‘Fragility’ from ‘Shell Fragments’
There are eggshell days
When you wish you’d never peaked
Over the shattered rim
Of your known world.
The Blooddrummer, by J.R.McRae (in Saturday Club Book of Poetry)
None of your dark imaginings -
Blood is not my answer,
Just an end.
I never saved you from yourself.
They danced the devils
Out of your mind,
Wove enough incantations
To save your eyes,
But it was your music.
They'll still be staring.
You won't see
Your side of the looking glass.
You won't even feel the cold wind
Through the open door
When they blow out
Dead Butterflies, by J.R.McRae
Dead butterflies in city streets
The imagery is too replete -
The ragged wings that fail to fly,
The dreams of flowers nectar dry -
The pale lost eyes that will not close,
The dirty ragg'd designer clothes -
Whose child was this? But no one knows.
The flower is gone, the thorn marks show…
Woodwork, by J.R.McRae (in Saturday Club Book of Poetry)
between the balustrades
at necks that glitter
and long, swirling skirts,
Have small cakes
and sips of lemonade,
skilfully disguised in champagne glass,
Handed giggling to them
through the bars.
Where is the glass,
the cool glass I can put my mouth against
The wooden banisters need polishing.
Who cut your mouth for you?
You should never
have had one,
It ringbarked your face.
The tree in your wrist
exhumed by fragments,
The branches feeding out to the hand
Holding the broken glass.
put her on ice
Till relatives came from interstate,
at having a body on their hands,
And in a hurry
to get it over with,
Giving directives for
the funeral parlour personnel
To choose a casket,
never mind the cost.