blinded jury

Your mother sold your pieces without hesitation
"He's rich and when he dies you may get his pension"
So you married his car and his institutionalization
                             Then they wailed
                             your life had failed

Loneliness always chooses for us the wrong selection
For you, an unmanly man that sucked your respiration
A compromised, dry, mirthless obligation
                            How long could you withstand
                            The predictions ware sad

Coping with reality was a multilayer abuse
You used to shatter it in your glass of Greek colorless booze
Being the slave of yourself and trying hard to lose
                        Ceres of Dionysus
                         address your issues

Same o' same o', sick and in daze
You changed the wedding photos, kept the wooden case
Lights at your temple and the obituary of your grace
                        Drink up, my treat
                        Death, today we meet

I didn't cared till I saw your brown, carved casket
I looked for all your writings, I should had done it faster
The burglars of your words had turned them into an incense
                     Misfit mother of my throne
                           I salute you, dear
                                 So long!

                            








                    

gives you that look
they call the stink eye,  
you know what that means,  
you’d better not try,  
  
used to warn me,  
where not to roam,  
“you’ll be 6 feet under    
in a sea full of stones!”,  
   
“sit your ass down  
and hush up!” she’d say,  
and “eat all that broccoli”  
or you’ll pay the old way,  
   
smiling like a crook  
getting tucked into bed,  
a pat on the cheek,  
and a kiss on your head :-)  
   
first thing you shout  
when you enter your home,  
you call out when scared,  
or comforts you alone,  
   
luck of the draw  
that real special one,  
greatest cheerleader,    
for a daughter or son,  
   
a word like a blanket,    
transcending secure clam,  
none more relieving,  
as saying the word  
   
mom.

There is a man from these parts, who claims to have been born twice. His Mother went into labour at home and his head began to emerge. The ambulance carrying her to Hospital ran over a road ramp and his head popped back in again.

(i)

Scent of
A distantly spilled
{womb} perfume,
Tastes copper on m(y)other tongue
Inhale language & burn yourself
On your own blue breath.

Each birth curates
A pentimento of primitive painting,
Peels back the hands of the clock
Like a moth’s wings unlaced &
Crushed in the leaves of a dark bible.

(ii)

The town swirls about the numb,
Calm and cubed ruins of its’ castle cliff.
The sea is somnolent tonight –
Dirty blue chrysalis of dreams and cold,
Ears strain to hear the otherworldly secrets
Of mermaids, drowned sailors, souls cursed,
But the drunk songs from karaoke abattoirs
Are the only sounds to fill the skies.

A tanker anchors in the distance:
Latitude 53.317 Longitude -3.483
Assured of its’ home for the night.

(iii)

Light years become heavy.
We just hold on over time,
Over time the broken cradle
Rebuilds / returns to forest,
Noosed roots sway as a
Child’s legs on a swing.

(iv)
 
Each Alzheimer visit bears
Hope of a resurrected memory,
Or God swear, even imagined –
Realisation it could be the last.

Mum once said “life is like a balloon.”
Her balloon, dark red as wine stain,
Follows the curve of slow satellites
Waiting rapid release of meteorite showers.

For a while eternal
The balloon will hang,
Before falling softly to
Mother sea and brother earth,
Bursting on some foreign shores.