MORE THAN BRICKS AND MORTAR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
inside the closet
faded photographs
a lifetime etched on smiling faces
the echo of lives lived here
the weight of belonging
familiar ache in the hollow of my chest
place where I’m known and loved
imperfectly, completely
*Note: Poem originally published Poetry Soup in June 2025 but then deleted. (poetrysoup.com/poem/more_than_brick_and_mortar_1739868) This is my original poem.
The truth about children,
They’re tiny sparks that glow in the dark,
They're embers that warm the space,
They're treasures on an abandoned island,
They're vessels of a worthy cause,
They add colours to a gloomy day,
Their silly acts cast a shadow on a bright day,
Reassembling my childhood,
Fixing the lost pieces,
Straightening the contoured lines,
Bringing back childhood memories,
Admonishing, instructing and teaching,
Letting them know,
First, friends are sculptors and masons,
Secondly, they’re painters and carpenters,
What view of you do they have in mind?
What substance do they
intend to make of you?
These speak volumes of their craftsmanship,
These tell of the motive behind their labours.
April 20, 2022.
Weather
When a life has been shared
All the ups and the downs
Through the warm and the cold
In the air, on the ground
There will never be more
That ties two souls together
Than the struggles and joys
Of the seasonal weather
So choose well and take care
As your heart may deceive you;
There's far more to love
Than the enchanting preview
You can grow and restore
Through both famine and feast
When the home you construct
Has foundations of peace
And the bricks are the people
With relationship mortar
To bind us in love..
Using love like we oughta.
To shelter our hearts
From the storms that blow by
Or the watery rain
Or the summers so dry
Our lives should be shared
Whatever the weather
So we build something hopeful
But we do it together.
Jinjagoliath
24th February 2022
First day of war in Ukraine.
The women bending and pounding in rhythm
was a vibrant bucolic sight. The long wooden
pestles were powered by the human current.
While grinding raw rice,
they stopped to rest, and
to crack jokes, which were
embellished with erotic
connotations, and were worthier than today’s
TV humors. They made turmeric and coriander
powder, when their delightful nasal tunes vibrated
through the powdering
thunder. Chili particles
provoked their nostrils.
Sneezing was soothing.
They crushed herbs and roots, medicinal wonders.
Their minds, too, were muscular. The mortar and
the pestles have been discarded in a nook of the
present. The modern
ladies prefers to powder
packets, albeit adulterated
or preserved in poison.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue #28).
It fell from a dune
Into my path
This day
Near where freshwater bubbles forth
And waves push foam
Fraught with tempest
Of a southern sea
Upon an isolated shore
That would turn fatal for
Two pieces
Perfect
In shape and size
Mother with child
Mortar and pestle
I can only pray
You rest in peace
All
Smooth
So smooth
After generational use
A vision of people past
Grinding, grinding
Grinding away
At a meager and humbled life
Only to be
Buried away
For another day
That nether came
Until this day
It fell from the dune
Into my path
I walk it back
Into the dunes
And bury it away
Again
Out of respect
And remorse
For I know
It was you
Your people
That died
Beyond
That lands head
Just there
Each way I turn, there’s mortar and stone
My chisel, nowhere to be found
I’ve followed the path, the wind has blown
Each way I turn, there’s mortar and stone
I beg the breeze to leave me alone
The storm, it won’t calm down
Each way I turn, there’s mortar and stone
My chisel, nowhere to be found
Fuse
Milly the mortar bomb went bang! Her little bits of shrapnel sought out flesh. Her blast wave wanted to crush. Her tail fin stuck in an Argentinean's head. Milly's owner, Private Gonk, British Army, reloaded and fired again. He enjoyed his job.
It's all about touching hearts with the thermonuclear flash, improving lives with the terrific blast wave, making shoes to run like Santa Claus, loving art so you make better bombs and believing in targeting people.
The General stole a sack of grenades to show his kids. He planned a surprise party with a blast. The fun would be explosive and egg shaped. Bits of metal were the gift. Death the prize. The General smiled to himself. He was ready to kill.
Picnic by Jimmy Boom Semtex
Intermingled,
but not together
In your presence,
but still alone
Hearing your words,
but not your meaning
Leaving your house
—so far from home
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
When I was young I helped my dad to build a wall of bricks.
He showed me how to mix the mortar so it rightly sticks.
Start with water, then cement, some sand and then some lime,
roll it in a mixer and take it out before its time.
But something he would ask me caused me trouble in my heart:
does it hold the bricks together or instead keep them apart?
Ring a ding the ice cream truck is pealing
the monotone of a rut day to trap the rat
no amount of cheese will make me budge
the beauty of a flight to orbit the universe.