What we were

Some wanted more zeroes
At the end of a dull white page
With their “please turn over” mentality
Already sniffing out new ways
To dig old wounds
Wounds tender from numerous
Pin pricks of cold technology
Seeking salvation of sleek appliances
For the slow demise of creativity

Cardboard boxes only good enough for storage
No climbing of trees or sugar cane raids
To make us feel the rare earth singing
In our marrow, a simple ecstasy
Sand grains exfoliating heady adventures
Of spinning wood and string
Team play, with shiny glass orbs
Rolling in the dust, outside barracks

Later, oil drums welcomed tired behinds
To fire side tales of the wild boar
Thrashing about in the long grass
Rapt, pale faced, we listened, hushed
Eyes darting, from brother to sister, to
The next brother and the other sister
Cold spines stealing comfort from evening fire

Morning bird concerto played right on cue
While sleep held little bodies stubbornly
Water boiled outside; with fallen pine cones
begging for the comfort of calloused hands
In simple pleasures, we forgot Tomorrow,
A place in the future; Full of zeroes
on dull white paper, and tender wounds

Read between the lines

I pulled the book
It was Bukowski
Leaf edges dog eared
Severely, thumb woven almost
And, with a mild shudder,
I dove
The crashing words below
Threw up foamy spray
Streaking my face, like tears.
The dark cliff edge, cliff notes
A keening, plaintive wail so
Close to my body
Beseeching almost.
While I pondered, it hit
Or I hit
I couldn’t tell
Body entangled, engulfed
Wave upon wave, of words
Pounding the mind
Into the deep current,
I struggled, gasping
Memory broke in, a
Harsh, grating shout
Chastising, warning me
I forgot, Dear God, I forgot
to anchor a safety line
Too late
I’m drowning