PAGE POEMS

    Although he is best know as a Spoken Word Artist, IF is also a prolific writer of poetry intended for the page, rather than the stage.

     

    All Is Change

    rain drop
    river current
    sea spray

    no finish
    no complete
    no perfect

    all is change

     

    Dreams

    Because you dream
    you know

    although in the morning
    like Peter, you deny

    Still
    each night you return
    a Lion to the pride
    roaming savanna and starfield
    drinking the nectar
    of moons and playing tag
    with the gods

     

    Bells 

    When we touch
    church bells ring
    choirs sing
    and flush with the Holy Spirit
    we talk in tongue
    moaning a sermon
    on the power of love

     

    Exiles

    For those we
    cast from the circle

    for having skin
    the colour of our fear

    speaking
    to strange Gods

    or loving
    outside the lines

    for the times
    we choose indignation
    over understanding

    outrage
    over compassion

    righteousness
    over the offered embrace

    we ask forgiveness
    and pray
    someday
    to be
    as courageous as you

     

    People of the Purple Heather
    For my hard working, hard drinking, hard living Scottish ancestors

    My ancestors were people
    of the Purple Heather
    net weavers, sky readers, sailor-fisherman
    salted by sun and rain

    They whispered to rivers
    took the counsel of moor-stone
    fish scale and sinew
    out-waiting silence

    Converted by the blade to worship
    the Hebrew desert god
    they stooped like bent nails
    before the iron pulpit
    ruddy skin
    raging, wooly red hair
    hard as shame
    thrifty as the spider
    proud as the eclipse

     

    Purgatory

    6 month I slept
    with your tragedy
    woke with your blood
    pooled on my tongue
    your touch;
    a sulfur burn
    that sang
    like a
    coiled snake
    your memory;
    a ghost that left
    fingerprints

    We were the self-destruction twins
    me, a blind mercenary
    you, a Carnival barker
    our love, a vandal’s canvass
    a furious garden
    where flowers
    stooped in sorrow

    We were a foreign film;
    all angst – no subtitles
    stripped naked
    rubbed raw
    our cute little basement apartment
    a wreaked playground
    of quicksand
    and vacant liquor bottles

    You ground me to silence
    fractured me open
    taught me to see
    in the dark
    walk backwards
    and howl myself to stupor

    The end came
    as inevitable as argument
    as Saturday night sirens
    gravity always has the final word.

     

    She Waits

    See how the Oak waits
    until spring is almost over
    before joining the great, green parade
    and watch
    how come autumn
    as the other trees kneel, naked
    she stands, still robed in gold
    regal, proud as a palace
    mountain strong