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Jacqui Stewart Poems |
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| © Jacqui Stewart 2004 Jacqui's poems have previously won awards and she often conducts a class at Saturday's Poet-tree. |
| CHAMELEON Surviving summer heat I change colour and texture; crisp translucence of cucumber, shimmering dew on the cut edge, iced delight on the tongue. Smooth promises of avocado, creamy flesh, tinted with opal’s earth secrets, cool on the skin. Still I change – but always the shade of moss-embroidered rocks beneath the drifting shawl of tropic waterfall. After rain I am hope in the dry creek bed, new life on the lily pad. Green. |
| I LEARNT NOT TO SING OUT LOUD Home from school – my mother, white despair on the pillow. I try not to breathe as I empty the vomit, try not to hum as I get her a glass of water and another Bex. After buying meat for tea I grab a book, a crust of bread, climb the stairs of our giant fig – Rapunzel in the tower. On windy days I skim treetops with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys, until a weary cry calls me back. Sometimes, at door’s crack my mother’s clatter coaxes down the hall. I sit and chat, fingers crossed at her magic smile, willing it to last for one more day. But even then I’m careful. I circle around her looking for space afraid to sing to my favourite doll, in case her arms fall off. |
| VISITING MY FATHER Frail garments of age play hide and seek with my youthful certainties. Time has teased the strength of your arms into spindles of spent power. Tablets rule each hour. Like multi-coloured beads, count each moment. Too late I seek answers to questions you no longer own. Words fade, lips make silent inventory of memory. Joy remains. The glow in your eyes a gentle benediction for the journey. You brave the chill wind, (a bird wing on my arm), walk me to the taxi. The door slams – shatters the moment. And you stand watching… |
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| WINTER AFTERNOON Solitary confinement, with only the cold for company. Giant oaks buttress a frail sky, mute branches interlace in a frieze of premature sadness. Once we two walked in defiant youth, sniffed woodsmoke, kicked winter discards high into pale air, laughed with the certainties of love. I remember your sweater, bronzed by firelight, your lips bright promises. But your words hid a chill climate, withered like leaves in an unforgiving wind. Now I trust bare earth; like a bird on a dead branch, watch for the first hint of green. |
| Other works by this author |