On ne passe pas!
There are walls, carefully crafted
Over years of yearning for peace:
Concrete and steel, windowless walls deeper than demons’ lairs,
Higher than the holy heavens,
Thicker than the Tower of London.
Behind the walls, carefully selected
Over decades of delusion: space,
Silence, and a sequestered soul
Searching for absolution.
Outside the walls, a world forsaken
Over a lifetime of lies: time heals all
Wounds.
Masochistic Mayhem
There should be tears,
There should be shouts
Of fear and toys thrown
From prams, and jealousy.
There should be fears,
There in the rocking chair
Of horror and boys grown
From toddlers, and rage.
There should be horrors,
There behind a truth untold
Of suffering and silent posts
In parenthood, and pain.
There should be suffering,
There on the naughty step
Of old and the reopened
Wounds, and the new.
In Passing
I am the Meridian, the Guardian
Of time passing, and times
Standing still.
I am the Watcher, the Observer
Of lives passing, and lives
Finding peace.
I am the Ferryman, the Captain
Of ships passing, and ships
Anchored deep.
I am the Dreamer, the Catcher
Of truths passing, and truths
Trumped-up.
Singleton
You spoke of awakening
To search the stars for signs,
You spoke of voices calling
To answer your final ask,
You spoke of no escape
From death’s dire knock,
You spoke of a future us
In a first-person voice.
Icky
Personae on a stick
Lick, lick, lick,
A poet missed the trick
Thick, thick, thick,
Black keys of Magic
Stick, stick, stick,
Another attempt to kick
Down the drain of sick
My final dream pick.
A Dream in Three Acts
Three hours? Three hours!
Three hours of hell, then three blinks
And Death enters:
Pokes, asks, pokes again,
Asks further if I be ready to play,
I wheeze, caught tongue-tied
In the driest of deserts,
Petrified to play the game
Of one final hour;
I seek a safe haven, a shelter
From the stirring storm,
To lighten my load
As escape will unfold,
I wheeze,
Tongue tied to the tree of life
As bark meet virgin lips
In a silent lullaby,
I dream of dust and barren beaches
Hear a raven call, a summons
To a final feast; Then a poke,
And another lift the lids too tired
To fathom and fear the burning
Apparition floating up ahead,
I pray as I crawl closer and closer:
Be real, be real, you cheaply cut
Outline of a figure, like the last
Mannequin in a closed down store
Waiting in anticipation for anyone
To call – only to find it gone,
The salvation, solution to
The simple unthought truth
Of moisture, of tears, or rain
To reawaken for real this time
The tongue-tied tired mind
Of the dreamer.
A Dream in Three Acts
Three hours? Three hours!
Three hours of hell, then three blinks
And Death enters:
Pokes, asks, pokes again,
Asks further if I be ready to play,
I wheeze, caught tongue-tied
In the driest of deserts,
Petrified to play the game
Of one final hour;
I seek a safe haven, a shelter
From the stirring storm,
To lighten my load
As escape will unfold,
I wheeze,
Tongue tied to the tree of life
As bark meet virgin lips
In a silent lullaby,
I dream of dust and barren beaches
Hear a raven call, a summons
To a final feast; Then a poke,
And another lift the lids too tired
To fathom and fear the burning
Apparition floating up ahead,
I pray as I crawl closer and closer:
Be real, be real, you cheaply cut
Outline of a figure, like the last
Mannequin in a closed down store
Waiting in anticipation for anyone
To call – only to find it gone,
The salvation, solution to
The simple unthought truth
Of moisture, of tears, or rain
To reawaken for real this time
The tongue-tied tired mind
Of the dreamer.
Writing is a journey, onwards and upwards. Looking back is like driving down a cul-de-sac, not finding reverse or ways of turning back; getting stuck in the world of old wounds, old truths, old words, and old yous. Writing is a journey down a new path, a new street, a new road in another neighbourhood, in a new town, or another country – feeling cold, feeling lonely. Writing is a perpetual journey into the unknown - a place we should all find to time to appreciate, rejoice and celebrate.
