The Thaw

Grey afternoon downpour
dissloves purity's veneer
revealing blackened organs,
broken bones of twigs,
a hat, a scarf, a dirty brown puddle,
where once a lonely snowman stood.

Trees that blazed frosted beauty
boldly broadcast their disease.
Pavements that crunched cheerily
slither with excrement
rain vainly tries to wash clean.
The thaw is not pretty.

So too us, with our sloughing off of dragonskin.
Hurtful words that brought hot tears flowing at last
leave infected wounds,
livid scar tissue,
failing organs and twisted limbs
agape to the observer.

Eggs

The fridge has emptied
beyond rescue.
Time for a restock
well overdue.
A few lonely eggs
still nestle in their tray,
contrasting prettily
against the surrounding sterility.

Guitar Hero

I wish he didn't want to be a guitar hero,
play the same song over and over
to a games console that feeds back his every error.

The acoustic in the bedroom
lies undisturbed
in the place where he left it last Wednesday,

replaced now by dreams of electric ladyland
that sparkle and flicker
like Christmas trees behind windows.

Redemption is possible only
in a Les Paul copy
and a Marshall Amp.

Work/Life Balance

Too many hours
of too many days
spent bent over the minutaie
of other people's lives.

Blown by winds along corridors,
chasing some elusive "win-win" moment
where times elasticity
isn' t always tested to breaking point,

presenteeism becomes
it's own self-fulfilling prophecy.
Around tables at meetings, our empty eyes beg the question:
Where am I, really?

Home & Abroad

Forty five years after the civil rights march on DC,

on the biggest election turnout since 1960
America elects its first black President -

as hungry, it seems, for change

as the rest of the world.

We wait open mouthed.

This Small Window

Sandwiched among apprentice boys,
tea & scones laid out across the grubby breakfast bar,
we speak of parents and kids,
holidays and fiscal pain
hands brushing lightly now and again.

To your left a small window lets in just enough light
to pick out the silver in your hair,
hover over my crow's feet,
remind us just how starved of it we are,
in a concrete bunker like this.

Such a small window
but such an illumination
in these darker autumn days.

Gardening without Gloves

A cold snap beckons
fingers gather up leaves
cover empty beds

cut back shrubs
deadhead Marigolds
caress the cooling stems

arrange twigs in rough piles
fumble with matches
wave goodbye to last year's plans

while a solitary worker bee
hovers at Nasturtiums
still thick around the fence.

j. joyce 2008