Back to the books 

The grind begins 

Needless to say 

Not time to stray 

Put the bottle 

Back where it came 

Or should I say 

It’s time to play 

Stock up the fridge 

Ready to binge 

This is my shelf 

Behave yourself 

Laptop in hand 

My earphones on 

So, it begins 

Time to learn things 

Turn back to look at the backs turned at me or plummet into the abyss. 

The edge of the precipice is not very forgiving. 

She thinks I’m like a red herring, swallowing her bit by bit with my lustrous lies. 

For her, it’s all a multitude of lies raining down like droplets of miasma. 

To me, it’s just the irrepressible truth like the lambent sun on a cloudless day. 

I remember her fingers gliding through her hair. 

I remember the vivid and scintillating look in her eyes. 

Looking at them under the shadow of light, I dazzled like a sunbathed moon on a full bloom 

night. 

It was still, I could hear her whisper while I drowned in the melodies and harmonies that her 

slender fingers played. 

Alas!! I miss the sound of her.  

Indeed, the edge of the precipice is not very forgiving. 

My whims and wishes came to an end, her bleary eyes looked beautiful to me. 

I was trembling, ready to topple over in an instant. 

“There was a precipice, and I was falling. 

Falling head over heels, in love with her.”  

Was I ever at the edge of a precipice? 

Probably I fell, without realizing the fall. 

Maybe I’m overdosed from amortentia, writing poems without a meter. 

No rhythm, no rhyme, burdened with thoughts that won’t get me a dime. 

 

I trespassed into your womb, 

Not sure if you ever wanted me to. 

Neither did I ask you. 

The place where I hid from the world, a place I sneaked in without consent. 

Writhing at the edge of your womb, sliding my head into a stream of misery, afraid I’ll be no 

longer safe and sound, I turned round and round. 

Kicks and blows were the gifts,  

Your pain was entwined in my twists. 

Havoc and mayhem, wrecking now and then.  

I couldn’t give you more, nor did I know how. But all you did was smile, like you found 

something you long lost, long loved. 

 Ma, I’m not sure if I knew you before. But I felt safer in your womb. 

A picturesque frame, soothing and pleasing as it may seem, reminds me that we don’t 

remember the days we were most loved! Like babies in the womb, we continue to go round 

and round, no longer feeling safe and sound. 

I’m bored of my friends dying.

Three have gone this year so far; Margaret, Mary, Brenda C.

When my phone rings and I get the news, I cannot help my sighing.

Friends drop like flies that should be flying.

They emptied Mary’s penny jar; the coppers to her daughter, Jean

I’m bored of my friends dying.

For Brenda it was terrifying,

They said her mind had gone too far; loved ones’ faces out of reach,

My phone rang, I got the news, I couldn’t help my sighing.

This I found most horrifying

They cut down Mary’s magnolia; it always was her favourite tree

I’m bored of my friends dying.

I find it hard when clarifying

Who is it in this memoir? Which friend in the obituary?

My phone will ring and I’ll get the news, I cannot help my sighing.

I’m bored. And all my friends are dying.

No wonder the years go by so fast

you said to mum and me

As we sat shoulder to shoulder to shoulder

While pebbles shifted under our deck chairs

In your garden

You pointed at a dandelion 

From way across the grass 

Your frail finger told me to grab the shovel

So I could be your arms and legs again

And pull her out

Her roots were cracked and snapped and twisted

As I unearthed her feet 

And I held her lifeless body in my fist

While struggling to squint through the April sun

To look at you

I could feel your smallness like an ache in me

And wished I could give you some of my fullness.

I couldn’t.

So instead I went to fill your glass

And thought myself selfish

For thinking of all the poems I would write

And how sad they would be.