Corridors

Picture source unknown

I say goodbye
holding your hand,
desperately searching
for raw comfort,
but from clay cold skin and defeated flesh,
words will no longer form, nor
draw me close.
You hold a smile,
and it squeezes my heart softly
with a palpable
sense of who I am and who we were.
I think you have just found a dream
inside of death, and see a vision
higher than we, one rich in vitality
for your journey or destiny –
I don’t believe we are
really saying goodbye,
and so, sweet dreams, my love –
stay far from errant shadows –
so I can see you
on the other side
.

Remembrance

Picture souce: pickist. com

‘Miss me not ‘til I have died,
then always remember me…’

In the early glow of dawn,
silence rolls on the bosom
of heavy clouds –
solemn doves in a new formation
accompany sunrise, hearing
the sound of an abundance of rain.

Above tumulus soil,
peace remains a warm blanket
for all who were lost there
since death is an aching cold,
and mired in these fatigued
and embattled lands;
lands where life spilled into dying,
and courage became mulch
to the seeds that were sown.
Acres of crimson mist undulate
to waft forever in cool breezes;
its pitch black eyes peer
though the ruddy murk,
we feel the pulse of its stoic heart,
and, we are touched by the dew atop each poppy’s blade.
All are there to remind us still,
and without words
often drowned by time.

Raindrops sheet in silver threads
to lace our silent tears. And, as the flight
of doves let loose like windswept petals,
to surrender one by one, we humbly
promise

to always remember,
and shame on us if we fail.

It’s Game Over – Back of the net, USA! (just about, but good enough).

The election has just been called by Decision Desk HQ. I hope this is not too early. I posted this at the start of the dark nightmare of 2016. Here’s to one down… a few to go – join together and we will watch them all fall. Heal the soul, heal the world, heal this planet and its observers, and its destroyers.

“When I despair, I remember that all through history
the ways of truth and love have always won.
There have been tyrants, and murderers,
and for a time they can seem invincible,
but in the end they always fall.
Think of it–always.”

~ Mahatma Gandhi

Dig Deep #domestic abuse

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, bribery and misogyny. It is not OK to condone the notion that women exist to be beaten, abused and trodden on.

unknown source

Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
my heart.
It will not oblige
if torn from my smouldering flesh;
soothing fractals in the shadows of my skin
still glow with the pearls
of my faith, a faith that now runs as sweat down
my beaten face. My soul was always on fire –
the reason 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 that when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will not feel you.
And 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
me deeply.

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to those who wept
while Jesus slept,

and families desperately trying
to steal whole Sundays

from those who wake gripped inside the jaws
of a Black Dog’s fun days,

and to blurry shadows always jazzed up on life
while keeping sanity to themselves,

and those who sleep half jacked up on lies
to avoid their own full on shit Mondays –

and to those still hot on the tail
of a trail blazing Mars

creeping behind Uranus,
who still haphazardly choose Sunday

as the crucial day to bleed;
to pray for those who never cried when Jesus left

and for those of us who drown in deep dark pools,
timidly sinking while

our silent, but bold words dissipate

taking with them
our last.

And for those who never wept before we had
anything really to cry about –

I raise my glass.

Paint Fumes

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I have maybe three events before the end of the year.  I  have met my target for 2019 with lots of help.  Onto next year, she says prematurely.   Above all, I do hope you are all well… and happy.

Take care, all.

 

I have always pictured us
as heavenly,

but often, I see a smirk

or a frown, then raillery
invades – not a lot, but

just enough to
make me sink –

right down, down, down
to  deeper depths
where even right sharks can’t breathe,
and they too ignore
my angst.

 I am
forced to think again, and
between the lines
of a complex mind

as my life treads water, it should be simple,
but it is, ironically, hanging by a simple,
thread.
Or is it more?

So, lose me, please,

since I am perpetually in between,

but don’t –
as, I  will be so lost
in between –

the abuse of me –
I have seen the realm
multiple times,

and the inner me,
of course,
will never believe
in ourselves;

so, trust me, please –
and all I can ask

is that you hold me,
so that I can try
and feel all of these lines…

I fear, I am the one
who will be lost,

I will be gone soon,
but never not yours.

Believe me, I will not go for free.

Trust me,
I will be still be there for you,

But, will you be ever be
there for me?

 

Dig Deep #domestic abuse #hypocrisy

 

chalk bones whips blush poem

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
my heart.
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
me deeply.

Amarita

amarita.png

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.