The questions of the World

.

still smell the scents of
machine oil and leather; you
bent atop your work and i
somewhere across the place,

hide and seek between
the shelves,
dusting greasy machines
with my sleeve, jumping
up and down the aisles on
.
just one leg and each time
i’d come round the corner i
would run my fingers through
your hair and weigh how far
you got – Talking you up
.
and down the seams you
stitched and ask
the questions of the World
and you would smile, take
them with brawny hands
and sew them carefully into
your work until they faded
.
and you’d switch off the light,
take my hand and lead me
all the way home.

.
i had no uncle or dad like him but an aunt and spent hours in the cow stable, talking her into deafness…smiles..and today when i open a bottle of milk, i still find some of my questions swimming there….
.
Today at One Stop Poetry, Chris Galford spotlights the work of photographer Rob Hanson. The above image is shot by Rob and this poem is my response to the picture prompt…check it out, grab your pen and join us..
 
Advertisements

all i needed to know/for my mom

i think the moments
i loved most were
when we walked side by side
on the way to
whatever place, i

didn’t care
where we were going
but i needed to know
you’d stand by me
walking away from
what stole my breath sometimes

and all i had to be sure of was,

if i needed a hand to hold,
you would never pull yours back


…and i’m crying while writing this..my childhood wasn’t always easy…but think my mom made me survive and i’m beyond thankful…

find more mother’s day poems over at One Stop Poetry.. 

helicopters

falling from the trees,
we let them spin and drift
like sailors, drunk with gin,
watched them circling
towards the tongue of the river,
then.. disappear

faces hot with sweat
and dreams of the real ones,
smelling of big adventure,
Platoon – Apocalypse Now
and named Cobra,
Black Shark or Mangusta

They would take us
to places we saw on tv with
bold men fighting for what
we hoped was right and
all afternoon, dirty hands and

scratched hearts we let them
fall and fall until the sun came down
and our knees started bleeding

until the rotors spun in our heads
until we were almost there and
until the trees had lost all their seeds

linking up with emily at imperfect prose..

>you were Aragorn

>i called you Shakespeare, that’s roughly
what your name translates to.
we met in Munich for the weekend
some time after dead end summer love
‘cos letters never bridged the winter.

small village and you didn’t fit in,
dreamer, vagabond and Tolkien fan,
we sat talking books for hours,
smoking Camel, walking barefoot,
laughing summer into wings, glued tight to
country lanes and bloomed between
black printed sheets, Tubular bells and the
all-knowing smiles of small town gossip.
for a long time, i met no one
who could kiss like you.

we had no money and the room, we spent
the night was small, electric waves were
creeping up the walls like roaches.
i sometimes wondered how it would have
been, whispered rhymes into my ears while
tossing me towards the Shire. but you were
Aragorn and you had promised
not to touch me,

so nothing happened, yet everything changed,
i got lost in the eyes of the prince,
and for a long time didn’t find the exit.

this poem was inspired by some memories, hitting me like a rocket when reading Anton Gourman’s poem “In July 2003”

>poetry on dirty faces

>write my heart into words – life onto paper til it’s covered
with black dots like fly dirt on the ceiling of your room
or in the cow stable my uncle Sepp used to have. and i try

to catch words like we tried to catch flies among cattle,
friendly tuned with their deep “moo” and never washed 
our hands (of course). we were dirty, smelling badly and

abundantly hungry – for life, for hope, for righteousness
and sausages and like we searched the farm for forgotten
eggs, i search my soul for words and wish they’d smell

like those sun-warmed seven week old lucky-hen finds.
we spilled ’em on the ground (part of the fun) and my, i
tell you – we didn’t know and didn’t care about Chanel, no

matter which number. part of the fun i say – and we were
never tired of anything. now-moments, now-laughter,
now-tears and now-heartbreak – just before the sun would
shine again and childhood poetry appeared on dirty faces.

linking up with One Shot Wednesday – join us, write a poem or just jump over to read others. Sign up opens today at 5 pm EST