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Poem

The building is white,
ivy eating its way up the broken walls,
windows small
and scratched.

Poem

The walls of the room are white and clean -
all sign's of yesterdays sorrows scrubbed
away with bleach.

Poem

She is not here.
Not beside me in bed
nor in the room
at all.

It has happened

Poem

We watch them, hypnotized.
Pale and mysterious,
They rise and fall. Joe says
“They look like ghosts.”

Give The Ball to the Poet
Poem

When they were young,
She kept wicket for her brothers,
They batted,
Bowled,
Padded up
And ratcheted up the score.
She crouched behind the stumps
Keeping wicket.

Poem

When I was little

Mom would read me

a book each night

then tuck me in

and kiss

both cheeks

and my forehead.

 

My dad

would be at work

Poem

My twin brother lives across the street,

once in a while, we meet to eat,

he listens to me, lets me talk,

doesn't complain and doesn't baulk,

Red Cherry Red
Poem

I was born with a map of Australia on my face;
it was beautiful, my mother told me – 
there was nobody like me in the whole wide world
who could trace the edges of down under

Poem

My Gran was a Caribbean lady
As Caribbean as could be
She came across to visit us
In Shoreham by the sea.

Poem

This is my story.
It is mine alone because I am the one who needs
to tell it.
I am the one who is still here,
no longer stage right but

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