30 Day Poetry challenge 2012 - Day One

The man who lived on a cliff*

There once was a man,

who lived beside the edge

of a cliff top.

He spent his days

bathed in warmth,

his view broken only

by a wooden sign

with the number

of a helpline

written on it.

Everyday he watched

and when people walked

towards the edge

he followed them out

and asked them how

they were.

Officially, they said 

he had saved

136 lives.

Unofficially, it could have been

thousands.

*Based on a true story

30 Day Poem Challenge - Day 30!

The Woman on Screen

The woman on screen
is covered in blood.
Her friends weep,
and shout
and wail
while she stares
dead-eyed at the wall.

My hands are covered
in paint and glue.
I stick squares
of paper together
to take my mind
off the horror
of scripted television.

The woman on screen
describes the terror
of her attack.
She tells of the violation,
the disgust
the fear.
Her body is covered
in swollen bloody wounds.
Your wrist is broken,
they say to her.
Your hand too.
Maybe your nose
and eye socket as well.

My phone beside me
beeps. I check it
by stabbing buttons
with sticky glue-ridden hands.
The message tells me
to stop watching,
to walk away.
I refuse.
I am waiting
for the happy-ending
resolution that television
can give me,
even if life can’t.

The woman on screen
walks away
from the hospital.
She does not know
she is part
of a scripted show,
she is making me
forget this too.
She does not know
that she has only to wait,
that she is guaranteed
a happy-ending.

I check the time.
The hour is almost up.
The woman on screen
is still walking away.
I wait for the resolution,
for the moment
that will allow
me to sleep tonight
but instead
the credits roll
over a picture
of her bruised
and bloody face.

30 Day Poem Challenge - Day 29

A Haiku for Basil*

Rain splatters the pavement
A lost dog sniffs
at the butcher’s door

*Basil is an escape-artist Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who lives in my neighbourhood

30 Day Poem Challenge - Day 28

Enigma

The sign taped
to the coffee machine says
We do not accept
the consumption
of any food or drink.
I stare at the plate
in front of me
and wonder if taking a bite
will cause me to be bathed
in disapproving looks.

I ponder the wisdom
of a café that permits
you to buy food and drink,
but does not consent
to the eating of it.

I squint at the sign,
ignoring my food
until I grow bored
of the game.
I take a bite
and then another,
and another
until the food and drink
have been consumed.
I do not get a single
dirty look.

I ponder the wisdom
of a completely
inaccurate sign.

30 Day Poem Challenge - Day 27

Playing Pacman

I am told
that visualising
chemotherapy
as happy things
swirling around your body,
making you better,
improves your chances
of recovery.

Visualising chemotherapy
as a poison,
coursing through
your veins,
making you sick
and killing
your cells,
decreases those chances.

I visualise chemo
as like pacman.
Nameless.
Faceless.
Without agenda
or brain.
Point them
in the right
direction
and they will eat
until they bad cells
are gone.

Tomorrow,
I will injection
myself, with a team
of pacmans.
I hope they
enjoy the food.

30 Day Poem Challenge - Day 26

Normal

We speak about normal
It’s a lovely day
You look so well
I like your dress

We don’t talk
about awkward,
or uncomfortable,
or about the soft-centre
of sickness
growing in our stomachs

Our smiles stretch
until they are no longer
friendly, but just simple
barings of teeth.
We forget to listen,
instead obsessing
over whether
blinking now,
will make us look
unfocused

30 Day Poem Challenge - Day 25

Tall tales

My sister’s a doctor, you know,
she amputated her own leg and sewed it back on.
She fails to explain how it is that her sister has no scar
nor does she explain, how it is that one goes about amputating their own leg
or why it is that one would want to.

I was vegetarian from birth, you know.
I’m actually kind of allergic to meat.
She is eating a cheese burger as she speaks.
She follows my gaze to the dead cow in her hands and says:
I’ll be very sick tonight, I may even have to go into hospital.

I was born with only half a lung, you know.
She says it like it’s an achievement,
like she is proud of the fact that she struggles for breath.
She then tells me, that she is a surf lifeguard.
I puzzle over how it is that I, with two healthy lungs
can barely swim one hundred metres,
yet she, with only half a lung, is the one to save the drowning.