family, love, memory, Poetry

Life support

Try to explain to a three-year-old
why her grandpa’s in hospital
by the grace of God and not lying
my God it is hard both to explain
high religion and base mortality
shy of turning it into causality.

We believe in God the Father Almighty
Creator of mothers and fathers
and sons and grand-daughters
who sit on the potty and ask
why is grandpa in hospital?

When I was ten, I found my grandpa lying
papery cold in his bed, grief and mortality
the inevitable causality
of life, love and trying
to believe.

memory, Poetry

Ours for sale

The only thing worth buying
is not really for sale.
Sure, you can rent it for a while
but it eventually goes stale.

On the other hand (the one ticking),
you have in finite stock
to use or lose or watch it trickling,
no matter how secure the lock,

down the drain. Bleeding out
the days, the months, the years
in pain till the moment, no doubt,
all ends in tired, quiet tears.

So spend your time carelessly
on fools and foolish pursuit,
each flower an hour on a tree
before dying to fruit.

We sell what is not ours
but moments, memories and being
to buy trinkets, blinkers and towers;
rust and dust all unseeing.