Resolution

free verse

This year, I don’t want another voice
mapping my fears or soothing childhood wounds;
  I’ve archived those.
I’m done explaining shame back to myself
like a receipt I can’t return.

There will be no dissections this year.
  I am off the table
scalpel – through the window
  feet out the door.

I want no recipe,
  let me cook.

Let the plot thicken
hands off the ladle,
let the pot stir itself,
let something bubble and boil
till it spills
  over
let the year burst
let’s see
what surrender costs.

The slow work of light

free verse

Summer packing up her jewellery
the forecast unleashing rain,
yellow creeping in the leaves
like delayed reflections of the sun –

it’s the same way I’ve been letting go,
caught between yearning and fading memory:
I can’t recall the shape of your lips
or the salt of your nape on mine.

I have been there,
in the forest green of your love
and I am here now,
among the yellowing leaves.

I love this shit (A Summer evening in Paris)

free verse

Yellow streetlights drip
on drooling dogs nestled beneath woven bistro chairs;
tables spill across slim terraces,
lazy hands rest on refillable stems,
lips stained with red wine
and a faint mist of Marlboros
tickles the throat between the occasional roar or giggle.

And the white vest tops—no bras,
tattoos bare, hair clips high, heels low;
Scarves draped around waists,
knots thin as dusk, skin on skin,
backs glistening like freshly squeezed lemons.

Bien sûr, there’s kissing – the moonlight insists.
Lovers straddle green city benches
beneath chestnut canopies
and above,
balconies dotted with starlings;
lovers who’ve found their nests.

Yes, yes—
may these long evenings linger forever.

A love of some sort

free verse

Still, it was a love of some sort,
when you’d burst in,
earpods, tired feet
and glee in your eyes,
searching for me
in your dimly lit studio;
bare-chested and
waiting, you’d sink
in the space between
my arms like evening light.

Yet, the way you
looked at me,
eyes fleeting
through the noise
at the wedding party
in Suresnes –
knots in your grip,
shadow in your cup,
I knew then we’d never
honeymoon in Hawaii,
or make it to Christmas.

Yes, though
you once whispered
you’d never let go,
I hope you grow
old and open,
like a pine tree,
sprinkled with
gold and tinsel.

There is no love, only…

free verse

pistachio cookie from the wonky patisserie
wrapped and waiting on the kitchen counter;

piths and lines stripped and peeled from clementines,
with a “here, for you” as we split in half;

cards with llamas pulling faces, home made mousse
handwritten notes with thirty-two things you sing about me;

remembering how you confuse complacent with compliant –
teasing you till it becomes a tired inside joke;

two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and hands to hold after summer breakups,
a mountain of Cadbury’s washed with rooibos after winter heartbreaks;

with no questions asked, offering extra lighter fluid –
watching the ex’s Polaroids curl to ash, cursing and cheering along;

berating scripted reality TV and the demise of quality screening
then sipping prosecco, rooting for Matt and Amber on Love is Blind;

rambling voice notes after missed calls,
laced with the implicit “I miss you”;

bro hugs. Mezcal in quiet bars with loud pals.
falling asleep watching Match of the Day with dad;

picture in your phone case – the one taken at the station,
& screenshots with the ugliest morning mugshots;

texts at 11:11!, Lego flowers. Making emojis ours,
slurring the words to Adele on the sofa bed past midnight;

the jobs we share as plus one, plus two, best man,
last minute MC, house party DJ, hair holder, seat saver,

Look—there is no love, only
sing with me, stay with me, sit with me, show me.

for my Paris family

Too much love

free verse

No such thing as too much garlic,
or grated parmesan on warm ravioli.

no such thing as too much love.

or too much pressed and golden olive oil
aged with rosemary & thyme or too much bread
torn and warm, hand to hand.

or too much blue sky in June
or too many daffodils in bloom.

or too much love,

or too many riffs on seven minute ballads
never too much longing – that’s the secret

or too much love,

or too much champagne on your birthday,
sparklers or shooting stars and wishes whispered,

or too much love,
never too much love.

Morning Pyre

free verse

It took a whole matchbox
a round trip to the store for more,
plus a litre of lighter fluid
tipped into a rusty tomato tin,
with dead twigs and decaying leaves;
and eyes red as the morning light,
lungs tickled with smoke
watching photos of you turn to ash,
edges curling inwards, hissing,
flames spitting and reaching
as I sidestepped and danced
wings expanding.

Wild radiance

free verse

Big, fat, juicy red slugs, thick as three acorns,
saunter through gravel and green meadow,
like they own the place. Blooming white mushrooms
parachuting on moss-covered tree trunks,

hyacinths and irises beneath soft oak
and steely roots. It doesn’t feel right to swat
the fly on my forearm, so I shoo. The chickens roost
in an upcycled campervan, overlooking a band of beavers
tackling through the valley lake.

In the garden, I stoop and ask the Oblate,
“How long until my mind finds single thought?”
She laughs, “Oh Daniel, twenty-five years before one’s mind is taught”.

Morning and evening, we must relinquish all.
After the three gongs, the owls hoot, we have chestnut soup
as dusk begins to fall on the restored abbey.

In Times of Great Darkness II

free verse

I want to do for you
what the moon does for me:
stop; stare & exhale the day.
I want to rapture you
away from all your darknesses
capture your noisy night,
tilt your head up and drop
your knotted shoulders.
I want to prepare you for
the coming morning
with glimpses of faraway stars
remind you that even when sister sun rises
I am there. I am always here.
I want to pick up your shadow
soothe its wounds
slip silver into its scars
’till you feel whole.
I want to encourage you to close,
close on hope, wrap around joy
and cling to this crescent sliver even when
the darkness is oh so cold.

In response to Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s In Times of Great Darkness

All the things that have my loyalty

free verse
The sun & her gold beams 
resuscitating the green beneath,
paper cut sliver of the moon on sleepless nights
the after-fragrance of rain in spring,
and fealty even to the brooding thunder of midsummer.

My unending loyalty to babies under three, 
still clinging to heaven, unhindered balls of joy, 
to them is the Kingdom.

An obscure scene from *Fargo*, the series,
where Ted Danson seeks to create a universal language -
                  he mutters 
“the words we say and the words we hear 
ain’t always the same thing.”

And a token loyalty to all the towns I’ve lived in, (except one),
Paris, especially 
Paris with its stage-lit lovers.
And of lovers, none but you.