Sunday, 30 August 2009

SUNDAY 30th AUGUST 2009.

I have only so many words
Each day to say to her
And if they’re used by noon
Then so be it,
And silence will have to fit
The persisting hours of day.

And amid all the demands,
Of what is essentially
A pedestrian life, I wish there
Was more to transmit to my
Children’s mother,
But unfortunately
Some of us have less to rub
Up against deaf ears.

There’s war and deficit
Aplenty, crumbling structures
And lame inductees to organizations
Unheard of yesterday; there
Are words hurled at larger hurdles
Than her and whole novels
Built around lesser vessels, but still
She’s a mystery to me.

If I had all of the evening,
And most of its willing confederates,
Twice the leverage of autumn mornings,
I’d still reside threadbare and she complete;
If the sum of accomplices numbered
As many as mumbles uttered these years,
Then they’d yet refrain from my
Service and wish to remain dumb in hers
For the use of a further day’s roost elsewhere.


  1. The troll (should I apologize or use quotation marks?) seems to be destined for immortality. Embraced & carried over the threshold of time & space with your words she stands before me.
    Here I sit in Alabama pondering this woman who occasionally reveals irregular and yet sparkling angles. Thank God & the writerer dude she's not one dimensional. You don't say these words to her but God knows you certainly say something to someone or some spirit. "A mystery to me," that seem to be the gist of this bad boy. O and I like it too

  2. Thanks Jim, she is a conundrum wrapped up in a riddle and all that.

  3. Studies say women use three times as many words a day as men, Ian. So, you've used up your quota by noon. I get it! :)