napowrimo
For the first time in many years, I am not taking part in this. I am working on an important University Assignment (Creative Writing) and so I couldn’t make the poem a day commitment for 30 days. The poems I am writing at the moment can’t be shared at this time anyway.
I wish those who are doing it the best of luck and a burst of creativity.
My brother, blasted from this world
by a blood-stained butcher
for ten days saw the light
abandoned in a world of pain.
What did he gain?
I have seen his grave,
hard fast against a wall,
sheltered by a tree
tiny bones in tangled roots.
It doesn’t bare his name.
The footsteps of his ghost
followed us to every home
angelic, sainted, untested and unknown,
a child of illusions with nothing to give or prove.
Held back by his hands how could I compete.
His weight against my back
demanding that I move.
The only way was love
and love bought with it grief
for a boy I never knew
who never knew me too.
Close your eyes
Deeply breath
Still your troubled heart
Listen to the voice
That has no words
There is a light
Arising from the West
Where quiet waves
Lap an empty shore
A sigh repeats your breathe
Above the shore
A smooth green rise
Scented with junipers,
Hyacinth, the dog rose, cedar.
A curlews cry
Stretched like string across the sky
Climbs above.
Across warm rocks
That greet your feet, cool and bare.
This is a space of welcome sleep.
There are no dreams
Nor troubles there.
All is quiet in tranquil air
I watched the path of raindrops
running down the window
I willed them on
until they met together
~
I saw a seed pod
spring green and softly budding
heart shaped, joined together,
cloven in two halves
they stretched and burst apart
and then produced one flower
~
We don’t know ourselves.
We need the eyes of others.
~
What makes us separate?
How do we know ourselves
as one form from another?
~
I have never changed
to satisfy our union
and yet I knew myself
only when I found you
magnetic gravitation bought me to your side
such bonds are never broken
and yet I feel this greater urge
to be consumed and ever closer
to return from this place to another
and know the path we took
To sit and hope for wisdom,
when the light is there.
Thoughts are fickle, flying things.
I examine the scene as Sherlock Holmes would
I check all the facts of the story
I scrutinise every gesture
I look with a magnifier for potential manipulations
And compare the minute details to the bigger picture
I flip through psychology books
to find my own feelings detailing each with due care
I don’t fall for simple charms
I accept no word on its obvious meaning
Those who present fine words and sweet smiles
never find their way to my arms
This may seem cold and keep me apart
It may even seem a little obsessive
But I am only protecting my heart.
Little Jack Horner
Was an informer on Georgie
Who swiped all the pie
Georgie had got in the stew
All the girls were yelling ‘Me Too’.
Georgie’s a greedy guy.
Jack’s always nimble
Jack’s always quick
After Jack took Jill up the hill
They had a tumble
Now every morning Jill feels a bit sick
So the gossips are starting to rumble
And Jill was seen out
Choosing a cot
And now Jack’s had to slow down a lot
When people grieve for Dukes and Princesses
people they feel they knew,
their grief is from somewhere else.
The passing of time,
a golden age they imagined,
things that won’t come to pass,
disappointment,
a security blanket suddenly whipped away.
Being mortal
that’s the worst part.
That’s a well with no measure of depth.
I am not going to jump into that drowning place
for people I never met
whether I think I liked them or not.
Imagine being the poet laureate,
having to write peons of praise.
I’d say they are brave,
but they’re probably liars.
There have been lovers.
One of you is already dead.
Why do we love the moon?
Desolate, silver and distant.
Is it because, in darkness,
it casts a clear light in the void
amongst the vast coldness of stars?
A symbol of hope.
Where is love?
They call it the great unravelment,
I heard it said.
Time’s running backwards
Here
In my head.
The things that were done and not done.
Yes. Those things that were done all repeated.
There by the fire,
In the bed,
In the kitchen,
Out on the windswept ledge.
You like to walk alone.
So do I.
But isn’t it strange
how social you are,
approachable,
with everyone else, except me.
I remember the good days.
I do.
But isn’t it strange how often they end
with a punch to the jaw.
Metaphysical, metaphorical, physical,
It all hurts the same.
Neglected or bullied, it’s all disrespectful.
It’s ended now.
It’s my time
for the unravelling
of all that’s been said and been done.
Where was love?
I am here.
You are gone.
I sit at bare tables.
Scrubbed.
You are defined in the spotlight.
Defunct.
I watch every night in my dreams
as you come
one after one after one.
I watch and I am.
You are unravelled.
I am.
And then the children keep coming.
More and more, every night.
Some are not real.
I wonder, were they unborn.
I keep on loving you.
You, yes, you.
I ask myself why.
For a few precious moments of closeness.
Perhaps.
But it always unravels.
That’s as clear as the moon.
Yes, it’s time to unravel.
I am.
I will be able to sleep.
When the moon wanes, you’ll be gone.
The Dreaming Path 