quasi drunk
on these precious petals
plucked by trembling
finger tips of good faith
and half willing
only to appease
our inability to change
but they are in no measure
what mother needs
to keep her flesh
from bleeding out
and crying for us
her lost ones
who can only cling
to her withering skin
and our own false
hope
haven’t we heard enough
of this insatiable thirst
lapping at our bones
and our land
our windows and doors
it’s as if to say
‘just to remind you
we might not stop
if we choose’
but for now it’s just bluff
they will lull us to sleep
and slip away before
the light wakes
an obliterate world
from the budding
to the versed
every shade
and gender melt
we have run together
from the day into this
transient dark
collective arms
around an urgent ardour
left clean and bare
as sea washed stones
tumbled
joined
as purified and spent
as we know
we should always be
there are shadows nested in me
a womb of quiet wraiths
x-ray proof
hand-me-downs i never chose
bequeathed from meagre pickings
can’t hand them back
so i carry them close
pressing warmth against
their chill to soften the sting
in hope to remind me
we don’t see our footprints
until we look back
for Mark, our brother…
the moon throws softer
shadows when the glare of light
moves beyond our reach
for the fallen 1914 to 1918
he had risen
from the clawing clay
that would keep
his flesh and fears
the stench and guns
now distant waves
and in the splintered trees
the ravens black jewel
the overseer of loss
beckons him on
‘it’s as it should be
there’s nothing to be done’
what has gone stands here
still, and too our withered air
when we have flown
autumn quietly
slips between the sheets, soughing
our ruminant thoughts
the wind came
out of exile
from the north
tempering the
somnolent summer
that turns a head
and slouches south
beaten for now
it freshens in
respite for
heaving lungs
and tacky skin
blowing purity
through thoughts
simplifying
the next stretch
into mindful
preparations
to slow our
need for the world
to forgive
its expectations
and leave the cold
to steer our course
it was the innocence
of a question
that floated across me
‘would you rather..’
like an oversized bubble
readily iridescent
on its surface
‘live for ever..’
hiding a universe
of existential depths
‘or to never have..’
that stopped me short
I shirked only for the time
it took to breathe
‘been born at all’
paulhp poetry 