the meaning

Meaning does not hold in a sentence
when I do not desire to talk.

The pale winter morning
carries in dark folds
the moon that dissolves

into light.

The same question:

does meaning reside in the failing light
or in my seeking your eyes?

no thing

He walks near the sea,
clutches green with his senses,
not from memory of the color,
of her vein
           translucent emerald with touch.

The breath rises and sinks
like the flight of a hummingbird,
chest heaves and chants –
do not save love for anything
                              for anyone.

For how long can one hold madness,
or moonlight in the cup of hands
scooped from the wild river
that races the blood to a heart
                     that has stopped beating.

Are stars falling from a firmament
that is empty as in endless?
What mind cannot grasp
does not exist.
Telescopes regardless.

Photo: Samantha Goode

moon is only a word

I toss the word and prod it so that underside shows; it appears different, metamorphosing right there on the ground as did the moon in the sky today – wordless, empty without a luminosity that makes me ache with longing.

A blue thread slices through time neat, spins a web spiraling and transfixing the moon in a newness, weightless with wings fragile like rice paper, willing to be torn. I saw my name disengage and fly, laughing in the new found freedom.

The perfect moon moves several notches up, filling with words from my crowded mind. I axe through space to carve out silence that could be death. Lines are slipping away from shapes, sounds become deflated sails.

After all the word did not travel far in time, stayed close like a shadow for a while and made way between lines, into a poem; but its orbit is now like the drunken moon with a mysterious arc that I can only follow and not trace.

heart of the sea

The sea shell is wrapped in a dirty newspaper blown by the breeze; it cradles in its peach scoop of heart secrets that I whisper. I see them crawl out, worms of worry to sit on the ridges – veins of the deep sea, folds of the blue sky.

Wind blows the cloud away, wisps of dreams make the moon tremble, ripples of waves fall in the centripetal pull of my love for you. You ask how sky and sea are connected. By the shell that breathes in the steady hum of the car.


Photo: Petr Kratochvil


I adore the hair sprouting on the chin. I run my hands on the bent spine,
the dimples in buttocks where unease sits, the incessant burning of the skin where even a fragment of dream becomes an irksome burden. Pain outlines with a thick marker every cell in her body.

I listen to her talk day long about incontinence; she begs to use the diaper through the day. Please. Please. Please. She is worried who will wipe her bottom, who will cook porridge if I am travelling. She panics, blood has drained from her face upturned toward me from the wheel chair where she is bunched.

I touch her hands, the skin lacy with designs like a butterfly’s wings. I have learnt to respect those flakes that fly like fine dust to encode in me patterns of life and death.

Jude Hill
Photo: Jude Hill

texture of love

Memory is the brittleness of dry leaves  on sidewalks. Dynamites implode the trails where colours and smells steadfastly hold my hand and show the way. Aqua, sepia paint my feelings, tell me stories of sun drenched days. Like the one where you carried the morning on your bicycle basket.  Strains of music like ribbons tighten into knots, grains of sand fall from the places you touch, and the body codifies every touch and texture of love.


Photo courtesy: Lori Clinch Adams