Tag: poem

This is not Foraging

The wicker basket hangs vacant off my back.
The leather straps move loosely across my shoulders.
I am slumped over the hollow pit in my stomach,
As if to protect the rising ball of fury.
Gentle fingers stroke the broken limbs,
Torn stumps of frayed wood-fibre.
Sap bleeds with silent screams from a dozen wounds.
A sob violently ripples through my body.
Hot tears fall onto cold wilting leaves.
“Leave no trace.” Opa* taught me.
“Your foraging should go unnoticed.”
I bent down and pick up a broken digit.
Before I survey the clump of damaged Rowans.
Not even green berries are left here,
Leaves and limbs carelessly discarded.
The disregard a visceral vice around my skin.
Eventually the ball of fury escapes as hot curses:
“May this pain return to you seven fold!”
This is not foraging.
Hands on rough bark, salt mixes with sap.

close up of a ripe rowan berry umbel, background removed

*Opa = Granddad in German

The Chilli Plot

I drop the lid back on the pot.
A satisfying clang cut off the steam.
I pause to listen for gran’s trot.
Afraid of her discovering my scheme.

I turn around a smug smiled face
And freeze in place as does my sass.
You lean against the door with grace,
And notice the traitorous chilli glass.

Understanding dawns in steel blue eyes
Mischief and panic in fast succession.
“How often have you used the spice?”
You sheepishly ask a vital question.

I stare at my feet and can’t remember.
“About five times.” —I am sincere.
Your shoulders slump in mute surrender.
“Me, too.” Your eyes meet mine with fear.

Gran’s face bright red; she wipes off sweat,
And raises her brows at you and me.
We share the stare of maternal threat.
I’m shrugging at you, and you grin at me.

Luck has it that this threat was never fatal.
And ever since, chilli is a table-stable.

Footfalls

Your footfalls echo through the dark.
Somewhere the owl hoots
swift wings gliding.
She lays awake waiting,
night after night, moon after moon.
Lest she misses your ghostly attendance.
Bringing both,
solace and pain
to tortured grief.
The foxes’ sinister bark breaks through the night.
You pause in one another’s presence,
Two restless spirits,
one spectre, one flesh.

Unstructured Thoughts

I have been thinking about you all day.
The day after.
It began the moment I passed the robin.
An almost spring morning.
Life assuring song on top of his lungs.
Witch hazel blooming.

The first day after death.
When you are faced with the facts that:

  • the barista keeps working,
  • the milk is delivered,
  • the sun has risen,
  • the world is still spinning.

And you, you are left behind.

Not quite at the same pace with everyone else.
Not quite in the same space with everyone else.

Still with the one who left.
Yet utterly bereft.

Hot air created foam in rich milk.
You can’t taste the pain au chocolate.
All noise is behind a thick glass wall.
One foot in front of the other going no where.
Ice cold wind slashed your face unbeknownst.
The last roar of winter passes you by.

And you, you are left behind.

Dear Bum

Body Image Recovery

I wield a sizable bum,
As shapely and wide as they come.
With a wiggle of my hip,
I make the scales tip,
Bringing down, without a frown,
The most obnoxious clown.

Another of my woes,
My chubby Hobbit toes,
Adorning Hobbit-ish feet,
Which never miss a beat,
Stepping, tapping, moving to gigs,
Bringing along aforementioned hips.

If you care to look close,
There is my Romanesque nose.
Thanks to the brute,
I will never look cute,
But if I am ever out of a job,
I could work as drug-sniffing dog.

Now genetics are mostly to blame
For cellulite and varicose veins
I got nothing here to address this matter
Though without my veins and skin I would certainly not be better*

Therefore, I must conclude:
Dear hips, toes and brute,
You have served me well so far,
Despite not hitting the bar,
We dance, hike, smell, jump and run,
And have a heck lot of fun.

*Editing I realised that verse could be cut out. (2024)