Saturday, October 15, 2011



I am an image junkie,

always on the prowl

for metaphors


If I'm to write poetry,

I need the nourishment of time.

But my illness is bulimic,

devours time and spews it out

undigested. Where's sustenance

in gobbets of time

mixed with stomach acid?


I always thought my final

resting place would be the quiet earth.

So great literature tells us;

never mind moths and harebells,

I wanted a small piece of ground

where I could slumber peacefully.

But that is not to be. My grave

is situated plumb above

an active fault line.

My skeleton, together

with my neighbour's bones,

will rattle and clonk

percussively until the end of time.

1 comment:

  1. I gather that you live in Christchurch. What a rough time you poor souls have had -- and I gather, continue to have! And now they announce there's a fault line running right under the city!

    Maybe in death, when the MS nasties have gone to meet their maker (and what excuses will they offer for causing so much trouble?), your bones -- now free from limitations, and encouraged by the deep forces of nature -- will move unfettered.

    Thank you for your thought-provoking poem. I admire you!

    Rob Brennan