Wrap It Up
I wear the snake
around my head
like a turban.
It tucks in well
it stays in place.
Mostly it behaves.
I prefer it coiled -
please don’t slither
leading thoughts out of bounds,
brain out of kilter.
Bound around my head
the snake roams as it will.
Inside
all is still.
And Wrap
It Up, Again
The voice of my memory
noodle-like
unravels on the polished floor
and nips at my ankles.
My Father’s Life in Mine
1
Some say
you were killed
by the mad woman
you made your second wife.
I always knew
ever the fighter pilot
you were on a self-destruct mission
Flying your jet
laden with bombs
some shop-bought, some homemade:
whisky, tobacco,
the knowledge your mother never loved you.
The vague verdict:
death from burns
Heat seared away your skin
yet when I laid my palm on your forehead
to say goodbye
you were colder
than the icebox
I found you in.
2
Some say
you had more than
your fair share
of brains.
Does that explain
your life of follies?
Wouldn’t we all
like to pursue an errant ship
and disappear
into a free horizon
doing what we do
and leaving the rest
to do what they do
leaving the rest
children, spouse, parents
on their voyage to reality
what are they but nagging voices
wanting you to give up the revelry?
Would a person with a fair share
of brains realise
freedom is not a synonym for happiness
freedom does not rid us
of a plague bedevilling the soul
After your body had been tossed
to the flames
once, then once again,
I searched
the edge of your blanket
the fold of your sheet
under your pillow
for the shred of intellect
which surely
must have been left behind.
3
At the funeral
your brother found time
for a joke
on the ride to the crematorium.
‘Everyone in this family pops
when they hit sixty’
he said.
‘His last fun ride’, he said
glancing at the stretcher
where you lay by my feet.
My eyes remained
red rimmed,
blurry.
My lips failed to shape the weakest smile.
If what he said was true
I was glad
he could be humorous
in the face of his impending mortality.
He is only three years younger than you.
4
In a rare phone call
you asked me
what I was doing with my life
Bringing up a child
An answer that displeased
you snapped
Disdaining
what I took to be
a career worthier than most.
Well, what would you know.
Yet, we do listen to our parents.
Late.
Now I make moves as you hoped
scribbling on every scrap of paper
a story
to keep our dialogue going
‘My Father’s Life in Mine.’
Does your ghost read between the lines?
5
There was a time before
when you were
a young poet
a dreamy philosopher
a champion crossword-solver
A maverick pilot
an exceptional sailor
a weekend tender of plants.
When not at war-games
your home front duties were
blowing up birthday balloons
and telling irreverent jokes.
There was a time before
when you were
a typical father trotting out
set phrases – your advice for life
‘Fight your own battles’
‘Pay your own way’
and more in that vein.
Now I take my own counsel
live a life of opposites
and opposite to yours
willing the joys of duty
to multiply
willing figs to grow
on weathered branches.
6
My brother says
we may yet
prove to be
more like you
than we know
we may yet
fall off the curve of the horizon.
Hello nose job
pink cardigan
failed actress
smile uncertain
even for an old friend
Do you remember
your mother
how luminous she was
That was before she jumped
from the roof garden
the year you were seven
She chose your name
sparkle sparkle
Go on
Put on the shine
Show us the stuff you’re made of.
Watch this skin
I’m in.
I could shuck it off.
Present it to a young boy
to surf in.
I could scrawl ‘Ripcurl’ on it.
Watch as I wear
my other skin
the one that doesn’t swim
but is carried around in the bottomless
changing bag.
Both skins are rudders
guiding those with eyes
Whichever box you put me in
one skin approves
the other defies.
our utter dependency.
A mirage is worth looking at
if one is not dying of thirst.