I was born on Saturday.

Turned 30 on Monday.

The days between, a blur.

Especially nought to four

and the early 20s

when breast and bottle was everything.



I’ve said before: I recall

crawling across the floor,

soiling the moment, thinking

Shit. Again!


A nought to four experience I think/

I hope/ I know the blood that came

like a spring after rain, came

from the mouth, the source;

found the gap,


out to sea. I’d turned 3 and got

3 stitches to match. This hurt,

after the buzz of the honey tree.



I know the slow trek across the desert,

camels, horses; long-legged birds

at the water; crocodile, hippopotamus;

the speared fish caught in the rip,

dragged by the net; the furtive

glance of primate: I climbed a tree

and disturbed the colony.



At 15 I hung from the curved

branch of an apple tree; slid

down in slow coils, and you fell,

on all fours, my girl.


I remember your chestnut curls,

the reddening skin, still pale, I skimmed;

and him, he stood erect,

petrified. We swooned, and he too


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4 Responsesso far.

  1. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    Thanks John. I like the way you sum poems. if i ever get a book out i might ask you to write the back cover 🙂

  2. john keast john keast says:

    A tour through life and memory and moment

  3. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    thanks Dean, that’s great. your poems show the extent and depth of that wondering

  4. Dean English Dean English says:

    good rhymes again… and the memory carried off from poo pants to growing up how things stick has me wondering about the building of ‘self’ all day.

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