Slow Breakfast

for Jennifer


Fish and coffee in the morning,
fried the day before, the coffee fresh,
favourite day start of mine,
from mother's culture to son passed.

And stories and news in the morning
are not so hard to take in and absorb
as the day is yet to be unfold
against the ending of the world.

Her skin from dreams lightly salted,
her wild mane flowing perfectly,
hiding her face from me as she
heads to the bathroom to holy pee.

That white noise once extinguished 
tells of her return to warmth,
those air-cooled body ends all
touching and soft awakening me.

Bed linen a seascape of stormy seas
bettered by relation-ships: vessels
brimming with coffee and fantasy,
bound from her brain to our bed.

'Stay the course!' the captain
shouts to whomever's the first mate, 
soon to be promoted by sheer  
sharing of raw fish being fried.  

God’s Dream, according to Pope Francis

There can be no confusion between the family God wants

 and any other type of union.

The family, founded on indissoluble matrimony that unites

 and allows procreation, is part of God’s dream and that 

of his Church for the salvation of humanity.

Pope Francis, addressing Vatican judges on a bill that

 would legalise civil partnership for gay people as well as for 

unmarried heterosexual couples and which is being debated

 in the Italian senate.

Italy is the only major western European state not to

 recognise civil partnerships or same-sex marriage.

Despite the European Court of Human Rights condemnation

 of Italy last year for failing to introduce a law on civil

 partnerships, its passage has been held up by objections

 from politicians of all stripes.

The Guardian

God’s Dream

It was revealed that Thou dreamst, dear God,
and that Thy dreams are only known by some,
like Francis.

Why then hast Thou made us dream other dreams?
Thou hast been making us plural, yet some,
like Francis,
were made to tell us that our dreams are wrong?

Pray, tell Francis, in his dreams, that our own
are of all the godly dreams the sum,
and that his dream is just one
of all the dreams Thou hast forced us to dream.

After that we might begin to, as we want to,
like Francis. 

Late Bloomers

for Jennifer


Blackberries blooming late,
wild, tucked in thorned beds,
a flower for a throne, fruit
evolving colours: green,
rose, red, black;
a fruit which is many, 
a face each drupelet. 

Summer’s ending, thus
much longer shadows are being cast,
grapes and longing are being harvested,
reduced into wine.

Two blackberries are now jam;
sugar was added and they were boiled,
mixed first with other berries,
the right consistency was reached,
screwed was a jar lid, 
and a hand painted cupboard 
gathers dust, a daydream,
a kitchen door left ajar.




______________

photo by Sage Ross,
admin on Wikimedia Commons

Spooning

for Jennifer


We are spoons, you and I.
Face to face, staring at each other’s concavity.
Reflexes reaching out from our deepest ends.
Distorted? 
Upside down images in each reflected upright?
And then when you turn around we fit in perfectly. 
Puzzle pieces.
Puzzled in a way that makes sense.

And our spooning soon progresses.  
One of our favourite sex positions.
Your leg on top flexes.
It opens the middle gate.
The common country where we'll unite.
One of my arms holds the weight of your thoughts.
That hand freed for touch.
The other hand fully free to touch you bounteously—
a fisherman's wife's dreamed octopus but in a decimus form.
And then we feel.
Spoons holding our liquids.
Drops us.
Flow.

*   *   *

The other days, most of those days, we were lying down.
Our convex back on various pillows.
Our minds flying above us.
Scooping for organic food.
Lost in translation, in complexity found.