Pressed

The white rose

you gave me

the day I left you

in our gypsy wagon

is rusting at the petal tips.

Cells of mortal memories

Are always called to this.

You wanted our developing

To end when I pushed

You away

And now you want me

To return

Because I’ve got your back

But plucked it was

By your fair hand and

I’m not sure I understand

How our soft start

Accelerated already to this?

When Walking Over Muddy Fields

Start slow,

Keep your eyes on the baby steps low

Do not look too far ahead

instead, plod on

Know you will get there

Find stones and tree roots to press

your careful feet into

Follow the dogs for high ground, not pigs

they look for hollows to wallow in

Scan the sides for elevations

however small

And don’t take the bramble’s jokes

personally at all

When climbing up a muddy bank

follow the footprints you know

Steady as you

ninja go.

Hygge

These fabrics…our society...maybe cloaks…friends…enveloping…soft fond fringes… rich brocade ties…binding fast…snug between breasts…for when we tear…mindless into awful chill…bitter souls…deserted…if we cleave to one another…clutch and cling right tight…then perhaps…be scooped up…swaddled babes in fine yarns and balmy fragrance…braced…dandled…clothed decently together…for a secure landing.

Culture

To those of you who claim

We humans are harmful creatures

That should die or go away

I say

Put out more food for the birds

Lay some hedges

Give them room to play

Be the change you want to see

Grow some hay

Nature had a plan for us

Her thoughtful chimpanzee

We could get back to the garden

Together

You and her and me.

Song of the gulf of Boni (Bone)

Why do you not know what separates us

When you presume to name me

After your body parts?

To then exist unseen

As if transparency

Means no personality

When…For all your industry

Dirting on my shores

You’re stuck in the shallows

Where mine shape yours

Licking and rinsing you clean

Salty balm for your festering sores

Feeling what you should see

Bone solid is not the only way to be

Still…You bathe in my edges

Because you daren’t

Go all the way down to deepness

Where spiral gyres move and shift

Too much pressure for you

Skin child, rude chimpanzee

Clinging to crusts

When you could be

Symbiont grooming me

Instead …You brand with numbers

“Eighty miles long, thirty wide”

Avoiding the fact I’m the majority

I’m not even a me

We are a body

Planetary blood coursing

Adventure energy resourcing

We are water

Ceaseless sea

Bike Capital

With straight backs on long legs
bare and free, vrouwen ride this city
Juggling shopping, smartphones
A cup of coffee
one an ironing board
three kids eating ice cream
all pulling assorted dogs on leads
Filling the roadways with cycling scene
No hills but bridges to alter the pace
Proud of its universal welcome
Amsterdam is a smooth place

All of Love is Opportunity

I’m  lost   

in  this  thickening  

fog  of expectations  

fermenting  beyond  their  prime  

on  who  said  what  to  who  again  

and  why? 

as  though  

if  we  can  just  unpick

the   blame  thread  

we  can  each  hold  up  our own  head  

and  cry  righteous  tears  

about   our  un-dead  love  

still the only thing

we  both  know  

is  what  we  can’t  let  go  

because  once  it  was  the  only  show  

we  wanted  to  watch  

but  now  it  is  a  stale  rerun  

of  knots  that  have  been  undone

longer  than  either  of  us  wanted  to  believe 

because  all  love of is  opportunity

 Even  when the  sheets  are  clean  

never  to  get  dirty again  

and  all  this  linen  we  keep  trying  to wash  is

stained  indelibly  with  us  

but  even so  I  fear  

our  hearts  will  never  be  reopened  

after  all  this  vinegar  soaking

because unless  we  stop  provoking  

all  that  we  ever had  will  be  tossed  

like  leaves  plucked  off in  summer  

never  to  let  the  tree  recover  

so if  I  don’t  want  to  be  lovers  

that

doesn’t mean  

I  don’t  still  love us

Slut Shaming by Maj Ikle

Like rose petals on a mountain-top

She is delicately exposed

Wafting earthly erotic embers

Scenting our air with desire

Soft lips tremble yearning

Bare of the spittle

That flies frothy from

Your stiff metal gob

As if shame is your job

To cover her up lest she

Sets the whole world on fire

But how many names

Does one language require

To slander women

For glittering with sexual salt

Tell us mr policeman plod

Who died to make you my Daddy god?

 Summer tour 2016  dates confirmed so far....

 Saturday July 16th poetry for the dykes dyke (with surprise special guest!)
    http://www.lfest.co.uk/l-fest-2016-line-up/

Queer Spirit Wed 16th -21st August
https://www.queerspirit.net/festival

Camarthen festival one night stand july 9th in aid of Red Cross

photo by Dominic Williams

Children Again

Some grizzled man

Who once was four

Holds a tiny grandson hand

By a pebbled sunny shore

Teaching the thrill of throwing stones

Safe, exuberant, secure

While wind tears hair

From the back of waves

Trying to Canute the fall

Before ebbing away for more.

was twittered about x

https://twitter.com/writestuff41/status/697745332713689088

Aylan

I wrap his body

In the finest tabloid paper and

Tie quality strings

With tight little knots

What else can I do with

My celebrated son

But send him to your better world

Filled with food, shelter and toys

I whisper a last goodbye

As I place him on postal scale

Weighing him heavy against

The price of hope

But we both know

He’ll grow cold this Christmas

Under plastic needle trees

With their fake magic dreams

 

Flowering

-->

It was my older Sister

who inspired me

To say, fuck it

I’ll not wear a bra

Today. My mother never

Could have, for I

Was afraid

Of the way hers sway

My Great Aunts

Let their mouths stretch

As they laugh

About how lewdness is their

Art. Shaking their heads

Like cudded cows

With nothing better to do

Than fart.

But my Grandma

With her wiggle on the dance floor

A kid from

A street called

Rough. She was

The one who

Stirred me up

To really strut my stuff.

Riots in Reflection

Is our custodian of calm,

Time?

So elastic and plastic and thin.

Or is it purely a technique for keeping track

When we want something looking back?

Perhaps she’s a gentle nurse,

Tucking souvenir tickets into our pockets.

Tender times spent waiting with children,

Unwilling to urge them into any rat race

Or when I pulled you from beneath a truncheon

moments before it split open your girlish face

The day you wanted something from me but I gave you only words

Wasn’t it you who said it is time we grew up? With

Time a lighthouse blaring warnings of imminent rocky ruin.

Tumbling through hourglass figures to settle on the underside of our hips.

Scorching moist elastin into a salty dry skin that cannot be rubbed young.

Time never stretching languid again

nor preening in the heat wave of unlimited opportunity.

She’s truncating, cooling and separating,

Breaking us like flotsam floating away still.

My nemesis moving fast forward

Intent on her kill.

Queening

I bet the queen wishes

She was someone else

Entirely, a postie or a

Poet or even

A genuine retiree

So many things

She’ll never feel

Like what it’s like to be unknown

Or beaten up

Or sent back home

I wonder if she dreams

Of saying goodbye

To that waving work

Then just going down the boozer

And acting like a total jerk

But why do I seem to need

Celebrities and the VIP’d

Them up on pedestals

Me sucking my thumb

Waiting for mum?

All Love is Opportunity

I’m lost in this

thickening fog of Expectations

 fermenting beyond their prime

On who said what to who again

And when

As though if we can just

Uncover the blame thread

We can each hold up our own head

And cry righteous tears about our undead love

Still the only the thing we both know

Is what we can’t let go

Because once it was the only show

We wanted to watch

But now it is a stale rerun

Of knots that have been undone

Longer than either of us wanted to believe because

All love is opportunity

Even when the sheets are clean

Never to get dirty again

And all this linen we keep trying to wash

Is stained indelibly with us

But even so I fear

Our hearts will never be reopened

After all this vinegar soaking

 unless we stop provoking

All that we ever had will be tossed

Like leaves plucked off in summer

Never to let the tree recover

And if I don’t want to be lovers

It doesn’t mean

I don’t still

Love us

Hollow

Victory has a spineless sister

Whose skin she filleted

When their childish games turned sinister

Not content with slapping face or breaking bones

They blew their mother up

In a race to live without a home

Now Victory stalks the streets

Searching for clean sheets and pillows to weep on

But everyone is dead and gone.

tweet poem about world war two.

Pushing through earth to find, blood of mother’s sons feeding my veins. I cannot weep for I am but a flower, but I can blush.


I'm grateful for my prize book token with which I bought "the paying guests" by Sarah Waters
 Maj x

The Outsider Inside.

An abandoned hostess trolley to one side of a shin high

Smoked glass occasional table

Reflects a jostle of trinkets

Somethings to dust when the telly bible bores

Cloying, intrusive, wonky

The filthy mirror makes her want to tell lies about herself

Not sad skinny, bare bibs behind long hair

A modern day lady Godiva; all posh phony pony and pig pink skin

But behind her brush stroked browns jazz with orange

And cobweb greys give her away

Memories of other peoples’ mother’s houses,

When they are not home but she is there,

With them, alone

Working them up like a spider, leaking blood to build bone

Don’t give her a lecture on the romantics, things smell wrong

If the room could talk, a caricatured voice would say

“Don’t interrupt the themes, however crazy it seems

Try to match the furniture and just subsume”

But she wouldn’t know,

To whom.

Roving

The feast is untouched, like a web in a copse,

But my fingers are greasy and aging.

The spiders of my mind

Are spilling homemade wine,

Stains drip heavy and red from the table.

The fixation on change is an old one I know,

Running determined yet blind toward tomorrow,

Dewdrops of jewellery, wink the sunrise, so

I can’t stop the ache to get roving.

Fruits fall, unpicked by tender hands,

Berries ferment in the dog days of summer.

Life is lush and darkest green with leisure,

Still a tugging on silk strings pull onward

To a lust for faraway buried treasure.

The future has seen, what I was supposed to have been,

As the buzz of a thousand flies start their swarming,

And so home is lost to me now, as I nomad my plan

To follow the river wherever she goes flowing.