I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')
This blog is not, 'Here are my very best poems'. It's for work in progress, subject to revision.
Posts may be updated without notice at any time. Completed work appears in my books.
Announcement (19 May 2013)
I won’t be writing so many new poems for a while — though there will be some. I want to spend more time on revision, and more time working on memoir (in prose!). I'll continue to participate in my online poetic communities, sharing poems already written.
17 January 2013
We'd been dating a couple of weeks.
'I can't come out with you Saturday,' I said.
'My house-mate and I are having a garage sale.'
He didn't say much, just asked what time.
I told him it would be most of the day.
'OK,' he said. I thought he took it well.
On Saturday morning he turned up
still not saying much, just lent a hand
setting everything out, then sat there for hours
on a low chair, helping to sell.
His Blues Brothers t-shirt declared
he was on a mission from God.
And so he was, always.
Long before I knew him he was inspired
to bring Discovery, a program for teenagers
out to Australia from Hawaii and set it up.
Parents were always coming up to him later
in public places to thank him.
As an investigative journalist,
though he got little credit, he instigated
major social reforms — at the risk
of personal danger. Some nights we didn't dare
answer the phone. The Senate Enquiry
almost gave him a heart attack, but he spoke up.
And when he discovered first-hand
that the nature spirits called fairies are really real,
and having a hard time trying to look after the planet,
he wrote a book for children so they would know too,
and know that we need to make spaces
in polluting and destroying our home environment.
He was a wonder. His last night at home,
before he collapsed and went to hospital,
I came down with a nasty cough.
He could barely stand, yet he stood
behind my chair to lay his hands on my shoulders.
He still had the best Reiki hands.
Our friend Letitia, who knows these things,
had him picked as an earth angel.
He was feisty and funny (an angel is not a saint)
but one way and another he was in service.
He had a long talk with his daughter since passing over.
He told her he's helping young people. That'd be right.
Submitted for Wonder Wednesday #17 at Poets United This seems to me very prosey and in need of more work (though the slanginess is on purpose) but to meet the prompt I need to post this draft now. All poems here are subject to the possibility of change.