Category: Poetry

Women dig for diamonds in coal,
hoping these lumps of pyrolyzed men
will keep their carbon promise.

Accepting their sedimentary excuses
while the heat smoulders beneath,
while the revised lines in love letters
seem shiny and new.

But this old story – written on paper-chains –
has been well-read and dog-eared,
and its links ignite easily in fire.
The real thing’s bound in gold, ladies.

Synthetic tricksters will sparkle like pyrite,
dazzling eyes, igniting hearts with desire.
Or glow like amber, which only serves
to preserve a heart that’s been burnt
by the blazing postscript.

Women dig for truth in the ashes,
carry this shining jewel in their crow’s feet
as they spread their wings to fly,
discard the embers in empty nests,
and set the whole place aflame.

LMC

He slept,
ensorcelled by
the pith of media
peristeronic posturing –
his dreams.

LMC – 2024

My name is not Jesus

I can’t walk on water, but never tried –
it would be an act of vanity to succeed.

Besides, my feet would not fit inside
the little pail I must carry with me,

full of leaks. Someone is always there
with a cup; my throat is parched,

but they never give any back. Could this
be the rumoured water of life?

I can’t feed the multitudes on two fish
or turn water to wine, it’s already gone

as ransom to covetous kings, who loiter
in the clouds and gloat how high they are,

how far they can see. And they ignore
how far I hope they will fall.

I can’t heal the blind, the lame, the lost,
that requires faith beyond mine.

Tongues speaking forked languages
have forgotten how to listen,

there is nothing I can teach of the ways
of living that they will accept.

I can’t even know with any faith,
they will leave me unmolested

when I am holding out the last drop
of trembling water on the tip of my finger.

But then, pardon will not be mine to give.
I can’t summon god’s grace, only my wrath.

As I said,
my name is not Jesus.

LMC

The promise conveyed
by arm gestures sweeping up the side
towards the mountain peak –
go there, climb the climb, reach
that lofty goal and all you can see
will be yours.
But what then? What good
being so far from the hands of people,
untouchable from the heights –
only the wind in your ears, carrying
sounds from a world you forsook
along the way.
Observe that pinnacle change.
Building is still required, resources
food shelter water – love?
Angles give way to levelling,
conforming to environment, settling
on what’s there.
Whether casting stones
down, or brushing pebbles aside to clear
a smooth, well-travelled path –
gravitational pull insists
on re-connection. The impact will land
on solid ground. Material.

****

Decide, do you want to be
the lonely hermit on a mountain peak
who casts no shadow, sees only distance.
who passes a life worshipping life, and the earth, yet
offers only witness to the discomfort below,
refuses the burden of shame.

Or the ant in the hill, who eats the dirt and the seeds
and stores them away for leaner times
to share with the colony,
becomes an alchemist of soil,
opening channels in the hillside,
for air and water to flow equally.

The transmigration of earth to flowing mud
consumes all who rely on it,
hermit and ant alike.

Decide, rebuild and begin again,
or lay down and quit.
Whether now or later – who lives best?
Decide! The distant mountains
are not eternal, and pebbles
also return to earth.

LMC

A baby’s first cry is its first word,
in a language we have forgotten.

Days of months, months of years will pass
as it learns the world of its family,
the words, the turns of phrase, the tone
through which it will filter all other words.

A baby’s first word is colossal,
a jubilation, a reckoning, all in one.

Too soon it learns to forget the first tongue,
the one of unfiltered emotions,
of the joy and the pain
of being sundered from the womb,
the voice of the blood rushing, and the heart-
beating always around it; its own heart
answering the echo muffled by fluid,
warm and rocked softly in the glow
of flesh-filtered light and dream.

A baby’s first word heralds
Its journey towards community.

Doors may open more swiftly than wisely,
the newly sprung words mostly kind,
but as the vessel grows, it becomes thirsty,
sponges up the world outside, and full,
releases its growing burden at home.

Tears are one part of the process.
For the rest, trust must fill in the blanks,
and love, make the message clear.
Forgiveness reveals the diamond drops within.

A baby’s first word transforms
it’s dreams into an action.

It stacks bright coloured blocks on the floor,
building its houses and cars and towers,
guarding them fiercely lest someone
knock them all down, before it does.

This word, an unspoken first declaration
of independence, of me, of mine.
Lessons of control and helplessness,
and the difference between them.

A baby’s first word informed
by subtler forms of influence.

LMC – 2023

Six Feet for Life

Round decals, mostly yellow
for visibility with traction.
Some with shoe prints,
some with binary figures,
symbolize social distance,
suggest six feet apart
and caution six feet down.

To follow this narrow path
means leaving hope behind.
Conflict moving forward,
conflict of contagion,
personal space imposed,
health care redefined as
mandated protection.

Too many losses, trust
not the least of them,
certainty not becoming,
certainty becoming blind.
The symbols, cast down
before our dazzled eyes,
a mask disguising lies.

A society torn asunder,
a trumpet call to arms.
At first with compassion,
at first with reassurance,
soon bitter accusations,
words like misinformation,
and disinformation.

The science, infallible
as a guidepost to treason,
preys on fear of illness,
prays on sickness, death,
sows the seeds of division.
While some fight to live,
others fight for life.

Three years in, what symbol
will mark the next steps –
globalized tyranny, or
global-sized heart?
Traces of decals
shiny as fresh scabs,
dare us to pick at them.

LMC

My name is not Jesus

I can’t walk on water, but never tried –
it would be an act of vanity to succeed.

Besides, my feet would not fit inside
the little pail I must carry with me,

full of leaks. Someone is always there
with a cup; my throat is parched,

but they never give it back. Could this
be the rumoured water of life?

I can’t feed the multitudes on two fish
or turn water to wine, it’s already gone

as ransom to covetous kings, who loiter
in the clouds and gloat how high they are,

how far they can see. And they ignore
how far I hope they will fall.

I can’t heal the blind, the lame, the lost,
that requires faith beyond mine.

Tongues speaking forked languages
have forgotten how to listen,

there is nothing I can teach of the ways
of living that they will accept.

I can’t even know with any faith,
they will leave me unmolested,

even when I am holding out the last drop
of trembling water on the tip of my finger.

But then, pardon will not be mine to give.
I can’t summon god’s grace, only my wrath.

As I said,
my name is not Jesus.

LMC

Optimism is an old cat.
Clumps of hair,
tip of ear
missing.
Gum-shot of eye,
tail dragging
after too many nights
of worrying what’s out there,
waiting for it
on the street.

Instead of just staying home
curled up by the fire –
clean bowl of water
and kibble in paw’s reach –
he insists on going out
into the dark chaotic
to restore order.

LMC

Actual knowledge is like the morning sun,
a long gradual process
sometimes blinding.

Self-control and delayed gratification require
more than acquiescence
more than reward.

A heart must be exercised,
stretched to accommodate
another viewpoint,
another perception;

understanding and acceptance
are learned, they require strength,
commitment,
compassion.

Healing will come when each person
answers and makes amends,
searches for peace
in change,
not chains.

Holism
is not a set of rules.

It is
opening the eyes
and the soul.

It is
questioning
and seeking answers.

It is being willing to be wrong
and strong enough
to make it right.

LMC

They didn’t just kill her,
that mother, that wife,
carrying another life
inside
when she was beaten.
Not only she
felt the blows,
her family’s hands
tied, helpless,
children screaming,
husband swallowing rage
with his fear,
vomiting as her brains
stained the walls
of their home.
The eight-month foetus
suffocating slowly,
bleeding internally, dying,
for a cause it will never learn.
Perhaps better,
if that is what awaits.

The lies will continue
until the beatings stop,
morale
will not improve
through the imposition of masks,
and dissent from within.

LMC