Rowan Taw - 2
DriftwoodWood drifted into
floating sleep buoyant dreams ebbed and flowed tangled limb desire swept through her empty branches logged and lodged in her knotted mind tumbled smooth skin sonambulant senses wished for his bare bark to envelop her sea damp contours offering her the fantasy of sap rising – heartwood restoration but a drift she was dry and dead inside yet the sea journeyed her home to a shore where lovers saw her poverty and loneliness they adorned her with sentimental souvenirs and she became someone else’s memory. A Decent Butcher's[from "The Butcher Series," I]
She never used the word ‘homesick’, she merely complained that “you can’t find a decent butcher’s." We didn’t know that as she purchased the weekly groceries, she was thinking of a wink from twinkling blue eyes. She couldn’t find a decent butcher’s, for her heart was calling her back to the butcher boy she left behind. Milk TearsMy body cries
milk tears willing satiation. In poverty my body gives a pauper’s feast: lacking quantity, lacking flow, I lack his latch. Bottle beckons – inanimate competitor. Gradual coaxing then mother and son meet. My body cries milk tears – joy of early morning feeding. Office BoyFrom the moment he joined the office
he stared. I thought it was a phase that would pass he’d give it up once I was familiar, but it’s been nine months, and still he stares. Every time I pass the floor from water cooler to desk his eyes peer – fixed on me from underneath his Lego haircut. I’ve tried smiling, I’ve tried ignoring, I’ve tried warning: “It’s rude to stare!” “There’s such a thing as work place harassment, you know!” Still he stares. It’s got so bad, I’m tempted to nut him, (as I walk, unavoidably, pass his station.) I probably would have done it already, but one thing deters me: the lawsuit from the James Wallace Trust for destroying their portrait. Sister Mary's Eyebrows ☊Summer evening with visiting
Sister Patricious and Sister Mary. Sister Mary has been teaching us to chase the devil. But now playing cards are packed away, and Horlick’s is being made. There is a firm knocking at the door, Sister Mary seems surprised that an unexpected visitor could be calling at such a late hour. The visitor is my 6ft tall, long-haired friend, Aidan. Sister Mary looks shocked that I should have a gentleman caller so late in the evening. Her eyebrows are somewhat raised. Aidan is ushered in to the dining room, where we are all gathered. He needs to speak with me about our plans to attend the Glastonbury festival. Sister Mary’s eyebrows are now walking up her forehead. We continue our discussions and Sister Mary gathers I’m going to be in all male company. Her eyebrows climb closer toward her hairline. Simon has his own tent, and Aidan has secured a good sized tent for me, him, and Joel to squeeze into. Sister Mary’s eyebrows are now teetering on the brink, eager to escape and throw themselves off her cliff side face. If it weren’t for her habit, keeping them from encroaching higher, I do believe they would have taken the leap and fallen off. Self-immolationSmoke wafts to your nostrils’
reincarnating olfactory cells. You don’t need time to analyze-recognize; there’s instant reaction - incensed aversion, the air shouts an aroma of ‘wrong’. Then you see the flames: darting, flicking, licking their devils’ tongues. They engulf, engorge, envelop. Monk’s robes disintegrate, as the chard blossom of the lotus- sitter distorts his features. The air becomes blackened by the cracked skin bubbling sacred, scarlet rivers - his whole body weeping disrobed tears of maroon blood. You ask: is this an act of love, or of protest, or desperation? You ask: where others would strike and hurt another, is this the only act remaining to a peaceful people? With heartbreaking futility - You ask…. |
She Wrote Four Letters[from "The Butcher Series," II]
On recalling him to mind, she wrote four letters - some twenty years late. The first was accusatory: What the hell had possessed him? Had he lost his senses? To try and formalise their flirtation, calling for her box of chocolates in hand, she fifteen, he fifty-five. How could he risk reputation for repudiation? She cast the divining dice, "empty of intelligence - thoughts are empty; just as the wind moves through an empty valley. You are becoming too worried and mentally aggravated for such a small purpose." The second letter was more temperate, removing emotion, stating things matter of fact, acknowledging a toxic third party had encouraged the liaison, and may have deceived about her age. The dice read: "Nectar rays of the moon", but still she was unsure, and had now heard news of him: "he sold his business to people he himself had trained. He helps out at Christmas, and jokes that he is the 'Butcher's Boy'. He is a lovely guy." He is a lovely guy, she murmurs, tears of joy in her eyes. The third letter is written with nothing but affection. How he had read her correctly, that she had longed to reciprocate. That he is the one she still thinks of, remembering their kiss. The dice read: "The white conch - one's thoughts become renowned like a pleasing tune." She pauses, speaks to a confidante, an older man, who will listen, gives her freedom to express, who'll accept her, non-judgmentally. Her fourth letter turns into a love song, she sings and releases it. The dice read: "House of Good Tidings." She doesn't need a reply. Divination quotes taken from "Mo: Tibetan Divination System" by Jamgon Mipham. When ☊When love is at an end,
I turn to the dead again; they can’t falter from my projection, nor suffer me rejection. When love is at an end, I turn to the dead again. When love is at its start, I walk from them apart, caught in such fanciful delight that is attachment’s plight. When love is at its start, I walk from them apart. When love is at an end, I turn to the dead again. She Descends in SunshineShe sits in sunshine
– not in her private room. Communal lounge an open space, fresh air filtering aging staleness, curtains straining light, a translucent membrane partitioning her internal present from her external past. She’s self-aware. She knows she won’t remember my name. She knows that facts are missing, memories are slipping. She knows she misses her sons, but how many she can’t recall. Her fingers fidget, nails immaculate, shaped in soft rose enamel, her daughter’s act of tenderness. But she would never ask her children to come. We talk as others bleat: baa-baa-baa single syllable repeats – an adult child returned to the babbling phase. The sound fades as staff stall his daily escape attempt. We look on, as she looks on this descent of man, knowing her own trajectory, mind falling in slow motion. We talk of weather, the darkness and continual rain. She doesn’t believe in letting it get her down – we must make our own sunbeams. So here she sits in sunshine – not in her private room. Existential OrigamiEvery morning I make these folds.
Gentle creases encourage initial shaping, blank paper expanse transforming, as valley folds take hold. Every morning I make these folds. Manipulating fingers push and merge swallow wings along imaginary …………………………dotted lines. Every morning I make these folds. Through fragile, temporary structures my mountain folds summon up existence. Every morning I make these folds. Finally flight path ready, my plane of existence soars. But how many flights? And how many planes and paths? For every day I make these folds. He Nods
He was an acquaintance of friends, but
he and I have never been introduced. He gives a casual nod of the head, a fleeting, passing acknowledgement that he’s seen me hanging around before. With a shrug, I nod back, as we both turn from each other. I remember the first time I saw him, when I learnt his name, but he doesn’t seem to know mine…yet. I bear him no malice or ill will. I wonder when we’ll formally meet, when will that day come when I hear my name on Death’s lips? ♢ |