Haeddre

heddir

Haeddre 29/7/2016

(i)
It is fine to be in balance, to hear wistful
cries like invisible veins in the winds,
and see lucky, white strands among
the heather’s Scottish highlands’ type
of sobbing, and to listen as the wind speaks
in gusts; inhaling deeply as if sucking
up a thought before breathing it out
smoothly in a musical phrase.

(ii)
Our giggles are swept away instantly
as we try to stand with pale, bare,
chicken legs; goose pimples and heads
lift deliberately so that we may
be bludgeoned by the wind – our cheeks
are malleable like Playdoh as we turn
to face the brave. Lana’s spectacles
are nudged from their cosy space; nudged
all the while with nary a murmur or complaint
right up until she would trip – her straight
edged, rimmed nose would turn red
underneath freckles that are faint traces
of sunlit birds across a pale expanse
of water rippling.

(iii)
We chat to silver grey, wise, stone heads
happily serenaded by loose petals and grass
quills that are a cosy squire collar for the rugged,
Celtic boulders we sit on. Our nimble fingers
grazed with youth pull dandelions from the roots
amid awkward silences – our actions solicit
a cheeky shrug because we like to hear
them tear – it is a validation of their freedom
from the tough soil as they relinquish
mystery and ghostly Celtic charm,
which is the flesh of the sturdy hillsides
that creep up to all but touch blue zircon sky.

(iv)
Craggy tutus tentatively hold large birds
that, once settled, will disappear
into trances; filtering the world as it sails
by the bewitched and twisting heads
of the Little Owl sleeping while hawks
pierce our eardrums as we fight on, tumbling –
in a race to be the first to conquer this hillside.
We brazenly slide down part way; rough
and ready vanquishers of these grassy mosses
aching from its boulders – our bruises
become the glorious, purple heather down
of our flesh – an indelible tattoo of these glens
already strewn with magical, inked
emblems.

(v)
Exhausted high jinks and chattering
laughter are heightened by stiffening
cold bones – windstorms activate
the grasses motivated by our tomfoolery.
Atop the hill we are puffed and exhausted,
we heave breathless for a while.
Our pigeon chests make us feel like king
and queen, but crinkled noses redefine
our stature and we settle for duke
and duchess given our ragamuffin
elbows and dirty knees, proudly assembled
as witnesses.

(vi)
I kiss my Haeddre, Duchess of Green
Flowers and the White Heather – night giver
to the moon – and I take her slender wrist
until we sit cross legged on nested fauna
and we are draped in the dying sun’s finery;
our shoulders’ shadow becomes a black cloak
glinting regal charm, and her crown is scattered
sun drops escaping the last squeeze of citrus;
they caress her head, anointing it,
just as surging, billowing clouds bid the day
farewell. Gusty breaths deepen around our hilltop
and dozing birds grip their stake with talons
on point and ready.

(vii)
The common buzzard circles in the subdued
hints of autumn’s orange skies, and sounds
of the playful Little Owl sing out.
As our red hands and cold, white knuckles
sit together over our dirty knees, I feel
her pigtails shudder on her shoulders
when I catch her staring at me staring
with eyes full – made moist by the wind.
Aye, It is fine to be aware and look down
on our blustery kingdom’s fine swathe.

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?

 

New Buds

 

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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.

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Dig Deep #domestic abuse #hypocrite

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Theresa May – Traitor in action.  Hypocrite.

A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse and even unrecognised domestic abuse depending on perspective and bribes.   With the embodiment of the courts, and this time, the realm, our ex fuckwit prime minister, who by her actions,  has condoned domestic abuse –  is saying that it is ok to beat up women – by recommending that an ex con and domestic abuser should get a medal (a Knighthood).  That is not right.  He played cricket for England, and he was/is a hero?  But, in reality, he is an arsehole and a criminal.

It is not OK to say that women are here to be beaten, abused and trod on.  So, I thought, nah, I cannot stand for this either, and I won’t.

I emailed my local MP.   And, I will keep emailing until she stands up in parliament and speaks.   Our ex PM granted an honour in her resignation honours list (an archaic entitlement, which is highly immoral in this case) to an abuser and ex crim.  But she, as a privileged, right wing B******* gave it to this one, her pal.   With that, she has let another vicious genie out from its bottle – again, that is ok to beat up a women.

Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
my heart,
and its sting cannot oblige
by tearing from my smouldering flesh,
small, peeling shadows of my life, or wisdom
and memories, or the pearls
of my faith that now run as sweat that cries, while streaming down
my ashen face;

my soul is already on fire,
and your hands are burning.
Bury me deeply
so that the crows you tame
will not abuse me,
until solace is no longer
a sacred place,
or death an arbitrary mulch.
Bury me deeply,
so that when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will be blessed, and will not feel you.
And when you scream and shout,
begging for grief because I am not
there to blame –
crows scatter once again,
only to befriend me, oddly –
and because you will watch them shield me –
you should bury
me, deeply.

Tone

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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
lightly wrought
on cool staves
only now just stirring;
no tone is forced, just harsh
and breathy –

they wait and would wait
forever,
as every song, like love,
is incomplete
until it hears its heart echo.

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Amarita

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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.