SJ – inked in parentheses

June 13, 2016
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Before the breeze arrived from the Azores
Before the blooms of Spring broke through the soil
She left. The sun too late to warm her bones,
Under Winter’s sullen canopy,
She inked her life in squared parentheses.

The weight of spiky granite in her head,
She stumbled often, grazing tenderness
From skin that wouldn’t shed no matter how
She longed to cast it into bygone years
Before the breeze arrived from the Azores.

And tears, empathic with the Holocaust.
And unjust faith in failed humanity.
Exquisitely, her faltered self-belief
Denied that academic mountain-top
Before the blooms of Spring broke through the soil.

Before the party and the burgeoning,
Before the Rosie age yet to arrive,
She left no packing done, no notice given
Unwilling, in her proper state of mind,
She left. The sun too late to warm her bones


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Falling Into The Sun

May 29, 2014
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Germaine Greer thinks a newsrag, a newspaper called The Sun
Is purely for viewing by old men, ‘Page 3’ a dose of fun.
From her ancient, lofty and intellectual stance,
It’s harmless in a paper – young women just in pants.
She bought a load of forests that surely do need protection
But doesn’t see the soil that needs some closer inspection,
Saplings growing fungus may be eating through the bark
Forming in rather a mangled way, unseen in subconscious dark.

Young minds printed like paper, imprint is clear as day.
What they witness being ‘accepted’, louder than words can say.
Large pics of young girls’ bodies are everyone’s property here:
At table for family breakfast, or tea or evening beer;
In workplaces where there are restrooms, in streets, lunchtime canteens,
Holiday hotel receptions, nestled beside magazines;
Newsstands in so many hospitals and college campuses too;
Promoting a sexist notion that it is normal for women to do.

Here is a paper for news that is licensed for millions to see
What’s happening in their environment. But what is portrayed on page 3?
It’s a nude, painted up just to ogle, not news and not sport and not art.
It is there just for fun, just to look at – an object – a woman – a tart.
There isn’t a man in the paper who doesn’t have something to tell
But this has no skill and no function. It has only nothing to sell –
Except a young skin and firm breasts for the world to lust on or admire
And for innocent female children, an object to which they aspire.

And what are the teen boys learning, the ones who are growing up, too?
Continual pictures of burgeoning breasts for them to compare women to.
Women are silent on page 3. They are not expected to speak.
If they do they are laughed at, derided, their dumbness in papers unique.
Young men enjoy sex stimulation. Normal girls that they see in the paper’,
Stripped, so men know what they’re there for. “If my girl won’t, I’ll have to make her.”
“Anyway, what’s the big problem? She’ll probably like it like that!”
Which makes the girls think that they’re ugly to make him behave like a prat.

So they look closely into the mirror, see rubbish with terrible skin
And any small blemish seems massive, where should transformation begin?
Photoshopped pictures, sexed up, in all of those gloss magazines
Have ads that cure all of their ills with costly cosmetics and creams.
Routines and diets and surgery soon are considered as cures.
They judge others – “My new eyeliner is really much better than yours.”
The faked glossy magazines feed on brainwashing that once was begun
By accepting the ‘innocent’ female nudes on page 3 who fell into The Sun.


Twenty-five and Counting

April 3, 2013
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We wed two dozen years ago plus one
Enjoying every aspect of our love
And working for tomorrows yet unseen
And giving, giving of our very essence

We’ve pushed the trolley up the lumpy hill
When wild winds lashed the rain into our face
And icy breezes chilled us to the marrow
And arrows punched their way into our dreams

We hunkered, souls engaged and interlinked
Shared each other’s strength and counsel wise
Greeting days with pleasant resolution
Till golden suns would wander into view

Twenty-five full hours in each fat day
Each silvered night sits mirrored by the stars
As planets track their influence through clouds
And moon and sun keep faith in tides once ours

Beings in the Firmament

October 4, 2012
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A sun performs its light-show far up there,
a million light years from the planet Earth.
A million lovers turn their heads aloft,
wondering at a million years ago
when that enormous, tiny ball of flame
was roasting planets as they see it now.

And maybe in another million years
a message from the beings on a world
revolving round NGC603
will reach our humble, blue-lit, fading home
when all our foolish ways have come to grief
and Earth is but an empty might-have-been.

Stormy Tuesday

April 16, 2012
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They say tomorrow comes the storm.
Today – – – it’s warm.

It’s April and the wind is cool
but, sitting in the sun, I fool
the weatherman and nature’s breeze
by drinking tea and eating cheese-
on-toast and staying in the shelter
where my sun-drenched back may swelter.

April couldn’t be much better
Tomorrow – – – it’s wetter.

Nearly Summer

April 1, 2012
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It felt as if the middle of the year

Had come to spread its syrup sun about

The sorry fortunes of the winter days

Dissipated with the gathering warm

But callous Nature played us like some fools

Captured in an April Foolish trick

And brought us back to feeling sorely cold

With prospects of an April spiked with snow.

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