Entitlement

The next time you stroll
a manicured beach, 
postcard perfect sand 
white on a topaz sea,

stop and take it all in
with the ease of breathing 
all you like and then
consider the contrary,

how Mandela spent years
in the middle of it all
with a stamped spoon, 
a blanket and conviction,

no sea view,  no camera, 
no way to know when
conviction would become
reality one happy day.

A Recycled Poem For Autumn

Pine beneath my bare feet, a glass of Spanish red in hand,

Adréas Segovia plucking and fretting somewhere unseen

and a handful of receipts, ticket stubs and post-its

now sprawled across my lap like rune stones

are kind enough to spare the time to stare

out the window - every poet's pastime - and count

the leaves on the nearby trees which have already turned

their coats inside out and their collars up before leaping.

On the back of a hotel bill from August when

I could not have been further from responsibility,

I tell them how I recalled when they entered the world

and how much I enjoyed watching them grow up

over cups of morning coffee or beers in the evening

and how they never noticed me watching as they

danced like Gene Kelly in the rain as storms blew

spring away so the drier summer months settled in.

But most of all - as to not dishearten them

(you'd agree they have enough to deal with as it is) -

I tell them not to worry, that I will be here when they return,

a pen in one hand, my head in the other, a smile on my face.

Down the Drain

Down the drain,
the rain crawls on
its belly murmuring,
looking up at us
today, not tomorrow

The Grandmother Poem

Hello stranger,
it's been a while.
Too long, I know
you're busy.

Sit down,
stay a while.
Eat something,
just stay.

Put down your phone
or whatever that is.
Folks can't  stand
still anymore.

Now everything needs
a name, an angle
changing every
other minute.

Not like when I was
a young poem,
a rose, the moon,
even death would do.

Yes, I know,
you need to go.
Take one with you.
You never eat.

I'll just be here,
knitting time
'till you return
or not.

Challenges of Parenting

I was barelegged with you in a field this morning.
You couldn't have been a day past five. 
It was I who helped you navigate the long grass,

the dips in the soft, unseen turf,

you who found the ripe blackberries,

spread across your face like war paint.

Or was it your high school?
You walked off the grounds for the last time,
a sheet of paper pressed between leather 
under your arm as your  books always were,

I wore a simple floral top and black slacks,

a proud smile that just wouldn't come off.

I can’t recall. But no matter.

It's 4 o'clock , another sunny Monday, 

that day after Thursday,

when that kind young man
who looks so much like you

always brings warm apple pie

just the way I like it. 

He should smile more often.

T'es Où?

That's all I heard for 10 minutes straight
one sautéed Brussels morning in the metro
with everyone, their brother, perhaps their dog
peeing on my leg, or at least, it felt that way,
sweat running down inside my trousers

and this one woman who refused to shut up,
pink phone clutched in glittery talons,
cheap earrings swaying in time with her hand
and three offspring exploring the car like raccoons
in my trash, threading through my legs, drooling.

"T'es Où?"
"Where are you?"
as they say in London

Who could say? Possibilities abound.
Prague is nice this time of year.
The local department store had an ad,
two-for-one socks, today only.
North Korea's not half bad.

"T'es Où?"

Not here, obviously, being brighter
and more fortunate than I, who is here,
who can hear you, who wishes he couldn't ,
who wishes North Korean visas
were easier to acquire.

"T'es Où?"

was the last thing I heard, her voice,
her odour, her brood, trailing out the door
into the baked street above, where she
may still be looking for that person's hiding spot,
her children sniffing trees in her wake.

The Allure of Green Energy

From my spot across the celestial room, 
ever-crowding with yawning mouths, 
birds tweeting in obscure bird dialects, 
cars and neck ties in constant transit,

I wonder if she really loves me in the
way her smouldering gaze suggests
every morning while I plod to the metro
and another day in the white collar salt mine.

She does this 5 days a week,  never letting 
on how she really feels about us as
she leads me down the primrose path
to something out of "The Archipelago".

If she was more than a flirt,  surely she'd
lead me elsewhere - a sunned park bench, 
a line of white sand on a topaz sea,
a street corner with a bus stop - anywhere.

The worst is that I know I'll see her here 
a mere 10 hours from now and while
her head will be held lower then,  she'll
lead me home as if nothing happened.