Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

It’s not about race.

Posted: 27/11/2014 in Poetry
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“It’s not about race”, they say, a mantra that goes on as police lights are shone in the faces of the dark.

“It’s not about race”, they say, no repentance in that sentence as murder committed without a prison sentence.

“It’s not about race”, they say, “he was just doing his job not wanting to be shot” by the gun that never was.

“It’s not about race”, they say, sons and daughters taken, not murder but identity mistaken.

“It is about race”, we say, at the funeral, no longer blindsided by the spoken words that ceased and desisted with the final hand of dirt on that little white lie.


Twinkle Twinkle little bomb

Posted: 08/07/2014 in Poetry

Dead baby doesn’t cry.
I hold her close to my breast, offering it to her,
but she doesn’t bite.
Six days have passed since she was bombed.
My little girl.
A terrorist, they said.
Hamas, they said.
I do not understand why my baby is dead.
I wash her every morning at sunrise to the night I haven’t slept
and she didn’t cry all night.
The smell won’t fade no matter how hard I scrub.
I wash her, and my despair, ready for the new day
that brings no life.
Gaza is beautiful this time of bombing
all for one and always more than one dead.
We have become experienced, no, good, at death.
Relatives tell me it’s time to bury my little girl.
But not yet.
Just a little longer
until we rest together.
Any day now it will be my turn,
and once it’s done
I’ll get to hear my little girl cry again.


Posted: 24/02/2014 in Poetry

Twenty every minute, a thousand an hour. You slept as ten thousand passed you by.

I cannot lie that I have laid awake at night counting each one of my breaths as they passed out of my mouth, through my chest, signifying not life but moments closer to our inevitable deaths.

Who among us cherishes each one? Not a single inhale wasted but lived and fought for like it was our last one? Who among us says carpe diem and not tomorrow it can be done?

One. One hundred and one. When will our counting be done that we can no longer remember what was wasted on each one?

‘I hold this dagger for myself for when it pleases my country to need my death’ Brutus said over the death of his beloved one. We remember them today, but tomorrow they and we, and I, and you, will be history. But not remembered but recorded, for each and every last one of us will not have each other’s story to tell of the breath of that one or this one where victory, love, or defeat was done.

One. Two. One again as clocks tick over another day undone. Time humorous to the ones that have already come and gone. They watch up above, down below, or nowhere, who among us thinks their clocks continue to tick when our bodies give way on our final sun?

Twenty every minute, a thousand an hour. Ten thousand will pass you by tonight. How many in their next inhale will do what they are afraid to be done? To make that one breath count. Just once. For one breath never breathes twice, just as you will never come again.

Two Honour Killings

Posted: 30/08/2013 in Poetry

She asks Him for forgiveness, and knocks it back in one gulp,
eyes closed, teary cheeks, the life inside, dies.
A boy or a girl, she wondered;
“Would it have looked like me? Or him?”
Him. His face lucid in her memory,
as his eyes rolled back when it was all over.
The icky trickle of shame, of horror, of a life created,
and her’s forever, ended.
They blame her — “she made him do it”, they protested. Her own family.
“They can blame me for this”, she says, her tongue enjoying the acid.
Hands on her stomach, right over left, in prayer, she wishes it to die.
She thinks she feels a kick, a beat, a foot, a tingle.
A smile across her face — ‘tis done.
Her grandmother’s rocking chair, she rocks and rocks and rocks and….
smiling at her own reflection in one of the many mirror shards resting, waiting.
Gently in her right palm, she holds it, admiring her reflection,
before returning her hand to her stomach, with the shard — a penetration she has chosen,
on her own terms her life is ended.

We apologize for the delay

Posted: 16/07/2013 in Poetry

I gave my Iphone a name, listening to it play back the tracks that take me back to years gone by.

I sigh as the platform reads “Train delays” but Iphone is alive, one song at a time, some with beats and some that rhyme.

A crowd come down the stairs and they too stare, letting out a tut as two more minutes escape, joining me in the wait to get home from another day in the rat race.

Iphone chooses the wrong song that reminds me of a time I had urged to die. Years gone by where I fought back the cries but still they came, trickling down from my eyes and unmasking my disguise.

More people shift along waiting for HM Central line but nowhere in sight. Anxious faces exemplifying their plight of two more minutes wasted.

Muffled microphone interrupts Iphone – we all stare up looking for the sound, abound by words we expect to reflect our desires to retire to our homes alone.

“We apologize for the delay” I hear him say “but there has been a suicide on the tracks, third one today.”

“Tut” one spits, “Tut” another chimes. “Tut” another decides, “Tut” now a relentless tide. I look and see faces, but no features, voices, distinctions.

“Tut” I hear myself chip, “that’s why I need you Iphone” I quip, “to silence the crowd.”

We all read “Train arriving” and Iphone plays back the tracks that take me back to years gone by, when no one helped me through suicide.

Mummy and Daddy

Posted: 03/04/2013 in Poetry

I sit outside the garden, mummy and daddy pushing up daises.

I remember the day they left – “a quick death” I heard uncle tell auntie.

I still don’t understand why auntie wepty wept for mummy and daddy – “they are up above in the clouds eating toffee apples and candy” uncle told me.

I miss them sometimes, like last week when uncle stroked me. “Grown up, now” he said, which made me happy. “Our secret” as he washed away the icky trickle.

I remember mummy’s hugs and daddy’s kisses, so much of them I miss.

But more good news from uncle – he promised to send me to them next week when auntie is away.

“More adult games” he said, “Then I’ll send you on your way.”

See you soon Mummy. See you soon Daddy.

One Billion Rising

Posted: 14/02/2013 in Poetry

Go on. Hit that woman. Your woman. You’re the man. A real man. Show her your might.

Clean strike across her flesh. She’ll never steer wrong again. Never get out of your sight.

Watch her cry. Remain unmoved. “You deserve it,” you yell, “I’m stopping you from burning in Hell.”

Carpet absorbs her drops. She hates him. And hates him. And hates him. “I’m sorry,” she hears herself tell.

“You made me do it.” She nods. He sobs. She holds him. Yes, you’re the man.

He slumbers. She watches. Nods to herself. Blade in his ribs. Beautiful red. Not long now. Whispers in his ear: “I’m the man.”