The Hairshirt – a poem

A dark force plays with abandon tearing apart your soul; you cannot admit that

your legacy is blackened and unripe fruit. Treading on it yields neither wine nor juice;

Bottled up, it festers into logic and reason that must needs be denied.

Assumption of superiority helps sooth the waters of turbulent reason while

The bile and fear lap at your toes, calmed only by casting your eyes towards heaven

It is a test you must pass, denying qualms, signs and portents, extinguishing candles lighting the path

Your hair shirt, your denial of the senses; as you cook and then bite into the sadness which you feed

to your child who inherits the fear and the pain wrapped in a bright shell of promise

The Hairshirt – a poem

The Good Plates – a poem

(A tribute to someone who I no longer have to give a shit about)

The Good Plates

You own a “good” dinner set that you can’t allow yourself to use

You excuse and are obtuse as to why not, you are excessive

In the face of opposition.

Your position is that your mission is to keep it nice,

unbroken, unsullied, unused and so another set is purchased;

The second best set.

And these ones you allow to get wet, but you still expect reverence.

They’re delicate but not untouchable and still quite valuable

You calculate, and hesitate to even place these before

those undeserving and unnerving, who you don’t let yourself respect

Mostly they get to eat off the the third-best set.

The Good Plates – a poem