Kitchen
There is a rhythm in the washing, in the drying and the hanging, the stacking and the shelving, through the seasons wet and dry. Mould and dirt and piles of junk - smells of space and things in place - accumaltion, depression and the returning elation in expressions of love. Possibility in plates and tiles and tubs, Kitchens distil things. Swishing, humming, renewing, un-doing - our tactile practical electrical hearts.
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Nits
The nit has wit. Wit enough to cherish old and young, Clean and dirty, Familiar and just begun. The nit stopped me in my tracks. Chasing peaks outside my home then picking mites from follicles - passing an hour through a fine toothcomb, touching the hair of my child. The nit has wit, Wit enough through thin and thick. Tiny and resilient, But never playing Bach. Circle
The sky is blue, The circle is green, Surrounding the city, Paths unseen. The mother is old, The child is young, Haunting the landscape, Songs being sung. The sun is setting, The moon appears, Strange and familiar, Beyond our fears. Elegy for a blackbird
I am flying with company. Swooping out of the hedgerow Across the road, too low - Hard shiny fast big Accelerates hits leaves gone. A woman caught in this moment Stops and looks: innards, like worms beak, intact and bright. my soft pink guts on grey tarmac my perfect beak all ready for a glass box. Listen to my mate intoning a high regular pitch, Listen to the magpie caw caw cawing. The woman listens It means nothing and everything. I am a dead bird. A woman is watching and listening As our worlds collide. Losing my patience
For so long I am patient I hold long-sightedness and evaluation and humility inside me. A precious stone, I polish it daily. Sometimes I breathe on it wash it warm it in my hands. And then when the time is right I throw it and watch it soar and SMASH. |
AuthorRuth Molins - musician and teacher. Loves playing the flute and the piano, playing with words and actively sharing the creativity present in us all. ArchivesCategories |