so we put her back on the bus for the second term of her second year.

i imagine the sky
a little bluer
when you’re here,
hills a little greener
lakes so much more
ablaze in morning light –
and i smile with the house
smug on its spindly legs
sighing at her rooms
full of daughters.
but time shrinks
and rushes
when you walk
in the door
and cramming the days
back to back
full of beauty
does nothing at all
to slow it.
is it possible
that the tide
will not claim
our footprints
sandbound on
the sunlit shore.

at night in sleep
i nibble away
at the moon
watching the sky
turn the seasons.


WhatsApp Image 2017-04-23 at 19.45.18
Drawing by Tim Hewitt-Coleman

and today’s bonus poem(napowrimo 21)

remembering again

she said we were bleeding
at our roots.
she said of all the species
sharing this planet – we were
the only ones who had to pay
to live here
and after my silence,
like deep river swallowing stone,
i had to laugh
because that is a special kind of stupid –
and sunday school had taught
that we were the ones
who knew better
so we were the ones
who got to rule the earth –
lord it over everything.
(except those who lived in heaven
who would lord it over us)
and yet somehow here we are
at the tail end of an epoch
opening our eyes for the very first time
and seeing
seeing that way back when
and every day since then
we are choosing
the short end of the stick.
that in our choice
to lord it over everything
we replicate a pattern
to lord over
and be lorded over by
and each level of the hierarchy
pays its due to the lords above
in blood or oil or money or being
until we forget we made this choice.
that we chose
not to accept
we are no more than – that we
along with rock and river
and a billion other
shapes of life
are this earth –
we don’t need
to earn a living.
we are life.

first utterance

if the world
is created
by our breath
by the words we speak,
then it was the moon
that made me
this morning
first light
waning soft
amongst the trees
speaking me
into the world.

if the world
is made
by our breath
and the spaces
of silence between,
then it must the sun
that made me
this morning.
calling me out
waking the hills
speaking me
into the world.

if the world
is formed
by the words
that breathe
through me,
then let
my first utterance
be here love.
let me speak this
into the world.


WhatsApp Image 2017-04-19 at 21.12.46
Drawing by Tim Hewitt-Coleman

a rose

1.guardians of gateways
and sleeping beauties
sacred to the goddess
and hungry goats. spring we dry the petals
gather bowlfuls
spread a purple sea
on cloths in the sun –
october smells like roses.

3.there was a rose king of durbanville
he lived down the road.
i never got to see his garden
or what enchantment lay
beyond his high hedges,
but late summer we
picked pomegranates
from his fence
cracked open the pinking skin
ate them single-handedly
while pushing our bikes up the hill.

4.she folded her hands
inside each other
tight like a rose bud
held them in her lap
said she had waited too long
to speak,
to long to forgive
she feared she would fall apart.
cut roses do that sometimes
drop their petals before they open.

5.if you lick the back of a thorn
broken from the stem, just so
you can stick it on your nose –
touch the edge of your existence,
like a rhino.

6.she said i am
not asking you
to buy me flowers –
just pick a rose
on your way back in
so i know
you were thinking of me
and maybe
you had missed me.
and he shrugged
his shoulders hopeless
because out there
the light had slipped low
below the clouds
illuminating the geraniums
against the storm dark sky
and his breath was held
to the beauty
and he had not
thought of her
at all. was really just
that i had run out of ink
that had me printing your picture
rose tinted.

WhatsApp Image 2017-04-18 at 22.07.33
Drawing by Tim Hewitt-Coleman