Haiku #492 – #493

492.

Dad, when you last died,
If you’d known we died with you,
Would you go again?

493.

Memories were tagged
With sadness, bottomless bag,
But now I revel.

On Being Brave

Sometimes bravery feels far away,
Like plantations in New Mexico,
Or statues in a concrete-grey
Of Edith Cavell, or the Arapaho

In Wyoming. Sometimes, nondisclosure
Of memory’s easier than being brave
In the face of his granite exposure;
With less closure, there’s more we crave.

He takes Youth and has our age depraved,
He takes Hope’s wings, our flight’s delayed;
Know this, in Time your role is saved;
Let go of the years, alone and afraid.

On golden platters he gave you some money,
Enough to buy sheers for a hedge;
He held your waist and called you ‘Honey’
In a pool-side photo he would allege

Later like all the others were taken
By someone else, paid long ago;
Bravery will slowly awaken
When money in their mouths we sow.

His words were the same as the rifle
Demeaning and strafing the souls,
Don’t leave free speech a disciple
To the spades for filling the hole.

Keep bravery close to your chest,
Like medals pinned to your coat;
On eternal journeys he is bereft,
Descending in a mulberry boat.

 

The King In The Tree

Blonde was the sovereign
Who scrambled and climbed
Up his own private Yggdrasil
Tree of life.
Preserved like treasures
In stomachs of saints
And livers of knights,
Fecundities of countryside
Forestalled and ended
An early bath
Where the blonde becomes bald
In formaldehyde.

To make his escape
From Roundheads redoubled
He dressed as a lumberjack
Redundant of axe,
He dressed as a servant
Redundant of ass,
He spied on his rivals less ribald troubles
As they scythed through
Woodland rabbit-paths;
Between secrets of acorns he listened,
Foresaw how Roundhead
Helmets would glisten
Beneath a Shropshire basking
In puritanical sunlight.

To this day he pays annuities
For usage of the oak
And farmer’s hay.
From Shrewsbury to Durham
It’s all the same;
Courtiers remunerated more
Than officers and nurses
For keeping weary
Electorates guessing,
And the saints as well
For all their blessings,
Safer then is wealth man-made

To fund partisan coffers
Maintaining the wounds
Of truth while bandages
Are sold on special offer
In sanitisation aisles
Beside the bleach and barbeques.
He has no use for woodland now,
No gain from roots;
Canopies and verdant boughs
Bring neither shade nor profit;
So with ironies of cavaliers

And all the seers sacked,
He summoned several Ministers
To dig up every Oak and Ash,
Alders and Horse Chestnuts,
Every tree that ever lived
In fact, and unplugged
Subscriptions for petitions
And forgiveness.
So never again could
Excellencies be compelled
To hide in silence, betrayed
By leaves and acorn shells.

Isabella

We loved in a realm
For spirits reserved,
Though if this residency
Permitted permanence
I could not tell.
Perhaps it was supposed
To be a turbulent
Temporal visit, until you
Punctured me three times
With love and said I should
Dismiss all thoughts and
Earthly worries, and
Deposit our hearts in the
Underground streams
Which feed the willows
And lawns of Surrey.

The wounds were in me still,
So you coated my coma
With love like a varnish;
How time must tarnish
And blemish and steal!
I blushed in my sleep
While you blew the cobwebs
From my dry and dusty body
And my lungs were refilled.
What I lacked, you crafted;
What I did not know, you thrilled
Me with impossible, vertiginous
Stories beside our windowsill
Where we merged our words
And when I awoke annealed
In a different Time
And different world,
My Isabella, our bones repealed,
I found my soul in your soul sealed.