he lovedthe sun shonelike it knew we needed itto keep us from falling apart.we came togethera family lost in griefand disbeliefthat someone so strongcould ever really be gone.he loved. God, did he love.he was loved. God, was he loved.he was our rockthe foundation on whichwe leaned, the steady presencethe towering oakfrom whose acornsgrew images of his greatness.he was the calm eyein the centre of the world's stormpeaceful, ever-helpfulox-strong, feather-soft.he was our serene placehis was a kind facea quiet giant, who sailedterrible waterswith a gentle smileand he never, never stopped loving.to the end he fought bravelytenacious and defiantbut the heavens needed him morethan we did, and at the endhe seemed to acceptthe new journey he faced.he loved. he loved. he loved.he still lovesfrom his new place of restand he is born freshno pain, no fearjust love, his caring naturelives on through his family.a new star shines brightlyin the sky, now.ever watchful,
the way things areSometimes I look at myself and everything's just wrong;I've got nothing where there should be stuff and random bits stuck onand there's changes happening to some parts as time's moving alongbut there's nothing I can do to change the way that I was born.I don't hate my body, mind, it's been good to me through lifeand I know some of it will be fixed with help of surgeon's knifebut I need some help convincing folks I'm husband, not his wifewhen my voice betrays me, but to tell them could cost me my life.And I know I should be grateful to live in the time I'm inwhen things are moving forward and I can show the man withinto doctors who can help me to rearrange my skin(as long as I fit narrow meanings of what 'a man' means)This body birthed a child who's been my saviour to this dayso I can't wish the body I was given clean awaybut sometimes wistfully I can't help thinking of what mayhave happened if things had been different had nature not betrayed.Sometimes I look at myself
from Paris with loveI rage because children live fearfulfor their lives, because our answeris always more bombs, because we thinkthat dead children are collateral damageand that their parents deserve the despairof losing a son or daughter so precious.I storm because my peers forgetthat people are real and they bleedand they feel, and they cry, and theylose their will to live when babiesare torn apart by a force they can't controlsent by the government of a countrythat hates them, and they don't understandwhy hatred exists, what they have donein their ordinary lives to deserve it.I cry because it could so easilybe my little boy raising his arms to a camerabecause he believes it is a gunbecause it could so easilybe my little boy having his worlddestroyed by people he's never metbecause it could so easilybe my little boy laying dead in the dustof wartorn country full of fear.
The SwanA woman films swans swimming serenely on the lake.Her camera doesn't see the kicking feet beneath the surface;nobody sees the force the dignified creature puts in to every strokeof its huge webbed feet, propelling it across the waterin a way that seems so effortless, to the casual observer.But while we see a gentle, carefree meander across a lakethe swan knows pain. The swan knows the battle of endeavour,the power it must exert in order to fulfil its journey.The swan knows struggle, it knows how to push itselfto painful limits and beyond in order to achieve its goal.All the watcher sees is a swan gently swimming across the water.Every person is a swan, and the world their watchers.
what wasn't saidNobody ever said, of me,"and those eyelashes - wasted on a boy!"but they were.One Christmas morning I awokeexcited for a bright red bicyclemy first, red for strength and fire;but it was pink.The little boy I was knew pink wasn't for me(though the man I became adores it)and disappointment seared through meinterwoven with the guilt of the audacityof feeling disappointment.Of course, my parents hadn't knownI desperately wanted a red bike.They saw their daughter and thoughtshe was beautiful and pink suited her.Nobody ever said, of me,"What a bonny wee lad! So handsome, so strong!"but I was.When I was ten I was so desperateto fit in with the other boysthat I joined the school football team.but I hated football.I tried with every fibre of my small beingto play, and to play well, like the others.But sport of any kind was not my forte,perhaps an omen of the broken bodymy adult self was to find himself inhabiting.Of course, I was never one of the boysI was the tombo
A Letter of ApologyI’m sorry that I let you believethe bullshit binary beliefsof cis society on sex.I’m sorry I wouldn’t let youspeak up for yourself.I’m sorry that a midwifeslapped your arse and declaredyou were a certain type of personbased on what she saw between your legs.I’m sorry I let you let themdress you up like a pretty doll.Looking back, you were beautifuland I am sad for themthat you never existed.I’m sorry I never told anybodythat the reason all your teddy bearswere boys, was because you feltcloser to them, that way.I’m sorry I didn’t speak out.I’m sorry that the boy within youwas hidden for so longthat he thought he’d disappearedfor far too many years.I’m sorry you were so surprisedby blood between your thighsthough they’d told you to expect ityou’d prayed it would never arise.I’m sorry for every lip glossin your sizeable collectiongathering dust in landfilland I’m sorry f
BATHING AT SUNRISEThe world movesand I move with it, a speck of duston a child's globe.Silence surrounds my beating heartexcept birdsong through an open window,then broken by playful foxesspeaking in tongues.I try to listen to the words of the universespoken to all but seldom heardbut all I hear is bloodrushing in my ears in gentle thuds.Outside, the air is cool enoughto dry the sweat on my browand cleanse my aching lungs.Body unbound, I feel more freethan daylight ever allows meand the hairs on my skin rustlein a gentle breeze.The universe speaks, and I crane to listento its wisest wordsbut I am too imperfecttoo humanto understand them.
the author gives instructions for his deathDon't sanitise me when I'm dead.Don't dress me in a suit, fill your headswith notions of perfection I couldn't fulfilin life, and never can in death.Don't erase the parts of me that hurt you -don't delete my dubious history.Rip out the rings from my pin-cushion facecoat my tattoos in makeup to hidefrom the world things which made me look uniquebut don't hide from the world my true wartsmy faults and foibles, don'tpretend I was a saint.Don't dress me up as special when I'm gone.Don't stand at an altar spreading liesabout what a good person I wasin life, when you know that's not the truth.Don't forget the parts of me that made me humanmade me imperfect, that you hated, thatmade you want to kill me until I was already dead.Remember the parts of me that made you cringeor shake with anger. Remember my personhood,remember my humanity and neverforget the sinner that I was.
The CallHe whispered down a cold telephone linevoice crackling with crisp angerdripping threats that chilled my soul"Why did you tell him I raped you?"Heart beating to an out-of-time drumhairs standing up, reaching away from meas I wanted to get away from myselfbut mostly from his voice on the line.No words. No murmur. Barely breath, eventhe world stood still and I panickedguilt and shame rising in my throat like bilestinging my unmoving tongue. I musthave made a noise, some involuntary sounda death-rattle from my heaving stomach."Why?" he repeated, and I could barely think,let alone speak the words. Because you did.Because you did. Because you did.I gathered my trembling wits and breathed outslowly, so that he would hear that I was there.I put down the phone, and he disappeared.
HAIKU - COFFEEI like the way thebitterness of my coffeemakes your mouth sweeter.