Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

Just Pretending, by Sally James
Thursday, August 30th, 2007

Just Pretending

In the hall his anorak lurks
with sleeves that wrap around
the waist of mine.

Once he had things in his pockets,
crumpled receipts from the petrol station,
battered wage slips, scraps of paper with
mobile numbers scribbled in pencil
and other things men like to have,
just in case. A couple of nails
for the gate he never mended,
small parts for his Landrover,
coins that had seen better days,
a damp box of used matches,
and in the front pocket with the zip
there was a compass on a cord,
and a ragged map of Wales.

His scent lurked in the seams,
under the arms, around the neck,
and traces of his beard nestled
in the hood, wiry, ginger
and curled like a question mark.

The odour has faded now, disappeared
like the colour of my hair and the glitter
in my eyes, but the curve of my mouth
is still the same as I cook the evening meal,
listen for an engine rattle,
a cheerful whistle, the familiar
squeak of the front door and the sound
of footsteps in the hall.

sally james

Monday, July 9th, 2007

I bear many strange scars
Some visible
And Ink
Some invisible
Blackened and Charred.

The biggest scar
Is the wall
That’s under construction
Around my Body.
Scar Tissue Inaccessibility
Means no more Wounds.

Monday, July 9th, 2007

in love with death,

part of me was buried in that casket too.

fucking terrified

of everyday situations,

only running on 3 cylinders,

one more blow

might be irreparable.

attracted to the bony visage,

no man can compare.

i only want the one thing that i can never have.

not to much to ask for, huh?

Distressed Haiku
Saturday, January 13th, 2007

You think that their
dying is the worst
thing that could happen.
Then they stay dead.

—”Distressed Haiku,” written by Donald Hall shortly after the death of his wife, poet Jane Kenyon.

The Perfect Gift
Tuesday, December 19th, 2006

A shopping center. On a bench
I sit in silence
A dark smudge on an otherwise brightly colored canvas.

Families bustle by,
Loudly arguing:
Stress over locating the “perfect” gift.

But little do they know
That perfection
Is the time spent with their loved ones.

My perfect gift is non-existent:
There is nothing
That I want more than to have my partner back.

Wednesday, December 6th, 2006

my skin,
starved for intimacy.
his hands:
so masculine,
and yet
so careful.
his chest:
burying my nose
in the hirsute warmth.
his lips:
a perfect, soft pink pout.

my soul,
hungry for a connection.
his eyes:
sweetly seductive hazel,
contained a knowledge of me
that i may never see again.
his brain:
an encyclopaedic library
of our memories together.
his heart:
pumping our blood, life and love
throughout his body.

now, decay:
the vessel returns
to dust.
does the soul live on?
my legs, worn.
my feet, tired.
looking and looking
for a sign
that part of him
is still out there