as the mist leaves no scar – from leonard cohen


then we can go no further.
live no more without
light for the space between us
and the dark we must endure.

fall now, it is only sleep
my love, that yields us to
what never was ours to hold.
hawk flight leaves no mark on the wind.

there never was any speaking you
and our bodies remain as unowned,
the mist that steals the green hills
leaves no mark on the trees.


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For today’s poem a day for April I used the Napowrimo day 18 prompt using Leonard Cohens previously unseen by me- As the mist leaves no scar as a starting point.

“Our prompt for the day (optional as always) isn’t exactly based in revision, but it’s not exactly not based in revision, either. It also sounds a bit more complicated than it is, so bear with me! First, find a poem in a book or magazine (ideally one you are not familiar with). Use a piece of paper to cover over everything but the last line. Now write a line of your own that completes the thought of that single line you can see, or otherwise responds to it. Now move your piece of paper up to uncover the second-to-last line of your source poem, and write the second line of your new poem to complete/respond to this second-to-last line. Keep going, uncovering and writing, until you get to the first line of your source poem, which you will complete/respond to as the last line of your new poem. It might not be a finished draft, but hopefully it at least contains the seeds of one.”





coming clean


she did try to make
a molehill of that mountain
but when
he returned to them
he smelled like another country
like elsewhere and soap,
a distant shore –

and how could she
ever come home
to somewhere
she had never
been before.


quiet sundays at the lily pond

WhatsApp Image 2018-04-18 at 13.19.59


snake leans lazy on the lily pad
draped neck on stalk
its body elsewhere
it knows i am here
knows every penscrape pulsate
lymph squish movement of my
stillness at the lily pond.
in the mulberry tree above
the startle neck
iridescence of sunbird flickers,
breaking the spell.
snake is gone
not even a ripple in the water.



i went to seek solace in the sea
but none was to be found there.
brooding dark unaccountable
beyond the breakers,
on the cliffs the watches and waiters.
danger tape across the stairs
and down below
dragmarks and a bodybag
claimed from the waves.
it would have been irreverent to stay
stumbling as i had
unintentional and uninvited
into this taut faced vigil –
this family hoping
and not hoping
that the body is theirs
flesh of their flesh
lost days before at sea.
i was looking for a little sunshine
but found the day cast a shadow
bigger than me.

loxodonta africana

footbound and silenced
by your willful disregard
of my existence
i see your dis-ease.
in your world
cleansed of any voice
but your own
your body knows my speaking
feels it rumble through you
but your mind is deaf
to the language of the world
and you choose to assign me to the
unthinkable unthinking
speechless –
only comfortable to look on me contained
diminshing the I am
with a language of diminutives

“how cute, how sweet and beautiful – oh look it puts it trunk across its baby – like a mother and her child – like a human.”

if it is as you think
and only humans
are capable of love –
if we have to wait
for you alone to live love
then we are
you and me
so much closer
to extinction
than any of us
can bear to breathe through.






it was the river who sang me
ankle deep in winter prayer and
midsummer submerged absolution,
learning my silence from
the steady singing of mountains
tumbling grain by grain
until even the sun yielded to the sea.
darkness came and i sang those
soft lulabyes, crooning the night
with beak and claw –
blowing whale to the waiting moon
who watched our tangled decent.
i am you when you breathe me
shape me to your words
but ink cannot dry on skin that sheds
and the song of snake becomes me
until i wake belly to the forest floor
the pattern of my living
crude carved on my face and hands
and feet that learn the dawn song
of deerpath only to forget
the shape of tongue
that told it so.
when morning comes
i sing the song of mothers
of flesh rent from flesh
in the dark folds of night