Brilliant tears
Splash against the valley of your heart
Falling from your rain cloud eyes
Rolling down your cheeks
As you cry
And they drop from your face
Onto the ground
Lost forever.
Lonely Day
Through a chink in the curtains
I see the sky,
A single sheet
Enveloping
The rainy day.
From my bed,
without rising,
I can tell
it’s going to be
an isolated day.
Alone and frightened,
in every single way.
Ode to a Cardboard Box
When we were little
I hated Barbie Dolls
Together
Alone,
I would be frightened.
Our lonely death
And now to rest
For the love of music
And you
Ascension
Bend our weary footsteps
Late Night Drives
Poetry
But
and seeing the road
Later though
I begin to think
For my earrings
Small
In my ears
They are
Our parents bought a new fridge.
We were soon bored of opening and shutting it
But the box it came in was fantastic
We laid it on its side in the hall
And assigned each other one third, exactly,
of the box.
We cut windows out of the sides
and doors at each end.
we drew rugs on the floor
and pasted pictures on the walls.
The box was soon crushed
from climbing in and out all the time,
and there was a hole in the wall
where the scissors had slipped,
but we persisted in playing in it.
Cardboard boxes were much better.
But you are all here
with me.
And together
this city doesn’t seem so big.
in beds we create for ourselves
They will push dirt upon our faces
And walk, lonely from us.
Leaving us
to become the earth
the earth, the sky.
such a very long way
from anywhere else,
blink placidly
in this adoration
of young and hopeless days.
Gravity is our greatest byway,
after all these years
the greatest view
is still from the dizzying heights
of poetry.
Up towards the sky
Upon which we shall stand
From the earth where we lie
Direct us to the light
Which shines joyous upon sorrow
That we may seek peace
and rest until the morrow
Take our hands and lead us
Held high that we may rise
From the darkness of the earth
Once more unto the skies.
doesn’t come easily
when the
sound of the engine
is grinding at my thoughts
looking at the rolling hills
and tussocks
falling away behind us
(if you will excuse the cliché)
I feel it is almost
necessary to express
this feeling.
when the edge of the road
runs dark alongside us
and our headlights cut a path
through the watery dimness.
that maybe
even poetry is unnecessary.
bright gold earrings
bring with them
mental images
of a hot dusty city
women wearing headscarves
men bartering,
crying out on the streets
‘twenty seven dirhams, sir, for you!’
they jingle gently
prettily
make my bare head
slightly scandalous.
quite the most
precious piece of jewellery
I own;
and they go beautifully
with the pashmina
you brought me.
