Journey into Postcards

Fallen trees cushioned under
The deep foliage of undergrowth and careless footprints
When you fall, I pray
That my blades can hold your tender weight.

The very first time I attempted memory
It failed me. I was taken to the 90’s
To the dusk of a millennia
Where nothing existed say for
The memory of a shadow, or a photograph
As if it had been mine all along.
So, mother
There is no need to remember your arms
Or the serenity.

For the journeys into night
Into a possessive darkness –
Your second child.

Postcards from the places I have gone, and felt empty
Foreign ideas that made the longing whole
How inaccessible that vessel is
To tell you that I am bound East
Where that could mean escarpments, walls
Between the union blood between us
A house of silent geraniums
Away from the fertile land of hands
Groping me into huddles

To fill the place of photographs
Framed guilt, tears.
Still, postcards. Remember me
Like I remember you.

Perhaps I will love you only with words
Fallen short of gibbous mercies
Awkward embraces
Perhaps a handshake can bridge our curtained forts.
Of moon sightings,
Where your face is dawn.
I am desperate to tell you something
If I only knew what it is.


4 thoughts on “Journey into Postcards

  1. Wambui Wairua says:

    This one is amazing. Poetry like this takes me to places so wonderful that I am afraid. I hope you never ‘perform’ it or allow someone else to, I think it’d spoil the effect.

  2. I’ve been thinking about music, which is a sort of perfomance, and the music of meditation, which I hope this is, and how it would sound as spoken. Listening to it offers something different, don’t you think?

    • wambuiwairua says:

      Perhaps, but I think it sometimes tethers the mind to the performers tone and interpretation while reading would have let the mind roam freely and wildly.

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