Casually swept past the orange flame, father’s call in tow,

Lung, tooth and nail, a swirl of air sweet to the taste.

A god who gave you this smile, the man who gave you this

Scrap of godliness that sent your soul grinning.

In this world, it all ended well. All sweat and exhaustion

Breeding the silent current of survival, disappointment,

Borne patiently by brown earth and water.

Where, only where, the eye can fall,

So the heart does not rend.


This poem has been submitted to this week’s short story slam.


O, fiery god of air, do stumble

A lulled grimace of waves pursue

Instruct in me a hoisted insurrection

Wilt the peregrine leaf


Tie your tears in knots, my fair, spirited companion

Pray lest unbalanced sun contort

The vice of comprehension

Had it been yet another garrulous sojourn to death’s teeth

We could have been buried with emblazoned poetics


On deck – sick, weak-kneed, porous youths, all but you

Eyefuls of grey sand, tongues of a Doric column

Wielded as if sagaciously, in truth

Scorched by the salted water


Oblique, like my father’s fall was your last grasp

Where Naxos punctured the embalming sea

Your whispers haughty wraiths of stricken reason

Have sedimented us in madness of the myth


O, pious gods of stranded metaphysics

Gorge sacrificial smokes of crude despair

Your deftly sculpted eye always already inward

Like those you led to death – and therefore saved.