We keep asking

While three or four each child
adores to paint with why:
to splatter parents crimson-wild
till fury stuns the deep well dry
where mysteries are locked and filed
heeding Poe’s raven’s senseless cry.

Their dim amusement grows then wanes
as eyes shift from glaring windowpanes
to shield when asked not “what” instead
that question they have forced to bed
so curdled by their childhood years
knowing only “why” will lead to tears.

So this poem offers no solutions
only wanders amidst pale confusions
it diverges even as you read
to serve one purpose: simply plead
that when that question does arise
you’ll ensure its swift reprise.
(2 May 2015)

Liquid Crystal Youth (17 December*)

On my mother’s bedside cabinet
I remember
Two metal handles: ornate, gold or brass
In colour.
Papers, books, glasses
I think I remember,
Replacing items with the
Probability of memory’s gaze.
But a box I know for sure
Was there, containing time,
The universe and mysterious green lines.
Oh magical clock!
When did I first seize upon
Your secrets,
Your gearless mastery of time?
I wanted only to control
Another box, more powerful,
Precious holder of my favourite programs,
Mighty television I kowtowed before
Your scheduled pleasures.
I don’t remember when
Those green shapes
Slotted together
Into perfect

*The second of the two “I Remember” quick-writes I did, with a touch of editing.

A culinary childhood (April 6)

Tip-toes at the Kitchen Counter

First egg shell cracking open
On rounded table’s lino-lidded edge,
Where shapes of all angles
Form checkerboard illusions.

Decant the contents:
Take the yolk in hand and
Let the whites unroll themselves,
Wrigglingly, soupingly
Into their waiting vessel.

Don’t recipe books grow larger,
As we add to the collection?
This one loses its leaves slimmingly:
Pages discarded in its making,
Images battered with time.

And still I see the egg, just,
But the hand,
the face