from Honeysuckle



DISTANCE

Soft flute with few notes, light touches us.
All tone and feel, we are easy to play.
Clouds move across the sun, which is our fierceness,
which passes like a cloud. Thoughts are nothing
and the space they leave makes me brave.

The trouble with time is our need to slice it up,
wearing moments like badges on our neat lapels.
I`m not sure trust divides into degrees, or
how much nothingness being can withstand.
I ditch our simple music to hold that thought.





SCEPTIC

Wheat, lactose, television, faith;
the list of things which are bad for you is
longer than the arm of God at his grumpiest.

Zion is an idea, not a place. It`s hard to
get your head round that, considering
everyone needs to know they have a home.

I am concerned about your wandering;
to belong is to be, but to what ? What
?
The reply is deafening; all tanks and bombs.

Love`s become another threat to your system.
Call me goyim
, clueless, meshuggenah, wrong:
the list of things I am includes being human.

 

 

TROPHIES

The sun comes out. Our feet
rub and rake the chilly beach.
We want a prize; the day isn`t enough.

I watch him, head bent like a ten year old,
scouring grit for that one bit of magic.
This has become a serious business.

I twirl emerald between finger and thumb,
a cloud turns it into glass again.
Moments don`t queue, they fuse together.

Where did your long hair go?

Where is the girl I used to know?

When did you lose that happy glow?


Hours are loops of spun music and light.
The tide recedes and we tiptoe its lip
in a scavenger ballet. Way over there

the horizon goes nuclear and details dissolve.
A silver-rimmed silhouette is wrapping
my fingers round a plump heart-shaped stone.





CASUAL DISMISSAL

Hey, what if conspiracy theories
were a conspiracy to stop us thinking?
Think about that in American, like, neat.

Discrimination is not so much a whisper
as a stack of oblique failures
one can ascribe to being not quite up to it

whatever the `it` might be; a job,
place in a queue, the time spent looking
for proof of something we feel

having gone through a process of elimination:
clothes, manicure, posture, eye-contact,
hair, breath, armpits, tone of voice.

Some of us want to lie down in a box;
some of us will still make five out of
two and two. And some us are well scary.

           Sandra Tappenden 2005