Poetry

Naming day

Is a name really a sound of yourself?

Is it a sound to swap around, change everyday

like putting on a clean top?

Can a stranger see you through your name?

Or only see your name,

bold, italic, underlined. A title.

A head and shoulders of letters, signatures,

a stamp of approval,

a certificate of achievement.

And what of money?

Is your name built of it?

Do people claw and maul,

trying to steal just a little piece?

Or is your name part of your skin,

a map of your life.

Connected, always.

You. Truly, simply, you?

Poetry

Foward to:

I reached up towards the whispering trees to tell

of all the things I’d seen cascading upwards recently.

The distant past, stone faced, stone minded,

stone mouthed. Confronted by flat facts

that illustrate the cover of the world.

Foil lettering given to signatures on toilet paper,

topiary hedges with red painted roses

casting a dripping grin down at the green.

Light flickers behind.