The long thread
The long thread
must continue in the background.
Your underlying endeavors
silently achieving,
even as your family duties take center-stage
(as well they should),
but all the while, your projects progress;
the long thread pulls,
it draws success.
Not present
I feel like a ghost.
When you’re sick,
everyone says they don’t blame you,
but it cannot relieve the heavy burden -
the viral load -
that inescapably weighs upon you -
within you.
I can be present,
but I can’t get too close,
I can’t hold my baby or kiss my wife,
I daren’t even open my mouth to speak
for risk of sharing more than words.
So I am mute, out-of-reach, untouchable,
unable to support my family,
unwilling to cheer up or smile, as requested,
for I am a ghost.
I am good only for haunting.
What does creativity mean to you?
Creativity is therapy,
self-discovery,
a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan,
till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup,
preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks, and diner napkins.
The greatest effect that creativity has on my life is not in its existence,
but in its dire absence;
my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles that only creativity can help decipher,
so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers,
until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing, or simply express aloud,
my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self
careening down my cheeks and leaving scars on my face (and grey hairs on my head).
Better that I indulge the creativity,
more for what it helps relieve, than for what it helps provide.
Shattered
In reaction to reading ‘The Glass and the Bowl’ by Louise Edrich in a poetry book Ashley had gifted me.
—
You made me cry on my birthday,
and really, it was the best gift.
That kind of cry where you hold your breath
because you just know the moment you open your mouth
more unfiltered emotion will escape from your eyes
and rock your words.
It hit me a little. Then it hit me a lot.
And I kept re-reading the poem
to see if it would lessen, or if I could better come to terms with it,
but I could not overlook its subtle power;
the way it reduced me to uncontrollable tears,
I know it’s because underneath all the desperate levels of sadness
there is an infinite well of love that will never, ever dry up.
And so these tears will never, ever dry up.
I went to sit with you during her midnight feed,
to see if that might settle me.
Then her tiny hands wrapped around my finger,
and I lost it all over again.
I remember on Sundays
On Sundays, I remember.
It was one of the few days
he could have had to himself.
But without fail we’d drive to Rowland’s Castle,
for surely just another pulled muscle
or skewed finish.
Be it the bitter cold, or an utter downpours,
I’d arrive with the discipline of polished boots,
and leave with them caked in mud,
clapping them together
sending echoes through the car park
before climbing into his Beemer,
roaring home through country lanes,
Guns N’ Roses blaring,
and upon arriving home,
I'd clean my boots again
to the ker-ching of a 'Radio 5 Live' gameshow
as he spent the next few hours
preparing a feast,
then we’d sit at the table
(Elbows off. Backs straight.)
and I’d ding my knife on the roast potatoes
to test the integrity of their crispiness,
refueling my body
with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.
I understand better now
that these weren’t sacrifices
(the many things he did for us),
they were the things that made him happy.
Updated on March 6, 2026 for Dad’s funeral
tiny trials
I'll never forget those early days,
the bi-hourly feeds, the tiny trials,
the early reward of Summer's smiles,
and the love that we grew in a million ways.
Now and forever
You have always been great at games...
but never was it as plain to see
as when (and how easily) you took to this,
a game amiss of definite rules
and well-worn tools in need of revision,
but never clouded your vision of how you would raise her.
You selected, appraised, and collated the ways,
developing a motherhood manual of your own,
through courses and the instincts that stirred in your belly,
perspectives renewed and a model for many
of willpower, and gusto, and inspirational poise;
determined to set yourself up for success,
and when the time came to push
you gave it all. Nothing less.
In a way, that was all expected.
You're the strongest woman I know (by far);
this challenge would never rock you.
But in another way, you entirely surpassed
even the strongest of our estimations,
revealing the mother I always knew
was deep in the heart of you.
Happy first mother's day, you beautiful soul.
Once again, you've excelled and amazed.
You're a natural, you're incredible, you're a love to behold,
you're a mother,
now, and for all of your days.
Forever inaugural
Not every day will be like this.
You can’t rely on this temporary serene
that comes of not poisoning or hampering your soul,
for the slow and boring days will come again
and again and again, and only then
will you know if the lesson has been learnt and burnt
into the habits of your new way of being.
It is pain to be forever inaugural,
never celebrating the anniversary of being renewed.
My city in frame
Austin, Texas (first Austin apartment to the left, wedding venue to the right)
