Tag: Writing our way home
January Small Stones # 9
Palest baby blue crumples
are starched flat to bleached grey
unravelled to a screen print
of scorched gold and flame red
then tie dyed to intense indigo
and deepest velvet purple.
January Small Stones # 8
Observing a neighbour sweeping leaves.
A powerful symbol the broom
swept away bad people from Tiv
from a fragile landscape
the dead leaves of society
and in Yorubaland the corrupt.
January Small Stones # 7
When did people start to leave cuddly toys on the graves of lost children? I’ve always found it sad to see them, fresh and new at first and then over months and years, seeing how they become weather beaten and faded. What I saw today was one of the bleakest things I have ever seen, a Christmas gift for a daughter who has passed. It was still in its box and with dew on the inside. I almost dread to see it deteriorate and wonder about the pain of the parent who left it. I hope it helps with their grief.
January Small Stones # 6
I sit across from her hands for the first time. From the orange stain between the two top joints of her middle finger, of course there would be. From the nearly okay nails. Not the expected short neat clip, but some long, interspersed with others, angle-broken with two weeks’ worth of un-straightened growth. From the wrist, with an unevenly shaped centimetre of darkness, erupting on the crumpled paper thin skin.
January Small Stones # 5
Lady of the wood,
torn and wounded in your youth,
broken hearted, scarred.
January Small Stones # 4
Small Stones # 4
I miss . . .
the shiny golden
shipshape weathervane
it’s a mile away
but not today
it’s hiding behind
the treetops
folded in grey
Lucid Gypsy 