Tag Archives: seasonal poems

Mass Mortality of the Heart Urchin

The sea-potato, Echinocardium Cordatum, inhabits the sea-bed

lives up to twenty years in a permanent burrow,

ambulacra crammed beneath hard-packed sand in pentamerous symmetry.

Mass mortality of the Heart Urchin is twofold and of the seasons.

First, a winter storm disturbs the deep; chokes those burrows with sand,

Smothering the hearts with chaos, pressure too great to bear.

Then the husks, spewed up onto the strand,

Picked over by undiscriminating gulls; Dilber and Stretch on a future Christmas morning.

Or picture a summer, if you prefer your tragedies unusually hot,

The sun’s over-attention spreads a blanket of decaying plankton over that sea-bed,

Deoxygenating the water as it settles down to rest.

Poor, unfortunate hearts, forced up, up in search of breathing space,

Suffocated for want of air,

They and their stellate potato-babies, thrown in their thousands onto a harsh white beach,

So that you may chance upon them

As you gasp in surprise

As the desert-hot sand burns the soles of your feet through cheap holiday shoes

Or as you lie, buried to the neck with your music box and gun,

Praying to a clearblue sky for the deliverance of cloud.

Wild Swimming

 

The week before monsoon hangs heavy.

We wear the air like a woolen blanket in midsummer, smothering our logic.

You, you flawed genius, when the heat takes you to your crazy place,

you are a madman, a jewel thief

secretly adjusting the gas taps of my equilibrium.

That lightning storm in your brain takes your logic

and skews it, making me your enemy.

When the mania takes you, for survival’s sake my mind retreats

to the shade of the creek

my psyche dives down beneath its cooling waters.

I am diving down, down dark deep

where the chaos of your words cannot reach me.

Drifting in bottle-green silence,

limpid light cushioning my journey down.

I am a mermaid

my tail flicking aside your anger

which slides off my scales like oil.

Lungs blooming with pinon-scented air I dive

dipping beneath your harsh words

entering that sedated world where time slows

dream-like I pull through still water

hunting for jewels

while you rage above, your words a vicious deluge of irrational hatred.

Two or three days I lie,

breathing, only when I must, through the hollow reeds of my despair,

body wrinkled with submersion and my mind

cold-water saturated, on ice

until the storm passes, and the wildfire is done.

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The Cutting Garden

I discovered the garden one summer afternoon

Its high stone walls offered shade in the heat of the day.

Curving arches coaxed me in, along paths lined with violets, chamomile and fern.

Wallflowers, warm and velvet, stroked my legs,

Diverting my senses with colour and faded perfume.

Brazen lilies cat-called from the back row,

Towering over tulips,

Mouths deliciously parted in scandalised mock-horror.

Shafts of climbing sweet peas, tangled in withywind,

Reached out to grab my wrists as I tripped and almost fell,

The cobbled path less even than it seemed.

I sank to my knees then, assaulted

By a soft, ripe bed of shameless peonies.

Big, brazen blooms of open-faced beauty.

How I craved them, rubbing my face in their scent,

Tugging their petals and pulling

Generous handfuls to my lips, my mouth,

Breathing in their musk like a lover drowning.

I reached for the knife in my pocket, and hacked at their stems,

greedily scything, frenzied with lust for their passing beauty.

Gathering their heads in my pollen-stained arms

I ran back down that path,

Laughing at my floral indiscretion,

My torrid love affair with bloom.

Two Dozen Roses in a Rainstorm

The pregnant afternoon brings a sudden drop in temperature,

Pendulous clouds cross the hill above the creek;

A storm is coming.

Arizona’s season of changes, challenging my willpower,

Facing me down if I waver.

Maple leaves, burnt orange, and blood red,

Shiver in the face of the warm Pacific storm.

Throwing open the doors, I stand and listen to the thunder,

Fork lightning tracing the sky like a scar.

It has been a year since, desolate, unconfident, night-waking,

I watched, near heartbroken as you flirted,

Unselfconscious, with my heart.

The storm and my memory challenge me,

Like a song sung without love.

This year, I greet you like an old friend,

Let the fresh rain plash on my naked feet,

Rejoicing in the storm.

I hug you tight, feeling your frailty

Beneath your tale of two dozen pink roses,

And wish you well,

Now I am secure in this place.

No storm will wash me away.

The ten months-dry earth now is riddled with racing channels,

Slaking the sand’s thirst.

Sure-footed and calm I watch,

For I know the lie of the land.

Water in the landscape is home territory for me,

And the storm plays out like an old familiar tune.

Granite Creek

The first of December

Drawing back the curtains

I see you, standing, stock still

At the water bowl.

Wary of my disturbance

Your perfect antlers

Framing the pine,

Our eyes meet,

And you stare me down

Then, deciding I pose no threat,

You stoop to drink,

Eagerly, and alone,

Your precious oasis

Above the dry creek bed.

I had longed to see you

One last time before I go.

I too stand silent,

Drinking in the image of you,

A perfect parting gift

This icy winter’s morning.

Some kind of requiem

The first day of winter; the leaving of the year

And now, more than ever, I feel my mortality;

Life’s fragility.

My body aches, and my heart misses

The reassuring presence of you.

I am a half-person

And this, my half-life.

The day sets, edgy, with the promise of storms

Yet here, surrounded with white roses,

I acknowledge my loneliness

Fend off the night-time thoughts

The fear of you not-wanting.

I long to tell you the depth of my love,

But hesitate, hold back

For fear of chasing you away.

And I am so, so grateful for the tenuous chance

That brought us together;

For the giant of a man you have become

And for the knowledge that you hold me

In your heart.

So this is some kind of requiem

Memento Mori

For the girl so sad for so long.

Lasciatemi morire

I shed these tears now

Not for grief, nor loneliness,

But for gratitude, and wonder

At this late-found love.

Glove

The two of you.

You fit together like

A hand in a glove.

Comfortable and warm;

A matching pair

Staving off the chilly autumn winds.

You know each wrinkle,

Each pulled thread

And dropped stitch

A loving reminder

Of adventures shared.

Rushing out the door,

Familiar old friends

Hurriedly stuffed in a pocket.

Not a second glance behind,

No need for the new.