The Cost of Leaving

I tried reading Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" to get the feel of how Spain would be in the summer, but it doesn't sound anything like the stories you used to tell me. If it were only that easy. Then maybe I would be holding you in my arms right now instead of scribbling in this little Moleskine, wishing you were close enough to beg me to read what I was thinking. I still wouldn't. No matter how crinkled your nose gets. I like to think it's something about principle. Just come find me. It would be so much easier that way.

The Last Day in Brum

Its raining,
so normal,
as I trudge to the
newsagents just
off Bristol.
The 62 breezes by
on its way down to
City Centre, packing
people off to work
and the Bullring.
The chippies are all
closed but the smell
still hovers,
sour vinegar and old cod.
A woman pushes a buggey
and dodges an ambulance
with nimble ease.
Sara said I would
never be the same.
I think she's right,
so I pick up a
Cadbury's and Coke,
push my collar up
till it touches my ears
and brave the rain
all the way down
to London. Maybe there
I'll find what I've
been looking for.

All Souls

Here we are.
All together.
Fumbling through tradition.

Welcome all.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Pray. Confess. Recite.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Baptize.
Sprinkle the head.
Vow. Recite. Repeat.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Pray.
For war. Church. Missions.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Whats new.
Consult the scripture.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

"Turn to God."
Prostitutes. Sinners. People.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Here we are.
All together.
Dying in tradition.

Family Bible

It used to look old,
cracked and worn from turning.
Everyday it sat on the oak table
like a glass candy dish
waiting to be opened
and its contents devoured.

It never seemed to mind
all the attention going elsewhere.
Quietly it would sit,
patiently waiting its turn.

We always came back.
Like it was calling us,
when life fell apart
we retreated to the wisdom
and worn pages of hope.
But that didn't matter.
It loved us just the same.

I let it fall once,
like a normal book.
Crumpled pages, torn binding,
coffee marred Proverbs.
It hit the wood like a hot plate
shattering around the feet
of my embarrassed mother.

But that didn't matter.
It just waited to picked up.
Patient and diligent
just like I had read.

It used to look old,
wordy, out of date.
But it doesn't mind.
It just waits for us to see
beyond the thees and thous.

Maybe someday I will.

Table #3

Pale green
the grass in early Spring,
up, like her eyes.
Freckled nose
worn, as the
tops of her hands.
Safe,
glimmering eyes.
Not so different
then dew on glass,
pouting slowly
at my approach.
I wonder what
she's thinking?