Siren Songs


I kissed a girl
at Buckler Burn
with the sun going down
and her dog barking wild.

She tells me boys are
complicated dogs:
easy to please but
not as smart.

Her blue wolf eyes
stare off at Mt Alfred.
What type of dog
is a man? I ask.

My dog is my mirror,
she says calmly,
a better reflection of me –
no man required.

The wind picks up on the lake;
I finally get the fire to light.
She walks away to fish.
I’m howling inside.


I want that picnic mat
With the red and white checks
The one we sat on up the lake
Where you started the fire
And gave me gifts
And hid things in pockets
Until we kissed

I want that picnic mat
That we sat on by the river
Then wrapped ourselves in each other
And you almost told me things
Like you were about to explode
But didn’t

I want that picnic mat
So we can sit again
And you can tell me
I’m a lovely poem
And I’ll correct you:
Not all the time

I want that picnic mat
But I want you more than that.


Sing to me, my love, your stories
on our meditative dog walks
along the endless paths of our lives

Talk to me of your imaginary worlds
at a lake edge jetty watching
the evening mountain silhouettes

Explain to me again why the real world
should be turned upside down
to make it right and orderly

Tell me who you wish to be
and how you are getting there
under a shady riverside picnic tree

Preach to me in your modest way
about the places you’ve worked
and the soils you’ve had under your nails

Let me hear your sweet whispers
of dreams, hopes and fancies
as you lie snug in my bed relaxed

Show me the quail in your pockets
when we ride one day on your donkey
to your glass sky gazing home

Keep singing to me, my love, forever

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