As I did when she was alive
I risk infection or rejection.
I sterilize her ash in an autoclave
as with needles and rest,
makes sure it’s fine powder
mix it with the ink.
She will be under my skin.
Limbs With Pears
Pert plump green
as if young lasses first bairn
she shows as a bump
dangles from limbs
as if the tree needs a pillow
for its back
as tight skin bitten
sweet waters break
Some Days I Am
the rush, tingle in the stomach.
Mostly, I am old and want to rest,
from daily survival, scrimp and scrape.
Can’t plan,carry anything over,
no skills. Only certainty is uncertain.
I need regularity, rhythm, habit, sanity.
It doesn’t matter whether
I’m awake or not. In the space
of a day I’ve been old, deaf, dumb
and blind, no legs, no arms, no voice,
a she, but nothing lasts, for long. For a time,
I had a wife, kids, grandkids,
few hours later, perhaps, I had none.
I had brothers for about a week.
I loved, and was loved once.
Was it yesterday, or the day before?
We kissed. I remember the kiss.
Useless to think where or what they are.
All are strangers, now. Or once a billboard message,
perhaps “Friends who haven’t met yet”
I awake one day huddled in a shop doorway,
another in silk sheets with duck
feather pillows and a servant
asks what I would like for breakfast.
I can’t keep anything. Grab it,
while it’s there. Buy my stuff,
again, the next day. Use it or lose it.
Things made, soon decay. Leaves
fall in summer, flowers blossom
in winter. Animals unsure what
they must do. Many die, as do we,
when wrong choice is made.
Maps are useless. Streets change
shape, new buildings where old.
Clothes bought that day
are soon rags. It’s a rush to buy new.
In summer folk say, ” Stuff it.”,
go naturist. Summer could be
Autumn. A lot of people
die in Winter. Pay Euro one day,
Yen the next. Rhymes are rare.
Language changes too.
Yesterday black was white,
red was yellow. Spend most
of my days out of fashion.
Cynics say it’s all about profit,
shops say they’re it’s a response
to customer’s needs. Often stuff
comes full circle, but all of its
perishable, now, clothes, cars,
buildings, walls, streets. History
is what you can remember, but
stuff changes so fast you can’t
remember it all. Against the grain,
never plus ca change. Even glass
decays nowadays, and these words
become something else. Maybe.