Tuesday, July 27, 2010


With this frequented matter,
do not discontent me,
with its sweet skin of comfort
and ease-making touch;
whispers modulate
from tossed words
to conversation,
catching sweet breath
and flakes of
gold thoughts.

a favourite,
to hear it is hearts rest-
ing neatly,
and jumbled
in feeling belonged
and known too
and trusted
when some things are broken,
and twisted,
and wrong.

Come down,
like the maid hanging
curtains of heavy
on the dusty old rods
in the gloom;
sit down on a breath
to lessen these
you have kept
in this
over-done tomb.

Make me a trust,
a razor-sharp promise;
a kiss to the mouth of
a mind-reeling claim,
one that will
crimp our life
or simply smooth it,
but make it:
drop the blade and believe
we’ll be safe.

Revisit cooled hopes
on the hope
that they’ll hear that
good voice,
”She’s not dead;
she is only asleep,”
and dim eyes will blink
to the sound of
tip-toeing soft
down the stairs
to make Peace.

July 27, 2010