Sunday, August 26, 2012


on the mantelpiece counting down the minutes
before another death
ticking on its face of denial
entrapped within its antiqued mind
unable to turn a blind eye
to the shadows of the big room
while the seconds tick away
it grinds away in deadly charm
remembering the momentous death
of the aloof spinster
and the detached life she lived
while watching the handsome dogs
eat the dead parrot
in silence
the ticking stops

Wednesday, August 1, 2012


below our welcoming garden
it sits
on a chunk of bleached wood

once it was a root
under soil and moss
fertilizing obsessions of the tree
leaving the limbs high in the sky
for the hungry vultures
waiting for the dead body
and another burial

summer fires had run through its veins
autumn hurled oak burrs
winter icicles fell from above
spring opened up its breath

after the dark storm had roared
I carried it home
dripping with sweat
and ancient drops of light
it was more than a chunk of wood

at home I sat it down
I spoke
it listened
I carved and sanded
it remained silent

lines started to form
around sand-flecked hollows
I sanded
I carved
it smiled
forming into a spirit head
coming back to where it once was

below our welcoming garden
it sits silent
a spirit head