|
|
|
|
Lunch at the China Club with the diamond tribe a chance to display a new bauble or two. The things I take in my stride!
Ooh, look at the shoe it’s Jimmy Choo and the boots so slick, Manolo Blahnik.
Dear diary I nod and smile it’s always fun to join a tribe even the diamond one, for a while.
Although I can get smug and so out of it “outside, my darling, the world is bleak and I did not buy a single thing this week ‘Be a bag’ – not me Cartier watch – not my style look at me – miss designer nothing”.
Cut dead then when I would not discuss the zone diet until I trilled “have you seen my phone can do a zillion things, so-o light, and not available here”.
Just the right jibe to put me back in the tribe.
(From the series ‘Aspiring to be a Tai Tai’)
Don’t pry don’t ask to whom I pray; if it changes from day to day, if the entity is male or female if I fast and for whom don’t ask, don’t ask.
I know there are forms to fill; spaces where I must write, neatly and in caps, the beliefs I’ve claimed dog tags strung tight around my neck
agnostic, atheist, multi-faith, irreligious, liberal, gregarious, star-gazer sun-worshipper and to top it all open-minded
yet searching for a word to describe my true religion, which began one solemn day when I thought impermanence could be invited at will
I wished to be a ribbon of mist trailing in the cold blast of the stratosphere but found I’d stayed within reach of earth; why, I was still grounded
Drawing breath is an act of faith, one I’ve embraced; running, jumping, keeping time, sucking in air, choosing to each new day is religion
Monday to Sunday, just living is an act of faith.
Watch this skin I’m in.
I could shuck it off.
Present it to a young boy to surf in.
I could scrawl ‘Ripcurl’ on it.
Watch as I wear my other skin
the one that doesn’t swim but is carried around in the bottomless changing bag.
Both skins are rudders guiding those with eyes
Whichever box you put me in
one skin approves
the other defies.
Some say you were killed by the mad woman you made your second wife.
I always knew ever the fighter pilot you were on a self-destruct mission
Flying your jet laden with bombs some shop-bought, some homemade: whisky, tobacco, the knowledge your mother never loved you.
The vague verdict: death from burns
Heat seared away your skin yet when I laid my palm on your forehead to say goodbye you were colder than the icebox I found you in.
(From the series ‘My Father’s Life in Mine’)
|
©
of
all poems featured on this site remains with the
poet |