Where the home is

Called my mother the other day.
Said she wasn't feeling too great
The house is a mess with the rest of the
stuff we kids left behind and the stress
is turning into loneliness
when my Dad doesn't prioritise the way
that she thinks is wise.
But he tries to disguise it with smiles and words
like 'I love you' and 'I'm so lucky just to have you'
These are not lies.
But the rooms are never neat
and the bathroom's incomplete
and between the sheets of paper in her letters I read 'Help!'
If only I had magic hands and
could take away pain replaced by gaining
trusts that things will get better
With acceptance of things just the way they are.
But I don't, and my arms don't reach that far.

Light as

A feather falls from the whitest stained wing
Falls, drifts, floats on a breeze, through space and matter
Always down, down.
Light as it is yet it sinks, nothing to catch it
Falling forever, in silence, in solitude, in submission.

A breath, an exhalation, an inspiration stirs this
token of what once was flight.
It trembles and flutters like the heart of a sparrow
caught in vast, soft, warm hands.
Oh to answer the call of the wild, yet so safe
and endlessly present the unexpected haven.
A breath, a blow, an updraft.

Caught, spiralling, throwing patterns through air
in billowing lace.
Up, up, always up through shadows and dust and
faded memories.
Ascending through mist to the clearest sky, painted
with indian ink and neon blue and red flecks across the moon.