The Wrong Question

My daughter dabbed and swiped, occasionally 

changing brushes. The arc of her hand 

seemed effortless but deliberate. I watched 

as the painting took on form and colour but I 

could not yet discern a meaning.

I left and returned some time later to find a 

spectacle that engrossed me. My eyes roamed 

the canvas looking for the focal point. I knew 

it was telling me something but I did not know 

what it was. “What is it meant to be”, I asked.

“Oh Dad, you are asking the wrong question”, my daughter replied. 

“What do you want it to be?”

MDC December 2020

Give and Take

We were both takers.

Fearful that we would not survive 

with what little we had.

Fearful that what little we 

could take from the other

would not be enough.

When we took from each 

other we knew what was taken 

was released grudgingly, unwillingly,

not laid down to the other.

So there was never any gratitude 

for what was taken, nor gratitude

to be able to give to help 

the other survive.

Giving and taking was never

going to be the answer for us.

It’s not the answer for anybody.

What we needed was giving and receiving.

Giving and receiving would have

allowed both of us to survive,

or one of us at least.

But now there is no us, for neither 

of us have survived.

MDC 6/11/2020

Wild Confusion

 

The wild confusion of your hair causes you consternation 

Like wiry twists of fencing wire your frustration

sticks out; there is no hiding it

And you so hate the curled morass

that does not conform to your middle class

expectations; there is no abiding it

So you tie it back tight against your neck

Your earrings bright where they bedeck

your creamy lobes; preferring to tame it.

Your desire for linear strands frustrated

nonetheless leaves your wishing unabated

I ask what would help your follicle control

You say to reclaim it.

MDC 2016

When Aliens Arrive

When aliens arrive will their insurance 

cover any damage they do to our planet? 

How are we going to handle delaying tactics 

from a non-domestic insurance company based 

in another legal jurisdiction? 

Will they have the correct currency to cover the

cost of refueling? 

What about provisions for the return trip to their 

home planet? 

Will they pay for those too or expect charity? 

Will they swagger in like pirates expecting their 

demands to be met or will they knock on the 

door begging for assistance?

Will they have bothered to learn our language 

or be like the British and just presume that 

we will learn theirs?

Is there going to be any planning for adequate 

parking space prior to their arrival? And what 

about medical checkups, quarantine periods, 

drug testing and cavity searches? 

Who's footing the bill for all this? 

Then there are the more serious questions:

Will they turn up unannounced at an inconvenient

time, like in-laws, expecting us to drop what we're

doing and play the role of congenial hosts? Is

there going to be a dress code for when we meet?

Are they going to gossip behind our backs about

our dress sense, table manners, children's

behavior or political views?What do we do if they

think pink and green go together? Will they

understand that watching the nightly soapie 

is mandatory? Do they talk only during the ads

or insist on conducting conversation during

the broadcast?

And the most serious question of all:

Do they like football?

MDC 23/10/2020

Here I Lie

Here I lie, in this cold earth

Lying still, if not at peace

The quiet wraps my soul with firm hand

my body rendered to its eternal berth

The worms, they wriggle and they seep

through earthen wall and wooden band

My molecules and minerals reduced and powdered

To soften the bed upon which you will rest

Time will pass with its job done

I lie here - alone, uncrowded

Offering my softened breast

To pillow you when your time has come

MDC October 2020

Wedding at Wang

Wedding at Wang

Adrianna and Matthew, 19th September 2020

Oh, these are strange days and new times.

Global pandemic thrusting narrowness and loss upon us.

Forcing us to reconsider things we didn't realise needed to be reconsidered, and encouraging us 

to consider only those things that have eternal value. 

(And perhaps, giving us a new appreciation of that poor camel trying to squeeze through the needle's eye.)

Society may be in an uproar, the media festering every anxiety, and promoting 

every helpless, hopeless, useless, fruitless desire, but the peace and calm within your hearts is 

the true testament of reality.

The traditional wedding thrown out, not because of changes in social mores or pressure 

to be relevant, but as Solomon so aptly stated, ' There is a time for every purpose under heaven', 

and it is surely evident that the Lord rules in the affairs of men.

A wedding is a time of celebratory largesse, a time to enjoy the company of family, old and new. 

This narrowed alternative, though disappointing and reluctantly endured, will thankfully have 

no effect on the quality of your future life together. And no doubt, no doubt at all, 

the day will be sweet with sparkling sunshine (or effervescent rain), halcyon air, 

trees singing in the wind, clapping their hands, and your hearts growing so big you think they might burst.

It is understandable to grieve over loss; family unable to attend, two guests present 

rather than 200, quietness instead of the murmur, laughter and rabble of excited loved ones.

So, while the circumstances may appear straightened, rest assured that the real gifts 

come with your marriage, not with the wedding, and those gifts come from the Father of lights.

And while we would wish to honour you with our bodily presence, we feel honoured to be part 

of such a great cloud of witnesses excitedly testifying to your declaration of vows which 

will cost you joyfully dear; an event written into the eternal books so, so long ago.

And witness it we will. Virtual wedding guests, gathered in homes near and far, some still 

in pyjamas and some in suit and tie, peering into computer screens large and small to see 

your nuptials through the cycloptic eye of a video camera.

With you in spirit but obviously not in body, unable to ooh and ah over 

the details of your wedding dress, unable to hug and kiss our joy and blessings to you,

but with you nonetheless, and He will bless you; with joy and gladness, difficulty and sorrow, 

children if you choose, and long, long Elysian days of fellowship with Him.

And the unusual way in which this season plays out is a harbinger of things to come and is 

heralding a new closeness amongst us. 

What better way to celebrate that, than with your wedding.

MDC September 2020

Out of Fashion

Out of fashion

He had only been in fashion once in his life, during the penultimate year of his high school education, at the school formal. Flares were in style. Those tight, hip-hugging trousers that gripped from hips all the way down the thighs to the knees, and then, as if needing to take a gasp of breath, opened up to a flared hem that covered the whole shoe. He had read somewhere that sailors wore such things because it allowed them to pull on their pants (or remove them) without having to take off their shoes, saving vital seconds in the event of shipwreck. He had never bothered to follow the path that took such an understandably necessary style all the way to the far removed catwalks of high street couture, mainly because he knew very little about how the fashion industry worked, but he did understand that its engine was emotion, not logic.

The flares he wore to that school formal were bright blue with a crimson pinstripe, held  precariously on the hips by a 3 inch-wide tan vinyl belt. His shoes were black and maroon with platform heels that rivaled the belt in height. A golden orange shirt with a high collar folded over a blue and red paisley tie, whose span soundly trumped both belt and shoes in measurement, finished his outfit. Unless you lived in the seventies, you would have no idea how this could be accepted as popular fashion, but it was not only accepted, but enthusiastically embraced by the masses. Which is not to say that class and good style had fled mankind altogether, as he was soon to discover. 

Walking up the steps to the auditorium where the festivities were being held,  Snow White, the school captain, loudly exclaimed, "Good on you, Chimesy!", as he looked his attire up and down. Pleasantly surprised at the unexpected approval, he raised his chin, stuck out his chest and marched confidently through the foyer into the hall. The room was filled with all the students of the graduating year. The young women dressed in stylish understated dresses; fetching but demur. The boys modelled dark trousers and tweed jackets or subdued sports coats. The only ones wearing bright coloured clothing like his was a bunch of bodgees made up of the undesirables of the school's male population. Known as riff-raff, and conscientiously spurned by all the females in the school population,  Snow White's comment suddenly held a completely different tone and meaning. Rather than approval, he now heard a mocking gloat and immediately realized that while he did not reside, in attitude or academic standing, in the rabble-rousing group, his choice of attire forever cemented him in its membership in the eyes of the other students.

Tattooed

His arms were black and blue with ink. His skin covered with 

words, numbers and pictures

it took some time to sink in - what it all meant. 

Birds, fruit and mixtures of colour. 

Nothing made sense to one so young.  Did he lose 

his tongue and had to find another way to

tell his story? I wonder 

how much he spent on each hieroglyphic. Still, 

everyone needs some glory.

MDC April 2020

My Father's Eyes

‘You have your father's eyes’, my mother would say, 

opening a chasm of consternation for me

When I think of my father's eyes I see the many times 

he came home drunk, face florid with booze, 

countenance sanguine with intent,  

red-sore eyes ablaze with argument and 

belligerence. All restraint spent. He would come home 

flailing with the gratuitous cruelty 

that comes with both disillusionment and 

drunken failure and all my bravery would fail.

My face would just happen to be in the way of where

his fists were travelling to. 

It was best to hide; 

to stay out of his sight.

I don't know if I have his eyes but I know 

I have his hands.

His hands were large with big strong fingers 

and knuckles calloused and arthritic from 

the fights he got into when he was

sozled. His hands were 

dreadful,

awful,  

cataclysmic weapons 

that left welts on my mother's skin, 

bruises that would linger, 

black eyes, 

smashed mouth, 

and broken spirit. 

During those times my mother would look at me 

in her unbearable heartache and smile a small, timid half smile. 

Why does half a smile always indicate 

sadness?

My hands don't look like my father's hands.  

By comparison, mine are soft and temperate but 

I know I have my father's hands because 

one night 

the madness that inhabited my father took up 

residence in me and I, purged of nuance, 

beat him senseless, my anger burning,

turning into a rage that would not have ever been 

extinguished if my mother had not thrown herself 

at me to relinquish the flood of retribution 

flowing 

from my fists.

        MDC 3/6/2020