Not Geena Davis

I do Love a woman

Who comes out fighting

Back against the wall

Who is not

Geena Davis on a waterwheel

In a poem where she struggles

In the bubbles - surfaces – a conch

And clam in her hands

Knife between her teeth.

I do love a woman

Who is not Thelma nor Louise,

Nor a flat earther in Dover believing cliffs

Have no edges – I do love her

And wouldn’t drive over, either.

I do love a woman, deeply

I do know myself, for what

Good is a conch and a clam

If the one that loves you

Cannot understand this trumpeting silence?



https://stash-of-poems.blogspot.com/2009/07/she-dives-like-geena-davis.html

a poem before breakfast...

I wish I could write the poem I woke up with, the one that heard the pneumatic drilling and didn't care that they were digging up the road again - but that time has past, the time between laying these words down on a page, to the now of drawing the sliding doors closed on the balcony lessening the impact of metal on tarmac on a much irritated brain. The children played louder in the kinder garden, Jake, with a blue bucket over his head, Annabelle twirling in her pink check dress, while the poem on vanity, love, and grace, slipped over into an abyss of daylight. To remember its flavour - is little comfort as the drilling comes through the glass. Instead my teeth complain, my brow upset that the poem is lost, my mouth annoyed that I have run out of water to break the fast - and the cost  is editing this poor second hand copy before I dress and head for the bakery, my feet taking me further away from the poem that said what I wanted to say about love  and compassion, finding a little more peace the other side of her face, and a little more the killer, the other side of mine.

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Tenerife, edited version 05/2020