A Different Toy I see the gun first: a blackened Kalashnikov type in the hands of a boy, rocking it from side to side as his family cheerfully cross Piazza San Michelle in Lucca, once a Roman Forum filled with Centurions and slaves. Father smiling as if in a dream, mother staring up at the blazing white walls of the church of San Michele in Foro, two siblings skipping along beside. The young recruit looks as serious as any Paradise-promised terrorist tensing for a tourist massacre. Dog Walking in Krakow Tail between his legs, back legs stiff with fear he faces the stairs. Behind his owner wrapped in age and sighs, tiled hard by too many tourists. She rams his rump so he staggers up, whimpering all the way home. Published in November 2017 in The Brasilia Review.
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The following poems were published in November 2017 in a mini chapbook called 'All the Ways to Love' by the Origami Poems Project. / Bio Page.
Speaking in Hands Every time I leave home the words love you tie up her tongue. So instead my mother speaks with hands. She stands in her bedroom window, watching me walk down Bramble Walk road, and she waves. I look back, see her blurring form between the curtains, a ghostly hand fluttering, and I wave back all the way to the bottom of the road. Every time we separate for school for work, for holidays, for another country and not returning for years, I look back and there she is waving, waving until tall meadow grasses, old elm trees, the bend in the road breaks our bond. Still, she is waving, a strangely shy little songbird, her hands speaking more than her mouth can manage. Smiles Out of Kernels Buying sugared almonds from a stall at Náměstí Republiky in Prague, my wife effortlessly unshells the salesman’s story, cracking up because he’s from Ah Venezia! Born in Naples, worked in Venice, then north, north to Sweden, now Prague, London next. Selling nuts here to tourists shivering in Autumn’s early encasing. Vague on the details: the visas, the truth of drifting, serving tourists barely grateful for just a few snatching seconds. At least my wife asks questions to crack the monotony, and get smiles out of kernels. All the Things I never Was, NO 1: Footballer. I have Daniel Rice to thank for not becoming a footballer. With his ball-round head, hair cut short and bullish body he used to barge me off the ball. We met next to Stamford Green Pond and he tricked me with a message: you didn’t make the training team, sorry stabbed on the end, eyes lowered. I turned back and headed home, my every-boy dream killed before it could run. I had some talents: running backwards on my toes, kicking accurately with both feet, fast burst of speed and good passing skills. I thought I had at least done enough to make the B Team. Daniel Rice turned, ran back home, the same direction as Court Recreation Park and the Epsom Eagles team. I never doubted him until weeks later I heard that my name had been read out but there was no answer. So Friday was crossed out for good, just like our friendship. But really I owe him thanks for playing with words instead. Just Lost Children Two days after Christmas and the cheer has left the driver of Bus 35 from Downtown, Portland. Two young Japanese tourists tenderized into inaction by the driver's beating insistence, voice rising, repetition the only strategy. Your app is wrong. It's wrong. Ladies, listen. It's w-r-o-n-g! Passengers laugh in shared shock, Rosa Parks rising to offer her seat, but only my wife Jill helps, bridging the gap of a tiny percent of genetics that justified internment camps, atomic revenge. Jill acts as intermediate, speaking no Japanese, offering a kind voice, enthusiasm, the fairy magic the softens monsters and makes heroes out of hermits. Problem suddenly fixed, the journey continues, the two Japanese students thankful in high pitched delighted voices of children, just lost children. The Journey We Cannot Join We met in the city park in May on her great grandson’s first birthday. She spoke a few nodding words of English, us no Danish, but she added more with handshake, smiles. Half an hour later we parted like long lost family: many handshakes, a little more English, hugs, tears rolling down her cheeks, with her stammering words, she said she loved meeting us, really loved. She knows she won’t see us again, not as herself, with this greying clarity. Her mind will have travelled by then. Already she is confused about Alaska. Are we going with her? She is going on the journey we cannot join. |
Poetry Biography:I have had over 70 poems published in the following worldwide magazines and literary journals: A Handful of Stones, Acta Victoriana (Canada), All the Sins (UK), The Amethyst Review (USA), Amsterdam Quarterly (NL) The Blue Nib (Ireland), Bolts of Silk, Borderless Journal, The Brasilia Review (Brazil), Bushfire Literature & Arts Review (US), Cadenza, Cake Magazine, Carillon, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal (Hong Kong), DASH (USA), Clackamas Literary Review (USA), Cooch Behar Anthology, Dawntreader, Dreamcatcher, The Dillydoun Review, Earth Love, The Ear (US), Eastlit (East Asia), Erbacce, Envoi, Finger Dance Festival, Ginosko, Gloom Cupboard, Hidden Channel, Inlandia Journal, IS&T (Ink, Sweat & Tears), Into the Void (Canada), The Journal, The Lakeview Journal (India), Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Lunch Ticket (USA) The New Writer, One Hand Clapping, Orbis, Oregon English Journal (USA), The Passage Between, Prole, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Sonic Boom (India), Third Wednesday (USA), Of Nepalese Clay (Nepal), New Contrast (South Africa), One Hand Clapping, Opportunity Publishing, The Oregon English Journal (USA) Origami Poems Project (USA), The Paddock Review (USA), Panoplyzine (USA), Paper Swan Press, The Passage Between, The Peacock Journal (USA), Pens on Fire, Poetry Salzburg (Austria), Potomac Review, (USA) Prole, Pulsar Poetry, Rear View Poetry, Queen Mob's Teahouse, Qutub Minar Review (India), Red Ink, Shiela-Na-Gig (USA), South Bank Poetry Magazine, Stand, Waterford Teachers Centre, (Ireland) We Are a Website New Literary Journal (Singapore), Weber - The Contemporary West Review (USA), Windfall (USA), Writing Magazine, Words for the Wild and Verbal Art (India). Archives
March 2024
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