Moving

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Moving

(for BKB)

Our kitchen clock has ticked,
time to pack up,
time to clear out,
cardboard boxes,
still life on the living room floor.
A full-stop.
Another paragraph written.

This house has done its work.
Candles burnt.
We were here,
a joint composition,
major and minor keys,
melody,
atonality,
dissonance,
harmony.
Unfinished symphony.

More than poetry.
Infinity of haiku
silent rooms between
characters.
On this stage,
we voiced parts,
fashioned scripts,
co-authors.

I’ve written my way through this house,
stepped beyond the deck,
out into a backyard
to trees and stream
underneath snow.
(Memories in parentheses)
Our kitchen, hearth of home,
chairs, a shrunken table,
furniture that made space grow.

Chicken noodle soup from a can,
potato chips,
grapes,
milk from a carton,
silver spoons,
our last supper.
I don’t know where we’ll eat tomorrow.

Never known the next phrase,
the sentence to come,
the chapter after this,
the story’s conclusion.

Like a hummingbird’s nest,
where we eat, drink, love, grow, sing,
shall we weave together twigs,
plant fibers,
bits of larch leaves,
shall we thread spider silk to bind our nest
together
and anchor
to another forked branch.

Over-thinking as a way of life

Overthinking as a way of life

You have hurt me

Don’t think for a minute

I don’t know you’re about to deny it.

I know you’ve done that to me before

and

you’ve  probably forgotten

or

wiped it conveniently out of your memory

because

it suited you.

You’re always doing that

so

don’t go letting yourself off the hook

because

you’re the one who started this.

Aren’t you?

You might at least apologise.

But

you’ve apologised before

and

that hasn’t changed anything

so

what makes this time any different?

This time you’ve really hurt me

and

I suppose that doesn’t mean anything to you…

(And  so on…)