Poem: The Telling of Riches

My worth is not to be teased out in the sum of my earnings

Judge it instead, by the contents of my bookshelves

By the thoughtful seedlings

That I collate and curate

Nurture and germinate

Budding into leafy life

On rooted branches

Know me by the prose and poetry

That feeds the fertile field of my mundane existence

The blooming, sensual buds that pepper my soul

With erotic wickedness

Know me by musicking fabrics

Those collages as flighty as birdsong,

As winged hopes posing side by side

On leaning branches

She is to be trusted

Who lines the heart of her home

With an armoury of intellect

Who fashions from the fragile triumphs

Of another’s best endeavours

A virtuous fortress

Mounted on the head of the mountain

She is generous, who,

As her fortress rests

On the rhizome of its foundation

Beckons you across the threshold

She who sits

Who shares

And who grows with you

Until, with the seasoning, seasoned waters of time

You are

Both the richer

Roundabout

Get up, fall down

Get up, fall down

Metaphors of the Fight

Resonate right now.

Two steps forward; three steps back

Repeat ad nauseum

It hurts:

To fail

[Intransitive verb] “To stop functioning normally”

To be  

The embodiment of defeat

To claim Descartes as self-defence

Body-mind, body-mind

But where am I?

To disappoint

[Transitive verb] “To fail to meet expectations”

As childish moral inculcations

Crumble

Defeated edifices

Before beaten eyes

To surrender

[Transitive verb] “To give up completely”

To let

Teardrops punch pillows

With angry fists

The release

Of hostage frustrations

To rage

Against the dying of intellect

Against the theft of corporeal liberty

Breeze in sweeping hair, water on grateful skin

Sensual freedom

Robbed before sleeping eyes

Collect your self

Start again

Reshape your self

Repair exposed, wounded gaps

I will not give up

I will not give up

I will not give up

I will not

Give up

Da capo ad finitum