Remembrance Day

She knows the names

of the trees

on their walk

through stippled grave stones,

untamed grasses.

Spring sun spears

fat broad leaves

Moreton Bay Fig,

Acacia,

Larch.

He wonders and wanders,

from tomb to tomb:

the naming of things,

a mythical art

too puzzling for him to scry out.

“Oh look! An anchor,”

salvage of ship-wreck,

called in now for memory's mark.

“Was it Cutty or Dunbar?”

he used to remember,

worrying now that it's all gone, too far.

“It's ok darling,

let's visit your Mother”

nervous of what they called

'undue distress'.

Gently she guides him,

past white mausoleums

small mound,

black cross,

Robyn's nest.

“She's dead?”

and he kneels,

“Ten years in November”

“It doesn't seem possible”

“Well it's quite certain now.”

“You're angry.”

“Just tired. I want to go home.”

“Well we shall,

by the butcher's.”

And so they return.

Past Moreton Bay Fig,

Acacia

and...

?

Do It Yourself

The table waits,

cradling the nail he

meant to hammer in that afternoon, but,

lost, on his way to the fridge, he

never now will fix.

Wasted in waiting,

for a blow that never comes

though

unexpected falls elsewhere.

The busted leg, its

grain split open waits

to catch every passing friend and

every time reminds

of missing piece.

I just submitted this for workshopping in my poetry class, so thought I'd share it with you all :-)

word to Derrida

You are a black hole,
whose centre is a vacuum.
I am a solar system,
whose centre is the sun.