Poetry | Stories | Photography
A letter entered the letterbox.
A crisp envelope of ivory with
Parchment-thick paper dated today.
Good news, Kerree, your time has now come.
Afraid, I turn the letter over to see
the title, ‘Making death easier’.
Gathering thoughts seems to surround me.
Further down, the words read, ‘Activate Today’
with several graphic diagrams.
A knock at the door scares the old cats.
The man says, ‘Hello, there has been a
clerical error. Your death isn’t required.’
I return the letter steadily.
the leaves of Autumn
to hover over the death
beautiful colours
picking the one that feels right
press a leaf between pages
The olive tree cries
Blood-stained roots long for water
alone in her death
Once the dwelling place of God
now turning to dust and death
communion with trees
called the cursed, malignant girl
crying to the sky
church bells carry her body
killed by a feverish priest
Her heart became mine
beautiful even in death
taking what is hers
Her peach-perfect skin
shedding her skin for my books
an eternal touch
Her soul in the words
a difficulty reading
her curse for my love
in life, you sit alone
acquaintances, two friends
tears of loneliness
in death, crowds mourn
a moving elegy from whom?
fighting over caviar
taken by intense exhaustion
unaware that sleep has arrived
the computer sits, forgotten
to be taken from the realm of time
one minute, the music is playing
and I can feel the love of my life in the house,
unaware that peace has taken me
too soon from you
Each day flowed in compartments
waking at a time chosen by someone else
Working from fog-covered dawn to the darkness of night
whispering to the wind of dreams
Earning a place at the coward’s table
watching comrades die, fall into death, and become death
Whispering hope to our unseen God
enveloping my sorrow when liberation gave us a chance
my thoughts by the sea
to think of all the Poppies
stained with tears and blood
Another day of living
death waits for me to arrive
Living like an immortal
Another poem demands the pen
self-censoring my words
Living like I do not have a voice
Another unkindness, another war
my poetry is my rebellion
Living without the fear of censure
C & K 