#WhyMe
Not sure what the is worse: finding out that you haven’t lived as long as you have been alive, or as you read the assignment question (which isn’t a question at all!) and reread the course material and revisits the tutorial (three times!) the fog finally lifts and the mirror shows the fraud you have been all along and the end of the road is a brick wall you’ve just ran into…
Poetry Drafts
There will come a moment in your life when the thumb slips and you end up at the end of a post without realising you missed the top. This was one of those moments; all I saw was the above and I started pondering on the meaning of life, our existence, the purpose of writing, and … then I realised the notes weren’t really for the @writteninjoy2 post 🙂 (Not that I’m saying she doesn’t deserve the love)
Remembering 27 is a major achievement, I can’t even remember turning 50, which I think I have? Maybe? Or was that also a dream turned nightmare?
A Jar of Love
The jar of love once brimming,
A piece of dry bread dunked,
A youth without a vision,
Drops of seed
In an April breeze –
Dancing.
The wind of fall, of autumn pale,
The youthful face once worn
Behind a veil of taste and truth
Now blinded by greed and fate;
Ambition nailed on a creaking cross
Worn as shadow suit.
The blind boy walks
Between pines and firs;
Lumbering beneath
Ageing birch, bark-less
Silvery shadows rolled;
A banking lord’s dream.
The western wind brings forth
The spring of revelations:
The fevered few
In search of dyed yarn,
Unworn socks on chilly floor
Brings a boy once more a-searching.
Wrapped in unknown shadows
A boys walks, stumbles, trembles
Before an untainted face,
Blue eyes or mirrors of a happy sky
With cherry lips smiling, speaking
Of pottery, of poetry, and love.
Jump!
I would jump
If only I could find a bridge,
Plummet into the frozen dream
Of ice and perpetual silence;
I would jump
From any plane ascending,
Plummet towards the soil
Of sustenance and dread;
I would jump
At any opportunity to find meaning
In an otherwise obfuscated life,
Beneath a dead sky dreaming,
Above the pale moss
Of old.
R=1.5
Reality is a thin veil,
A melting sheet of ice;
I wear my skates untied,
Puckered face uncovered,
A stick to short to matter,
I am forever penalised
For crossing the thin blue line
Too early, to rushed
Is my approach to life;
Reality is a clock expiring,
A ghastly echo of a tick
Without a tock,
A tree without bark
Uprooted, the storm in a cup –
Overflowing; my reality
A thinly veiled matter
Without presence
Or purpose.
Strings
A single string
Vibrating, a cordless agony
In D-minor:
I stand, I flail; I flop, I wail;
No, not again and never more:
I will make a stand, take my hand
And pull me there, pull me hard
Towards your light, away from
Perpetual night – across northern
Moors at midnight: we run we roam
Free as birds in early spring,
Like children without constraints,
Unshackled and full of dreams;
Our moon rests on the summit.
A single string
Slowly pulling
Our dreams
Into a reality,
Worldly vibrations
Of carrier pigeons,
The song of one
Becomes a lasting memory,
Our terminal thoughts
Accompanied by strings
Playing in consonance
Our final tune: our goodbyes
In D-minor.
dying while trying to find an upward turn, cannot focus on the scene before them, their lungs are full of cobalt blue.
they are silently jagged.
they are silently folding in upon themselves.
the scene before them takes place under a night unseen but for the surrounding dull & dark. rotting city walls heave & yaw above, they gulp down the forgotten stars. from broken windows they pull the moon in & to pieces with tarnished silverware. the night sounds of eating in solitude, it sounds of congestion.
the pavement is cold & wet on their cheek.
their eyes are bright.
the scene before them is a violence of wings with a quick blade. the scene is a chaos of blood. cannot tell who should be them. neither one i suppose, neither one.
we do not deserve the knife.
we do not deserve the wound.
close their eyes & focus on the wind that snakes between. it is cold, smells of september, of a quiet & calm death, of leaves that will not burn easy, of moss that spreads in stealth. the wind smells of forgotten dreams, of extinct labyrinthian forests, of careless moments, of worn gravestones. the wind smells of sadness, & they take it all in as though they could take any more.
the wind is of asphodel.
let us sink through the asphalt.
the scene is muffled. a wet black cloth wrapped around angel mouths. the knife is an angel mouth. blood seeps down in, searching for them. why does the blood always search for them? wants to seep up their nose, into eyes, through lips. they are an angel mouth.
a black blood like a quiet cloth.
their lips crack & we mingle.
so deep now beneath that they have forgotten what comes next.
Kelp / A Dance for Two
You splatter the last of your blood
Like oil on cheap canvas,
The tubes of dried-out paint
Lie scattered along your path,
An attempt to paint a self
Too out of control to care:
A mere sidekick in the story
Of your life.
I walk around humming
A tune I never chose,
A hired extra in my own shoes,
Without lines or purpose
bar filling that vacant space
in the story of my life.
We walk in circles, you and I,
Dancing to different tunes
In different spaces,
I know of you but you live unaware
Of mine, yet we dance on and on
And that is all that matters
For now; if we ever meet,
Face to face, sparks could fly
And nights become our days,
The world our private place of play
As we find ourselves attuned
To search our destined spot
In this – our universe.