It is she

It is she
I am me
I am
The new girl in town

Shooting stars

It’s like you’re a child running after a kite that’s
Just slipped out of your hand
And it's right there, so close you can
Touch it, but no, it tickles your fingertips and saunters in the air,
Higher, higher,
Just out of your reach

Or like looking into a kaleidoscope and seeing
What you think you can see and being sure
That’s what you can see but as
Soon as you’re sure, it’s gone,
And then it’s back and then it’s gone
Again -

Or like star gazing -
When you’re lying on the road next to your cousins
Searching for shooting stars and
Just when you can see the saucepan
Everyone’s whooping and laughing because they’ve seen
The shooting star

Or like in a dream when you’re running
And running, and you never get tired,
And you don’t know where you’re going
Or why you’re running,
But it doesn’t matter because you know you’re almost there.
Well that’s you - chasing dreams.

Poor Old Tom

Poor old Tom has a limp.
Something happened on his ramblings
Last night, and now he can't walk.
His paw is all swollen and red but
Poor Old Tom has a bad temper  so no-one
Can get a good look at him.
Take him to the vet, I say.
Listen, he says, all dogs die,
And it's Tom's time now.

I am

I am not Irish, I'm not English,
I am not Catholic, but there are moments when I bless myself,
I am not Jewish, but my name is Miriam.

I'm not fat, I'm not thin,
I'm not tall, not short,
I'm not grey, yet.

I'm not a doctor, not a dentist,
I haven't studied emotional intelligence, but am emotionally intelligent,
I'm not a hairdresser, but cut my hair.

I'm not a writer, I just write,
I'm not political, I just vote,
I'm not a philosopher, but sometimes like to think we live in an old man's right knee.

I am not Irish, I'm not English,
I am not Catholic, but there are moments when I bless myself,
I am not Jewish, but my name is Miriam.

Homecoming

Tonight they are home,
But still, sit the two

Empty chairs at the table.
Two plates less to wash.

Their Mothers hold hankies

To their eyes, while
Their Fathers nod to themselves proudly, reaching

Into the mahogony cabinet in the

Sitting room, placing the medal

With the Queen's name inside, so it
Stands up in its box.

Tonight they are home

And the sounds will be quieter, now.

But over there, in Afghanistan,

The cracks, the shots,

The splitting of flesh

Go on.

The van

You were there, sitting beside me

And I was driving -

I didn't have a license in the dream, either

And the van was out of control, flying over potholes

That made us bounce in the air, up and down

With no seat belts on.

When we went over the edge of the cliff

You were there, sitting beside me

As the glare of the bright, yellow sun

Became streaked with splashes of red.

A thief through the letterbox

It's cold and the sky is grey -

The birds are in their nests,

My wallet is empty.

A statement from the bank -

More charges for taking out money

and going over the overdraft.

Twenty-five pounds a time -

I didn't know.

Nothing they can do,

When they have all my money -

and charge me for taking it out.

Tears come and the skies crack open and

The rain falls -

I have to run out before

The clothes are soaked.

Paintbrush

To and fro, to and fro -

Your brush, moving so steadily

I can count on it

To be there, always. With

A smell of White Spirit

That could knock a horse

And a spattered sheet at your feet,

Or wood chipping and a chisel

In your hand. Painting,

Filling in. Making good.

To and fro, to and fro -

Rocking me like a child

In your arms, small

Against your broad chest

And strong arms that are

So used to the flow of the brush.

The blues

Not the music, nor my favourite blues bar
Ain't Nothing But, on Kingly Street,
which you should go to if you haven't already.

I'm not talking about the shades of it in the sky
or The NYPD.

I mean the blues that make you feel heavy
When you wake up in the morning.

The ones that make everything darker
Than on other days.

I mean the way you feel when you're
Standing at the bottom of a mountain.

When it towers over you,
Casts a shadow as far as you can see,

And looks impossible
To climb. 

Dreams, dreams, dreams

Are dreams meant to be dreamt,
Or are they to be lived?

Are they to be strived for,
Followed as a lamb follows its mother,
To be clung to as a koala bear does, a tree?
Or are they to burn an eternal fire deep inside,
To be kept alive with dry twigs,
A small flame in the darkness?

Are they to be gazed at
With the eyes out of focus?
Or are they to be sought out,
Eyes blurred with concentration?

A dream ceases to be that when it is realised.
Should we try to make them happen
Or should we beat away, the
Glare of the flame hidden
Within our warm, wet flesh?

Never Once

I never told you, once.

I never told you that
I don’t sleep because you dance in the darkness of my eyes,
I can’t work because you're laughing through my ears, nor
Do I breathe when you stand there, before me.

I feel my heart beneath my chest - skipping, pounding.
When you look at me, it feels as if it’s about to crack through me
And bleed all over you.

When you smile at me,
When you touch the bruise on my arm,
My heart tears in two,
Not with desire, nor twitters, nor dances or giggles.

But because you’ll never know,
Not for a second,
Not once.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning´s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, for I did not die.

A Bad Dream

People go by,
I smile but they don´t see me.
I try to say something but they walk past.
I shout but they don´t hear me.

The world goes round,
So fast that it makes me dizzy.
No one else seems to notice -
Too busy in their own worlds.
We all live on earth
But we aren´t on the same planet.

When they walk by I feel a breeze,
Yet they are all miles away.
I am only seen by children
That look at me curiously,
Until they grow up to be like their mothers and fathers
And know better than to lower their eyes to meet mine.

When I walk down the street
Crowds part and make space for me.
An empty, imaginary carpet lies ahead.
People bump shoulders, tread on toes...
To give me space.

If it were a dream I would feel like royalty,
I would be a celebrity on the red carpet,
Cameras pointed at me and flashes in my eyes -
But I am awake.

The dot of an i

I look down and find myself
Atop a Mayan ruin,
Gazing out over miles of Guatemalan jungle.
Lush green trees stretch their branches for miles beneath me,
Monkeys wake with the sun and
Yawn their howls through the branches that they swing through.
Birds flutter their wings as they stretch from their nest.
Beaks open and tweets sound to the ground where
A baby bird has stretched too far and fallen,
It´s head twisted giving away its broken neck.

I float within my thoughts,
Content and puffy faced.
A mere speck,
The dot of an i.
A tiny ink stain on this rock
That peeps over this green sea.

I must have leapt from a cloud,
For I don’t belong in this world that I have jumped into,
The way you jump into a dream -
Feet first, holding your nose -
And your eyes squeezed tight shut.

At Sea

I juggle with words but
They fall through my fingers
Like grains of sand.
It’s the beauty of the ocean
Before me, zapping any thoughts
That floate to the surface.

I sit, unmoving.
The only thing still in this storm of elements.
The tide playfully tickles my feet,
Drifting in and out of my toes.
I could be a rock -
Slowly being eroded
Until my hard skin is washed to the sea leaving
A softer, untouched shell.

I sit, in awe of the strong, lively waves
That tempt my toes to dance their way to the horizon.
I would be like a ballerina from Swan Lake,
Gracefully poised on tip toes
With hands joined as in prayer.
At home on the wave when
It arches my back to envelope me
So that I collapse, a rag doll.
Blown by the wind and thrown by the waves,
Unable to breathe and,
Like my words,
Unable to reach the surface.

Finally then, I would be at home on the wave -
Never to return to land.

Gold

Gold is a british one pound coin.
Gold is a medal that means
You’re the best.
Gold is the butter croissant melting in the mouth
On a Saturday morning.
It's hugging, and squeezing,
But it never being enough.
It’s sitting in your corner of the world
Between your four walls
And not caring what’s on them -
Or maybe it is caring.
It's having time to think -
To really think.
It’s your eyes fighting to close
And seeing darkness.
It’s standing still in one place
And being perfectly happy with where you are.
It’s the colour of the butterflies that flutter
In the pit of your stomach.
It is the soft, squidgy wetness that’s in
A colour that’s bright yellow and called gold.

Carpe Diem

When I wake up the day is mine.
I can do anything,
But I have cereal and go to work.

The sun falls and darkness prevails
Until the day no longer belongs to me.
It now belongs to tomorrow, and to yesterday.

I save for some day.
But as the days roll into each other
The way drops of water make the sea,
I wonder if that day will ever come
And how will I know when it has.

I hope that my savings, my hopes and dreams
Don’t become like a Famous Five book
That sits in a drawer with moth holes in its pages,
Waiting to see the light of day.

A non-practicing catholic,
I pray that I can learn how to
Seize the day.

These Four Walls

I got off a boat and they
Brought me here for
A new life, a better life.

Prisoner of war.
That’s my name. I am defined by first being kept within these four walls
And second by the war that tore
My mother apart, my sister apart.
That tore my father apart.

Asylum seeker.
That’s me. Seeking asylum
In this island that covers me like a fishing net.
I don’t want to be here.
There is no goodness here,
For me, under this net that doesn’t let me breathe.
In this place with alien names and alien people
And alien, horrible food.

A new life, a better life.
Between these four walls.
These unpainted, rotting walls with mould growing all over them.

I stop listening. What is the point in listening?
I stop reading. What is the point in reading?
I stop watching the screen with moving images
That upset me.

What’s the point?

Ritual

Reaches for the concealer and
Starts under the eyes
To cover the dark circles.
Whether they are there or not.
Applies it to the blemishes and the T area.

Looks in the mirror
Where the blank canvas
Stares back at her.
On with the rosy cheeks
So that they smile shimmer dust.

Paints the eyelids.
Sometimes green, sometimes brown,
Natural or bright - depending on the mood
Of the canvas.

Paints a black line to frame each eye
As a mount frames a painting.
Doesn’t notice the squiggle from where she jumped
When the doorbell rang.
Coats the lashes so that in a blink
Longer, fuller lashes bat back.
The final touch exchanges her pink lips
For blood red, voluptuous ones.
She smiles at them and watches them curve up at the edges.

Takes a deep breath.

Lives a new day every day
With a different face -
Not her own.
She can’t leave the house without her face,
She can’t see him without her face.
He falls in love with her
Face.

She sighs.
Tired of painting on this mask.
Of talking, laughing, kissing from within it.
She wants to leave it at the bathroom sink,
But every morning a bare, unpainted face
Stares emptily back at her
And she can’t help herself. She
Reaches for the concealer

I'm Avocado

Play with my hair.
Twirl and twist it between your fingertips.
Massage my scalp.
Manipulate me with your hands.
Make me avocado -
Soft, round, eyes wide closed.
Ripe.

Play with me.
Make me giggle.
Make me scream.
Make me suffer as I pretend
I am in pain.

Don’t play me.
Let us just pretend.
I sit in your palms -
Soft, round, peeled.
Don’t squeeze me to death.
Don’t crush me, and don’t let me drop,
Or I’ll be smudged all over the ground.