by Anita Nabonne



Ambidextrous Art


Writers sing poems
of painters painting the poetry 
written by Jack of all trades -
all in tune
with the artists and writers
awash with melody's brush,
waxworks of
watercolour songs
burst from their tired larynx.




a black line




I touch my hands to the ceiling,
just one idle afternoon,
flatten my palms
to see the bar -
to feel the extent
to get the measure of my limitations -
and the plaster cracks
my powdered ego
falls about my shoulders.
Spluttering, I wipe away
the offending particles
of my superficiality -
I frown at the superficial damage
and dust to survey
the impression I have made
and the dents to my alabaster.



a black line


Stairway to........


were potions
would oceans dry
up and volcanoes fume
until the heavens coughed
and torrential rain spears fell
down piercing the ground ’til wave
upon wave of weapons ran in tidal bores;
or weird spells be cast – like we were created
as the dinosaurs departed with the use o’witchcraft
and trickery of bearded old men’s wizardry or was it all just
a bad dream, or perhaps the hopes of a crazed false profit on drugs?



a black line




Is a tepid moon glow
poetry - and within it


a still scene of serene, black sea
incomprehensibly holding

its arms out for me?

So then death be my slumber,
stillness be my peace,
and placid waters run eerily

consumed in depths
of lead buoyancy -
serenity is my slumber
now that death has been

laid to rest, buried deep

in its tortured grave


war's overkill.



a black line




I said goodbye
like to an old pen pal
infrequently visited,
but landing postmarked
on my lap
with the unwanted laments
of sweats that cling to strangers
passing on their greetings
to hands of my
indifference and clammy
opinion -
I had said goodbye
to menopause.



a black line




Twisted fibrous strings
command frivolous play
at jointed limbs.
We dance and are jigged –
woefully rigged
when each jarring movement
is in turn deliberately
fraught with venomous tugs –
Each jolt brings attempted revolt,
but the puppeteer snarls –
our lifelines become gnarled,
entangled in his bitter torture.
Unravelling his capture he spins
and mocks till we are unmeshed –
shocked – till we don’t know if we are
coming or going.
Wooden shoes clatter,
as smaller figures who don’t matter,
play to an audience
and bleed
into the pockets of the puppeteer’s
Swift but doleful we have become,
dancing to the puppeteer’s hum.
Lifeless, hung out,
no route of escape.
We dance and we clip clop
a charade
man made, pulled
and lulled along
by a succession of tyrants
who just want
to see us wriggle
and squirm like
the moth eaten marionette –
always ruled –
once unfurled.




a black line

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