Is It Hope?


Others swallow deadly blows

and creep along the ground –

you rise up and lift your head

and take a look around.

Phoenix from the smoking ash,

Jonah from the whale;

is it hope that keeps your path

on elevated rails?



Chewed by stalagmitic jaws,

tender flesh is given pause –

Jonah’s promise still holds true;

Grace’s grip is freeing you.

Lines Drawn in the Sand

Your branches rake the sky,

impotent fingers curled in grave-clothes

clutching pipe dreams of the Living Ones.

Your skin has long since

ceased to hold its contents,

draining your life’s blood into the sea

before being spewed onto the sand,

a jinxed Jonah, a shrivelled mummy with no sphinx

to mark your place.

In life,

you hatched egrets and expelled oxygen

and marked the seasons with your foliar calendar.

In death,

here you are,

washed up,

a beached whale

whose art is a shadow,

┬álines drawn in the sand…