24 years
24 months a year
24 days a month
24 hours a day, yay
24 minutes an hour
24 seconds a minute
24 years a second.
How long was the pierce of string
you gave me,
anyway … I might be wrong
about many things, but 24
is not my age
– yay.
Ding. Dong. Donkey Kong.
I ran and ran up the stairs,
climbing to the upper floor
and safety; ghosts chasing
but never catching
the boy running up every stair
as if chased by ghosts.
Ding. Dong. King. Kong.
I walk up every stair. Slowly.
No floor harbours safety.
Every ghost a ghastly presence
from the past, present, and future.
Ding. Dong. The door bell tolls.
The world of ghosts
— calling.
There are notes in my head
I have never played,
words that no longer carry meaning
and doubts of ever becoming
otherwise; Else wise,
with a taste of metal on my lips,
dropping pennies and shoes
then walking in another’s pair
down the cold dark backstreets
of another life,
through another lifetime of nothings.
There are things in my head
I will never understand, never play,
never express in truth
– to anyone.
Is there an expiration date on
ever
mutating it into never?
Like you’ve never been hugged
but recall a long long time ago
you felt the warmth of another;
never kissed that special one
yet memories of lips touching lips
linger in your mind.
Is there an expiration date
on life? On becoming numb
to the hint of kindness;
stiff at signs of softness;
taking flight at the first signs
of doubt; finding a clock
that stopped ticking.
The ladling out of fried crumbs
to an unset table, whispering
Grace to the shrouded few;
saucy steamy vegetables
favoured dishes while deep
fried fish ignored.
I fire every candle
wrap the life in wool
fold itself in circles
awaiting night’s first dawn,
white-wash nearly 90C
flee flee flee
from your doubt-demons
flee,
our far-off latent turmoil
and esoteric toil
the silenced essence
at night’s first dawn.
Fear shouts, summons me,
draws me towards its light
luring me in. The temptation
of the known,
versus
the muted Dream;
but I cannot call my Dream mute
for risk of my own offending,
but how to compare a howl
with the silence of embers;
the chains of time
with the lofty ideas of a child
petulant and needy;
a muted Dream once imagined
falling short to a lifetime
shackled.
Muffle my fears,
clean my ears
to the sweet songs of dreaming;
let the tune of the untraveled
replace seductions from the known; give me freedom
to roam.
To essay or not essay this Christmas Day,
that is not a question for another time
as the clock ticks down towards submission deadline.
To write or not write this Christmas Night,
paragraph upon paragraph of plight
long into the dying of the light;
oh, the fear of candlelit stage freight.
Tired hair,
warm snow falling
on green lawns still growing;
tired hair,
tired awnings
keeps patio portions dry;
tired hair,
tired bushes
fruitless endeavours on repeat;
tired hair,
warm snow falling
— outside the tired sleep
Seeking nurture and navigation
in a fast fading food chain,
I pin myself at the top of the feed
crave a cry for comestibles
but silence the only sustenance
as the larder was left empty,
the farmer’s pig still in its blanket,
and the fast food facility
provides no needed nourishment
for this lost and hungry soul.
