Words: Gravitas

naked i stand
on digital scales
looking for judgement
hoping that laughter
lightness of heart
will counter weight
the too many years
of too many dinners
and just desserts

heavy despair
holds me down

numbers flicker
climbing higher
still soaring
by electronic glare
i read the verdict
then sag condemned
with evidence
irrefutable
that gravity
again must win

i tried
your honour
i really did

i know what
you think
honestly
those empty
take away
containers
are not mine
as the jiggle
in my thighs
scream aloud
it’s a lie

i have no memory
of being satiated.

Words: Feasting on Berries

this morning i ate
cherries from Chile
blueberries from –
i don’t know where…
sweet and tart on my tongue
like a memory of you

back then
we went fishing
down by the river
feeding each other
tea and mandarin oranges
dreaming we were poets

it rained while we jigged
seeking rainbow trout
for our evening meal
casting hopeful glances
beneath our umbrella

warm feel of you
leaning into to me
eyeing berries
perfectly ripened
wanting to be plucked

later
in our tent
breathless we lay
sleepy satiated
stomachs growling
no trout nor campfire
smouldering rainbow
lingering in the east

you laughed
suggesting we feast
on berries all night
and forever…

Where do dreams go
after the dreamer fades?

Words: Jam

eight o’clock
zest and squeeze a lemon
enjoying the fresh scent
in the silent grey morning

three cups crushed strawberries
macerated with two cups sugar
left alone and forgotten
while having tea and toast
on the kitchen counter
old fashioned clock ticking
time to old heartbeat

bring to slow boil
stirring constantly
over medium heat
to keep from sticking
into burning black sugar
at the bottom of the pot
like the scrapings of my heart

watch the berries begin
to bubble from the heat
add the lemon zest and juice
preserving June memories
of deep red summer lips

watch the clock slip ahead
in quarter hour increments

ask yourself is this done?
is this thick enough?
watch the jam stick to spoon
in slow sliding plop
still stirring the pot
don’t let it burn
so close to being done

pour into jars
allow to cool down
to cap and refrigerate

eat at your pleasure alone;
or on scones with clotted cream.

Words: Stain

soft white cotton dress
crumbled in hamper

damp with mud and leaves
after April showers
from the roadside ditch
where we slipped and fell
with our bicycles.

riding back laughing
as our teeth chattered
against the spring breeze

fresh unripened sun
barely warm on skin
as we madly dashed
back home to strip down

and stand together
indulging in hot
steaming staccato
of the shower
as we touch.