The road home

Visions

There is no home like place
Where every smile has a face
Distant grows the fondest heart
Soon it yearns to be apart

When every fake is just a smile
We’ve all been on the make a while
Fighting for a place back home
Where we can eat and drink alone

Provided nothing is completed
Can I retire undefeated?
Softer grows the strongest heart
My angel, I don’t know my part.

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Song for a woman

Songs of the Everyday

How can I talk when my tongue is swollen?
How can I shout when we’re so far apart?
How can I touch with my frozen fingers?
How can I feel with my concrete heart?

And the angel says: just listen in silence
Whisper their names when you are apart
Cool her forehead with your frozen fingers
And we’ll all hold on to your concrete heart.

– o –

For the women in my life, on the 8th March 2013

 

Sometimes it goes wrong

Songs of the Everyday

My guardian, my angel
Did you abandon me?
Where are you now, my angel
Why did you set me free?

Pray, was I too unfaithful?
Or was I so unkind?
Did I forget to listen?
Did I not read the signs?

Are the wheels drifting
Or steering me from harm?
My guardian, my angel
I need you in my arms.

And my angel answers:
You are not alone.
I will send you wandering
I will bring you home.

Ode to muse

Songs of Love, Songs of the Everyday

There was a time when boys would rush to light your cigarette.
Now your relatives come brandishing serviettes.
And there is no reclining torsoed demi-god
To feed your coy reluctance sugared wine on Tuscan bread –
You’re calmly feeding your reluctant sons instead.

And sure, there was a time when Sundek’d sailors
Would come to hang from your strings in the summer gales.
Ahh, those burnished torsoed demi-gods –
They all wanted to drown in your treacherous dreams.
But you’re in too deep now for such trinkety things.

And afterwards you’ll sit and reminisce a little
What had gone right and what had gone amiss a little.
But you’ve no need for the lies of demi-gods.
You have the ear of angels instead.
And I am opening the wine and cutting up the Tuscan bread.

– O –

Written on occasion of Francesca’s birthday.