My son’s a cudgel I’ll be bludgeoned with
my one soft spot, a tender spot to split
a line whose origin they’ll find in me.
Forgetting all the times I passed them by
as they consoled a screaming, bawling child,
absurd opinions aired in private chat,
I want to tell them where to shove their words
it’s not like baby knows all he has heard
how I’m the fallen man, my pride the fruit.
Yet striking back, at once, I am bereft
and all my words have mutinied and fled
their origin, the father, son in him.
Picture featured in this post is Nexus 8. Author – Álvaro Canivell, Source – Flickr, License – Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic
Our friendship is more compromise than truth
If you don’t say it, I don’t want to ask
And if I press it, you will hit right back
What does it matter? Who are you to judge?
Your size 10 on my hand don’t feel so bad
And half my freezer was all mine to give
The trees don’t mourn the loss of autumn’s leaves
And like the leaves, my money you’ll give back
Like who am I to understand your plans?
It’s not like I’m as gifted as you are
I work backstage so you can play the star
Your size 10 on my hand is just your way
Our friendship is like ice and it will melt
If you don’t end it, I will break it down
And if you mourn it, who am I to say
what does it matter? What remains that’s felt?
His props: the tracksuit and the silver hair
those chunky gold chains and cigar in hand
We never knew him, though he was well-known
Iconic, humoured like the River Thames
This TV uncle with an undertow
A hedonist who pawed, and groped, and raped
In hospitals, on cruises, in care homes
An alibi of causes he ran for
An oddball floating safe in rumor’s tide
Who died a knight, until the water dropped
Revealing reeds, an empty mould-green cot.
the fingers wrung the knots
out from my yarn
the no and not
she hooked into my skin
from folds of puppy fat
off gold ram curls
and though I don’t knit now
I needle knots
they harden in the mind
and will not budge
The thwarting is the flame
that lights the wick,
the stubborn ‘no’ to the imperious ‘yes’.
We’re only brothers when they want our blood
for what’s more natural than brotherhood.
And if we choose to split, and if we can,
what is humane if you can cite mankind
and then return to borders that are barred
and boats of refugees who drown at sea.
The milk he’s gurgling down
inflates my son
soon like his bottle
he will shake me up
when he can crawl
and come his school report
so when he tells me:
“Dad, you’re full of shit.”
I’ll think back on those nappies
how I changed
those panda nights
I cupped him to my breast
my mewling bobblehead
tanked up on gas
and I will answer:
Son, not shit, just hope.”