I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Sunday, 8 March 2020

HER IMPERFECT MEMORY (a.k.a. Two Poems for International Women's Day)

Her Imperfect Memory

All she is now is a name,
full name so as not to forget.
Sometimes she's her golden mane
with curls as memory set.

With focus she becomes her stance,
her wrists bent down as she walks,
little jiggles suggest a dance
but soft groans whenever she talks.

And yet every morning, she’s there
right on the tip of my tongue,
obsession with absent blue stares
soon gone with the day begun.

She Died at Second Cactus

Mary the Sioux,
they'll say,
made a move for their guns,
those Hamish Boys,
and fired through the brim
of a ten gallon hat.

The boys so startled,
Mary shot a boot
and ran through
their screaming,
caught up by their cursing.

Out of breath
in an open desert,
Mary passed a cactus,
emptying both barrels
till the Hamishes
were halved.

Facing away,
Mary the Sioux,
felt and was felled
by a fraction of wrath.
Last glance at a second cactus.

Yes. The second cactus.
There is an end.
That should be it.
Still onward wagon
to a foregone conclusion
of a White man's devising.

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