The Warrior

I am a warrior who carries
Neither gun nor blade nor club.

My shield is within me,
Fashioned from silences, slapstick and wordplay,
From averted looks, feigned acquiescence, the interstices
Where a small boy could hide.

My camouflage is narcissus' pond
Into which others would stare
Believing that in me
They could see themselves.

But that was my outer skin
And this was my shield
And I am a warrior,
Bellying his way through the grass,
Guarding his treasure,
His truest love from harm.

I fashioned this shield
To break the blows of fists,
Sarcasm and indifference.
I moved in camouflage
To shield my inner flame
From the cold wet
Of a conscious death.

I bided my time, in wait,
In the woods.

I am a warrior of powerful dreams,
Who lives in awe of love, sex, friendship
And human connection.

I know and believe in the power of the heart.

I am a warrior who has faced his trials,
Concealed his passion from vampires and ghosts
In loving words, poetry,
And the melody of many tongues.

I am a warrior who, at mid-life, learned
The war was over,
The artillery of childhood had long fallen silent,
Could not hurt him or destroy him.

Who looked beneath him and found instead of weapons,
Tools and materials miraculously saved, sharpened,
And kept safe.

Who, emerging from the woods long after trekking
Into safer, less toxic territory,
Found himself without a war to wage;
The camouflage, the shield,
The gallant pretense of servitude and service,
Had outlived their purpose.

Who washing off pollution and dead skin
Under a shower of love,
In the waterfall of his brighter world,
Blinks his eyes and seeing people in aquariums eating fish,
Shatters monotony with his laughter,
Drops his shield and makes it scatter.

Who glories in anticipation
Of his own shameless nakedness.

Insomnia

Morning simply arrived,
As it does if you wait around for it long enough,
Not as sleep makes it appear,
Revealed in an abrupt blossoming of light,
But, with insomnia,
A gradual rotation of the earth barely felt,
Degree by degree, twisting you to face the sun.

Indeed, morning does not arrive;
It is merely a name given to your own arrival
On the other side of the world.

Fatigue

Fatigue rolls through the body
Like slow thunder through
A heavy sky
Pulls your skull and frame down
Invades your veins
Disperses thoughts and deeds
As if they were effervescent bubbles
Leaves you gaga
in front of the platter of decisions
Served up by the day
Too tired to eat
Too tired to taste
Too tired to bite
Fatigue leads you to bed
Like a desert exile to drink
Lays you like an infant on the ground
Covers you with a thick wool blanket
Begs you, please, sleep

The Flower Shop

All shades of colour
All shapes of flower
All forms of life
Smell the perfume
Through this window
Bury your body in
Lush scent and carnal flora
Passing cyclists slow the wheels of time
Slow-motion riders turn and dream of jungles
Ferns, fronds
And the cool comfort of firm, soil-bound roots
A woman pauses before lilies purple and white
Floating pictures of friends' faces receiving
Organic gifts with soft, reassuring care
A stroke of colour set out
Against a wall or solid oak
The shopkeeper in her urban garden
Takes all venturers at their word
Delicately wraps their feelings in paper and cellophane
With a ribbon

Home

A long few weeks
Home
Sounded from the belly
A return pulling us forward
At last, our island with our bodies
Full-footed at its centre
Materializes beneath us
Radiating lines running off
Dispersed in past time
Now converging on a common present
Two histories wound together in a space
Of shared light and air, breathed in and out
Unfolding time, moment by moment,
Stone by stone built
From a shared cellar
To a common roof