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Steven Brock
Visit from an Old Friend
We sit out the back
Smoke and drink beer
The kitchen window
Lights one side of his face
Giving his eye
A reptilian hue
I wonder
Why he emerged
From the rock of my past
So that I might try to live up to the image of a former self
Knowing how much
My work mates
Have corrupted my thought
And thinking also
It might take another 700 hundred years
For a poet to write about artificial light
As well as Li Po
Writes about the moon.
The Poem I Never Wrote
The other day
I thought out a whole poem
and never wrote it down
or maybe I wrote it down
and lost it anyway
or more likely
I wrote the poem
and found that it was no good;
it was to the idea of a poem
a broken umbrella,
not even an inside out umbrella
but one that never opened in the first place
despite having carried it around all day.
Slow
For once I'm slow
watching a snail
close up
in the backyard
with my 5 year old daughter.
Weeks later
the snail emerges
in her drawings,
and now again
in this poem.
In-between
I do not know
why some days we are one
and others
two people so different
that even the way
you breathe
or drink water
seems strange to me,
nor why
some days we are forever
and others never again,
but I do know
that in-between
I lose myself.
Orion
I show my daughter
The saucepan
She cannot make out
The constellation
Despite my efforts
Until she says
"All I see
Is a big cat."
Now whenever
I look up at Orion
I see the Cheshire cat
Grinning back at me.
Copyright © Steven Brock
