Creative Coping


Ganesh on Thames
July 14, 2009, 9:39 pm
Filed under: destiny, growth, happiness, religion | Tags: , , , , , , ,

English at an Indian

Wedding, sitting in

The crowd among

The drums and

Auspices like weeds

Among the cultivated

Saries with their

Yellow and magenta

Blue topaz and

Peridot sheen.

 

Looking on Indians,

At home in their religion.

At One with

Whatever it is that

Made them.

The English hope It made them too,

When they come to looking

In the dusty files labelled

Wedding, funeral, birth.

 

God and gods and people and family weave

Together and in this

Web, the couple

Catch the tricks

They need,

Sharing the cords,

Keeping them taught

With Love,

The remover of all obtacles,

Ganesh.



Girl in 5 parts
June 11, 2009, 6:51 pm
Filed under: growth, healing, love, nature, pain, regression, shame, strength | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

1.

My name is girl

My age is when

I feel the day

My height is fringed

With misty things, the haze

That surrounds all,

Air , or something like it,

Electrical.

Part 2.

My fate is but a worm

Squirming in the sand

Beneath an apple on the

Beach.

My rubbery coil senses Autumn’s

Mellow fruit but feels

Only grit and cigarette ends,

Yellowed with spit

And the odd spat of sea.

Part 3.

My Date is a round

Can of something fizzy,

A man, who’ll pop

And bubble over

With sense and tunes

Told well, with confidence

Like some voluntary tramp.

Part 4.

My ache is a bell

Bent out of shape

Chord twanged by the wrong

Hand. Who”s hand?

Who cares? Lets fix it,

If it’s copper it’ll meld well.

Part 5.

My tune is a song

Soldered on to the side

of my liver, an odd

Audience, granted,

But keen, it knows exactly

Where I’ve been and what

Deals Life’s dealt.

No, livers make grand audiences,

They’ll tell you whether or not

You were truly magnificent,

With their view from the stalls.



Havana Moon
April 5, 2009, 5:02 pm
Filed under: Cuba, Travel, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , ,

Why am I choked as I

Look up at you

Smiling down on your

Malecon, Drawing the waves close to lovers

making the sea spray

Them with foam

While I sit high up

And far away, over

Havana but not of

Or in her, suspended

Beyond blotchy balcony

And spotless faded sheets

Hanging over windows

Crisscrossed with tape

From the last hurricane.

Need a Cuba Libre, extra

Rum and maybe even Santiago,

To fill this gaping aching hole

Between my ribs that

No sunsetted dome or

Timba drum can fill.

No, give me a bottle of Rum-

Do I miss him or that

Time when I felt

Good about my looks with his on me?