A port of no reply

 The port was somewhere ahead of them
Distance kept moving its position
The Hopeless looked back towards hills
Observing trees running rebelliously into rain

Water ran down their faces
Shoes filled with brackish
Someone laughed and nobody spoke
A gull followed, a floor board croaked

They passed houses with yellow wooden panels
Families eating comfortably behind curtains
Warmth was as foreign as they were
The hopeless and unwelcome

At port, ferry lights flinched and flashed offshore
Engines running somewhere in darkness above waves
They stood together without speaking to stay warm
Trying to remember where they were supposed to arrive

Hold your burden

 We lift them into trunk
One bag falls open
Fruit rolls beneath the car
Brace for the bend

Pick them up one by one
dark concrete reflecting
The overbearing will of the sun
Lighting up a play on stage called human scurry

Watching from inside the car
Waiting for us to finish
Hands resting upon wheel
Eyes fixed on comers and goers

We close all the doors
Climb inside beside our burdens
Air conditioning kicks in like a drug
But heat remains outside like a crowd

The road opens ahead a mouth
Weight in the trunk
Hunger in our stomachs
We carry everything with us

A piece of Jenny's mind

 I write, I cry
I listen to music, I breathe

I meditate, I lay on grass in my garden
and just be

I dig holes and pull weeds
I sing loudly in car

I turn music up loudly
and let bass
rumble through my chest

I give the day
a piece of my mind

usually behind closed doors
not as passive as people think

I walk thoughts become smaller
Leave myself somewhere behind me
and keep moving

I lift children
I sweat
I put things back where they belong

I cook something simple
wash plates
open a window

I make plans I may never follow
then follow one anyway
because sitting still catches up

I go outside seeking a reason
look at what is growing
remind myself
I remain

The half built life

 The walls are standing without a roof
Scaffolding around the places we abandoned
A staircase leading nowhere
Still I keep climbing

Workers have gone home
Tools left across the concrete
A window looking into another room
Nothing finished enough to leave

This is what we were given
A building with no final floor
Carry the pieces up
call it living

Sun overheats the inside
Rain fills it up like a swimming pool
All we are
are umbrellas floating on the surface

Inside the house of the heir

 Small hands grip carved wood
climb towards the pillow
Little face appearing above sheet
A kingdom Inside a tiny human

The room becomes disorderly
toys beneath the bed
clothes over chairs
milk bottles beside lantern
Royal nest overrun

Years passing through the golden floor
Bed losing its importance
Two bodies just parents
Jungle growing around them

Small town Brasserie

 Burnt concrete floor
Oversized wine fridge
begging to be seen
Wait staff don't quite have the confidence to dance
But pull off awkward half twirls and turns

You could almost call it a brasserie
Black aprons with beautiful thin yellow print
thin white towels tucked in
Still moving to a beat the customer could not hear 

The dark brown grain of the wood
Matching the lowlight coming in from the window frames
The waitress and waiter young and restless
Folding serviettes for the tables

Bar woman drying a wine glass
holding it upside down
and putting the towel in from underneath
Looking upward to the soft light of a ceiling lamp

Counter flow

 Runners in their expensive clothes
with their determined grins
Little pouches of optimism
Running like a line of livestock
Following the backfoot of the one infront

The mesh fence all the way to the capital
each person a wire filament
And I there running against the flow
Of their busy bodies
Their desire to feel the collective

To be counted
to be included
To enter the city gates as heroes in their heads
And celebrate afterward as if life was solved