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

Dichotomy

How is it that the same tree expresses opposites?

Yesterday, that Pepperina was stately, gracious, smiling at me 
with benevolence, a sage viewing the world with patient musings, 
its diurnal presence a torch to the joy and calm a life can produce.

Today,  giving no excuse to the prison of penury or the freedom 
of wealth, it is a sentinel to judgement, its hairy arms immovable 
to prevarication or perspective. It looks at me with rigid obstinance, 
mutely frowning at my choices.

Yesterday, a friend. Today, an obdurate bystander.

Giving Thanks

I refuse to be sorrowful, to be condemned

I refuse to cast away my future by 

letting the past dog me; a vulture waiting for

my last breath

Instead, I take a deep breath

Fill my lungs with the sweet air of the present

And thank You for the mercy You

have shown me by showing me that my past habits

do not have to be my future faults

I shake with trepidation, with shame

I shake with the uncertainty of my 

future but at least I now have one that is not an offence

to me or to You

Lampstand

Your fine, fine gold 

gleaming in the gloom

The stature of your frame would grace any room

Seven branches, identical

Far surpassing all that’s 

ecumenical

Each bud and flower beaten 

to within an inch of its life

Their history riven with suffering and strife

Yet grandly there you stand

Firmly rooted on crown 

land

Superb structural glory!

That seems to define your life

But pales into darkness compared to your light

Your bright, bright flowers

Petals of light

Removing all shadow, dispelling the night

Nothing more glorious

than your effulgence diurnal

Steadfast, pure, radiance

eternal.

The Evidence of You

I was taught while young of Your existence and while I have always been

convicted of Your existence that has not stopped me searching for You.

Where do You dwell? 

In the expanse of the heavens that You made? 

Science has conclusively proved that this is not so, although the weight of

circumstantial evidence is indeed heavy. 

In the nature of this planet that You made? 

Once again, science proves otherwise, but in doing so breaches its own

laws of mathematics. 

In the mind and thoughts of Your greatest creation?  

Even there, within the most mind-boggling complexity, we find no actual

evidence. 

Your word gives us little clues, like, 

Darkness is His hiding place

How can I be so convinced of You if I cannot find proof? 

What kind of fact would be sufficient to satisfy the burden of proof? 

Again, Your own words provide the clue. 

By the fruit of Your labours. 

I know of Your work in me. 

I know how you have healed me physically, not once, nor twice, but 

(by my reckoning) at least three times. 

I know of at least one healing of my mental facilities. 

Then there are the numerous times You have changed my soul.

Times too many for me to remember, the changes being too wondrous

for me to articulate.

In considering what proof would be sufficient to 

appease my uncertainty I realised that it would be the same

standard that we place on others. 

For we don't easily abandon our own thoughts, perceptions and opinions to

another unless there is an ample quotient of one condition -

Trust

Trust is the essential ingredient for a true relationship to exist between two.

Without trust there will always be some element of suspicion, uncertainty or

doubt. And having arrived at this understanding I realised that I need not have

any further doubt, and the uncertainty I was experiencing was 

not over Your existence, 

but over my ability to walk the path You have set for me. 

And because I do trust You, I can also trust Your work and Your hand on my life,

for there is one thing that I am certain of:

Your loving kindness.

MDC

September 2019

At the News of Your Death

My heart hangs like humidity in the air cloying, 

compressed, confused

My armpits are pouring with sweat and my brow drips

It's not the closeness of the air that does this. The vista 

of my future 

fractures, shards of dreams raining 

down

Past and present rendered 

futile

My perceptions questioned and the vanity of my intentions laid 

bare for all to mock

All my harsh words shouted in advertisement. My kind words 

silent and deleted

The apology that would heal this wrong stuck like cold 

porridge in my throat, 

too late 

to be delivered.

MDC

September 2019

Slamming Doors

This is what I hear.

A car door slams shut, then a few moments later, slams shut again.This repeats over

and over until I have the clear impression that it is not the same door being slammed

shut, but it is the same car which is having its doors opened and then slammed shut.

Almost a dozen or so times the doors on the car are opened and shut. This little

pantomime occurs at least once a week, sometimes more.

What happens is something like this.

My father, who is mostly blind and mostly deaf, takes the picnic basket out to the car,

opens the passenger-side rear door, places the basket on the back seat and slams the

door shut. He then walks back to the house to gather up the picnic blanket and walks

back out to the car. He opens the driver-side rear door, places the blanket on the back

seat and slams the door shut. He walks back to the house with the intention of collecting

the thermos flask to take out to the car but cannot find it. He walks around the house for

a few moments looking for the flask and then decides to go look in the car. He walks out

to the car, opens the driver-side rear door and looks down at the back seat and does not

see the flask. He slams to door shut, walks around to the passenger-side rear door, opens

it, sees the flask lying on the back seat between the picnic basket and the door. He slams

the doors shut, happy that he has found the flask and it is now in the car. When he gets

back inside, my mother, who still has a good grasp of her faculties and beetles around

the house doing two things at once on a slow day, and more on a “good” day, asks my

father if he has seen the thermos flask. She can’t find it and she hasn’t yet filled it with

coffee for the picnic. Dad exclaims that he just took it out to the car, although he didn’t

realise that he was taking it out to the car at the time, and goes out to the car to get the

flask. He opens the passenger-side rear door, picks up the flask, slams the door and walks

back into the house with the flask. He gives it to my mother who asks my father if he would

mind checking that the driver's seat is adjusted to suit her (as she will be driving). My

father walks out to the car, opens the driver’s door, checks that everything is as it should

be, then slams the door and walks back to the house. He tells my mother that the seat is

set as she hands him the thermos flask. My father walks back out to the car, opens the

passenger-side rear door and places the flask on the back seat between the picnic

basket and the door. He slams the door shut and walks back into the house. A few

moments later, my mother, now having her coat, scarf and walking stick with her, comes

out of the house with my father following. He opens the driver’s door for my mother and

helps her into the car. Once she is comfortable behind the wheel, he slams the door

shut, walks around the to other side of the car, opens the passenger door, climbs in and

slams the door shut. My mother asks my father if he remembered to lock the front door

as she did not see him do it. He opens the passenger door, climbs out, slams the door

shut, walks to the house, checks that the front door is locked, finds that it isn’t locked,

walks back to the car, opens the passenger door, leans in and collects his keys,

straightens up, slams the door shut, walks back to the house, locks the front door using

his key, walks back to the car, opens his door, climbs back in and slams the door shut.

My mother starts the car and they drive off.

A few minutes later, they return back into the driveway and stop. While the car is idling,

my father gets out of the car, slams the door shut, walks to the house, opens the front

door, disappears inside for a moment, returning with my mother's purse, closes the front

door to the house, locks it with his key, walks to the car, opens the passenger door, gets

in, and slams the door shut.

Finally they drive off.

Irukandji

I float in water, relaxed.

The sun warms me.

The water cools me.

I feel safe.

The gentle rocking

of the ebbing tide

lulls my senses,

allays my fears and

disarms my defences

The gentle caress

of your long, soft fingers

are barely felt on my skin.

Slowly you nuzzle and fondle me.

You embrace me.

You envelope me.

Then, scantily,

without a sound,

you box me in.

Your sharp sting

heralds my death.

Irukandji.

My Flat

My flat is tiny; two rooms really. A bedroom with small ensuite, and a kitchen/lounge.

It has bare floorboards and ageing wallpaper, but it is clean and everything works. By

that, I mean that the doors close and do not stick, the plumbing does not leak and the

taps do not drip. The windows open and close with little force and the electrical fittings

are solid and safe. It’s not drafty, neither is it airless or damp, and there are no smells,

or skittering noises in the walls.

When the weather is inclement, the whole place feels solid. The glass panes in the

windows do not rattle with the wind or protest when hail is cast against them. An

occasional shudder during heavy storms is about the only protest that is ever elicited

from the walls and there is never any moaning and groaning in remonstration against

such furious tumult.

There are no views to speak of from either window, and the only one with any real view

is over the kitchen sink. I have to stand on tiptoes and crane my neck to the right to gain

any real vista. The reward is not worth the effort. The rooftop of the building across the

way is not ugly or interesting, but it's better than a blank brick wall.

It’s a solitary tenement and I chose it deliberately and could not believe my luck when I

found it. Being solitary, tucked away at the top of the three-storey building, means that

there is a quietness that I love. When I first walked through the door, it was as if the

room greeted me with a tranquillity that almost bordered on rectitude. A reserve that was immediately prim, a calm that was not impassive. It was at once welcoming while stating

the boundaries of it capacities with frank reality.

The small size of the rooms means that my meagre collection of furniture looks adequate

and well-selected. There is room enough for my records and books, although, after some

time I have had to begin culling the number of tomes that I keep as my bookshelves are

beginning to object to the weight they have to endure.

I loved this apartment immediately, but I came to love it even more after settling in. Each

Spring a mother bird with a clutch of chicks nests on the roof above me, the cheep-cheep

of hungry throats providing a replacement for my morning alarm. There is a cellist on the

floor below, at the other end of the building, that practises most nights, choosing to play

full scores rather than scales and unending arpeggios. Whether it is the design of the

insulation or a trick of the architecture, I can enjoy the sounds that come through the

windows and walls without it bothering my concentration or sleep. On some nights I listen

to the cellist rather than play my own music. On week-ends the conversational chatter

from the cafe on the opposite corner finds its way in through the window.

I spend most evenings either reading or writing, while listening to music. I am alone,

but not lonely; never bored and never lonesome. I do not consider myself a recluse.

In fact, I am firmly of the mind that I am an extrovert, requiring the company of others

to recharge. The quietude of my abode engenders a similar response in my own

demeanour, and eventually, in my thoughts and perspectives. It may sound funny, but

I have come to think of the flat as part of me, and me as part of it. We suit each other.