closer to earth
nearer to heaven
my aching bones
the coldness of
an empty lap
old cat hairs
In twilight’s dank and odious arbour,
I look for solace among dead vines.
Their choking hands admit and harbour
Many lies from within their strands.
Too deathly pale the honey suckle rose,
Its pallid echoes breathe and gasp.
Its frown then holds me, and does suppose,
That I too, am often left to the cold.
I bite on rotten forbidden fruits,
Long forgotten and refused by time.
Frightening, but appetising are these shoots
They let me retch whilst savouring.
A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse numbers (within this Covid period)and ‘legal’ /unrecognised domestic abuse, depending on country, perspective and bribes.
It is not OK to condone the notion that women exist to be beaten, abused and trodden on. I cannot stand for this either, so, I won’t.
Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
It will not oblige,
if torn from my smouldering flesh;
soothing fractals in the shadows of my skin
glow still with the pearls
of my faith that now runs as sweat down
my beaten face. My soul, always on fire,
is why your hands are now burning.
Bury me deeply
so that the crows you tame
will not abuse me for all eternity,
when solace is no longer
a sacred place
and death becomes an arbitrary mulch.
Bury me deeply,
so when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will not feel you.
When you scream and shout,
begging for grief and release, since I am not
there to torture, the crows will
gather once again,
but you will watch them shield me.
So, you should bury
With every sound
of each word uttered
there is pause – a silence,
as if waiting for the touch
of a lover – distant still,
but out there.
Until such time,
words float as poetry
on cool staves
only now just stirring;
no tone is forced, just harsh
and breathy –
they wait and would wait
as every song, like love,
until it hears its heart echo.
Drink up my wine
since these dead and lonely dark nights prevail,
and countless, luminous stars will make you ordinary;
and you will yearn
whilst you struggle outside of me,
especially when caught up in these heaving times,
when precious ills pressed closest
to your undulating
chest, might cause you to succumb
or be fed whilst I am lost –
but you will learn that I am made up of hundreds,
and that you knew who I was –
till I married you –
but, please worship me still
amid cold comforts lost –
pray, come back inside,
leave naivety at the door
and, please beckon it not.
Let us be as it once was –
let us be as it should be.
Let us be love.
... from a silent space
The Broken Cannot Rise Alone...
A Repository of Discarded Poetry, Story Prompts, and Memories
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Pain goes in, love comes out.
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poetry by Robert Ford
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