Songs of Home (Poem)

DSC_0324We’ll build a house with treasure
stashed under the floorboards
and a piano in the living room.

So if it all falls down one day,
through the tears
our rubble will sparkle, and the keys,
broken teeth in our crying mouths
will be gems shining while the dust drops,
and we’ll remember the songs of the first home,
to sing while we build the second.


A Poem on Magda Giannikou


Modestly, spanx under
a pop-pink, pleated tulip skirt peeks,
as she’s bouncing, knees bent, elbows out
pink sheer shirt sleeves rolled, ready for action,
the lumbering accordion breathing effortlessly,
so sensitive to the band and our feeling,
while her flat bare feet stamp the floor,
singing and clapping fills the room with colour,
her squeezing and stretching,
her face big, and open in reaction to playing
and theatrical nods to the crowd.

A mish-mash of cultures, rhythms and sounds
and languages.
Happy, liberated.

View from a Breakdown in Les Hautes-Alpes


Bright mustard lichen, stuck on
silver skeleton trees, looked on by
taller, boney figures, grasping bushels;
moss green mistletoe.

Rich evergreens, staining
a weathered grey cloak
of ashen winter, reluctant spring
mountains; aged and towering –

pale dead wisps, yellow
amongst swathes of scrub, ’round
old tin-roofed houses, under heavy cloud,
with shuttered windows,
wood, stone, sleepily shadowed
by grander nature.