Rooms speak to you
when turned around.
They say;
smoothing matted hair,
settling in their comfy chair,
‘ Ah, this is how I like to be,
those years bolt upright, were not me’.
Bedrooms comment, ‘those clothes,
the ones you pile, never sort,
they’ve got the moth.’
They tut they cough,
‘not if not but - you’re just a slut.’
Rooms are honest though they pry.
You catch them opening the door.
You hear their judgements and they sigh,
the dust they blow becomes a cloud,
and sleeping’s rough they wheeze so loud.
Enough’s enough one day I said
sliding from my messy bed,
got bin bags, cleanser, polish, duster,
found all the strength that I could muster.
Shifted rugs, vacuumed bugs,
shunted, lugged those heavy thugs
of furniture. Great stomping stuff,
I puff.
Then I’m pleased, all’s clean,
cleaner than it’s ever been.
This room looks positively slender,
and it sings in voice quite tender,
a soothing spring refrain
immensely roomy for my brain.
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As I grow old around the eyes
protect myself from wrinkles
you arrive.
Head grapefruit size, hazelnut shape,
tucked-chin a lovely sleepy face
that screws in moments
to an aging crone.
Luminous chameleon skin,
flame-soft skin, and lines
mature beyond eight hours old.
Wide expressive lips
pout-peace and bliss and pain,
a sudden blush of body strain
understanding guts and need,
you feed.
Perfect hands. Tiny fingers. Minute nails.
Impossible to grasp,
this fragile bundle can exist outside
her mother’s bellies mound.
And sound,
your sucking and that cry.
It catches almost hurts.
Demands focus.
It’s known, even she wolves can’t resist that wail,
raise human offspring as their own.
I’m here, great love made it so.
The call, from my first-born son and wife
this baby girl is our new life.
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Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)
She’d shifted stones,
stirred debris, swished gravel
and searched countless streams
in Scotland, Canada, The States.
The rings they forged
with gold she dug,
from leggy youth,
beneath a shining sieve
she saw her pink feet grow.
Panning skills came with
learning to endure aching limbs,
hardship and biting bugs.
But always a thrill
to press her finger on wet glitter,
see the yellow dust crown the tip,
then drop it in the water-jar.
Time built her little pile
particle on shining particle
into a sparkling storm,
a splendour Beowolf
nor the wealth of kings could steal.
Her wild gold.
Panned from rivers.
The collection of a seeking life.
Her precious booty
for the man she sifted out, settled on
and gave her binding signature.
Two rings to hold two hearts.
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