In childhood I danced to another tune,
so odd, I thought the gypsies had left me.
At nine I awoke to the call of creativity,
for a golden hour or two. Up and down
the alphabet I travelled, eyeing up words,
never finding the same word-flute twice.
Being of two hearts I wanted to be liked,
but secretly I longed to be the real thing.
A is for alcohol not the ruddy red apple
I grasped, while watching in fear as booze
transformed my lonely, introverted father
into a wild, highly dramatic personality.
Elvis, all shook up, drunk on tramp juice.
Mute, I spoke only in hesitant sentences,
for I would rather heed the silences of life
than listen to the cruel vagaries of his ego.
Chained until thirty three,
I was a jailbird of the cave.
Where madness and echoes
embraced the ruling darkness.
My dead eyes locked only
onto the lifeless wall ahead,
where deceiving shadows
soon became my false reality.
The seething fire behind me
knew nothing of friendship.
Nor I, until I scurried away
by posting words of protest
to each reviled, hated brick
of that shadowy ivory tower.
The one that separated me
from sun, moon and stars.
I land in the tin bath
My little hands splash water
Over my beaten body
I try to cleanse myself
Of my father’s
Will the water do well?
Will it wash the pain away?
Will the blood stop flowing?
I am not the body
I am wearing the body
I am dead
Between you and I
Is the Gate
Winter’s shivery doorway
A numbed wall of silence
Obstructed with evasive answers
Strengthened by the Season’s backbone
This glacial blocked channel
Is the obstacle of my communication
I stand at my own frontier
Barred entrance to you Mother
A raw crisp life
Icy barriers down forever
I weep weathering my love