They have frowsy flamboyant hats,
some are born English,
while others are obviously alien.
They need a deep corner to thrive,
or a high ceiling.
Like Maasai maidens their necks
are stretched to infinity,
they will not take much manhandling.
If we ever find their spaceships
we will need a stepladder
to greet their leader.
They both cure depression
and bring depression on,
especially if you stand too long
in their shadows.
“dad’s dad”
the fun in function is when do becomes does
less rungs than wrongs in one that loves
i cannot climb high in my family tree
i know no nuts for as you can see
this is my stepladder because
i never knew who my real ladder was
One more sunset missed,
one more sunrise lost.
The rim of a glass glints less
in an undressed light.
Living between the days
losing yourself in nights dark corridors,
you begin to fade,
to fray at the edge of thought.
Sooner or later
the surface of the world
gets further away from you.
Then by chance or force,
you find that old rickety stepladder,
the one with small blessing
on each rung.
Mind sparks, a motor ticks over,
it begins to plow through the tall grass
you got lost in.
My heart is an empty suitcase
That I store in the attic
It waits for me to fill it with all the things I need to leave.
One time I took it down overhead
stepping on the stepladder
down to the hall to my closet,
And filled it with carefully folded shirts and pants and good looking things
Thinking about the tablecloths and napkins that were folded neatly at a great restaurant where I’d sit across from you
After landing and driving and picking you up and driving and sitting down.
My navy blue, hardshell suitcase had an old airline tag that an airport girl abruptly ripped off before putting on a fresh new one.
I thought about her green eyes while you and I had dinner that night.
When I got home, I unpacked and threw everything on the floor and carried my empty suitcase back up to the attic.
But when I got down from the attic stairs,
Your turquoise scarf was laying on top of the clothes
And I thought of your eyes
Before they closed
While I watched them
last night.
cleaning the gutters
spontaneous funeral
a dead baby bird
autumn pallbearer
from a silver stepladder
silent elegy
old stepladder
still able to climb,
still able to lean,
to prop and lift you up,
now elatedly sublime
a fixture prime in space
in pride of place
grounded
shelved
dishevelled
grandma bare bosomed and barely covered by frayed crocheted pants
looked like a mixture of parakeet and paragon in a fairy tale’s garment
under cover of darkness she would bare her wickedness and emotions
a mocking bird with a beak full of gold and a never ending feathered quill
fire in her heart and a pen crafted from charcoal and indelible passion
tea leaves suspended in a crystal ball swayed by pendulums of words
stepladder to wisdom swinging from a roped pinnacle at the threshold
from reality to psychedelic hunter and gatherer of mushrooms and magic
candles crafted from Arabian lamps exuded Alhambra charms and Alladin
whose cave was her fortress in the woods of past future times and pastiche
desk like a lamp post overshadowing contours and scripted penumbra
it was never too late to have a happy childhood with a wick as companion
no hermit but prophesy personified she send messages out into the world
parchment of wisdom tied to acorns belladonna berries and butterfly wings
required no answers because questions held stronger without instant replies
the old scribe never died because an oak tree grew unperturbed in my soul
27th June 2020
Stepladder up to the ceilings
Held with high reasons and feelings
The bookcase
Volumes of joy and pure leisure
State their case as printed pleasure
A bookworm
Shape a life into linked chapters
Mind and soul as truth extractors
His bookmarks
Many things he can’t quite discern
Unfinished business much to learn
To bookends
Legends fiction subconscious streams
Myths fantasy and vivid dreams
Of booklore
01st May 2020
When hurt descends from the tree of life and
The stepladder breaks straight onto your pain
A trampoline turned jo-jo strangles creeping ivy
Entangles in trapezes and dreams of surrender
Pick me up where I have buried my wounded soul
Uncover my darkness and cradle my weeping heart
Mind gaps’s emotions and feelings of rational thought
Transcend into vibrating light of balance and harmony
At the bottom of searching for circles’ impermanence
Rests a rusty wheel barrow that nestles a garden of love
Sheds a load from my shoulders and unburdens torment
Fallow fields harbour seeds of regrowth and compassion
15th January 2020
okay. keep doing that.
keep on doing what you do.
it’s not like I care.
it’s not like you’re slapping me in the face, or anything
it’s not like every time you’re high off of him, you shove me deeper into dirt
it’s not like I was only a stepladder to your own selfish euphoria
and it’s not like you forgot once you were at the top
it’s not as if my life has ended.
of course not.
because you know that i, the sensitive, careful boy, am too tough for heartbreak.
keep going