Missing

I found this and turns out it was one of the first posts I made here back in November 2015, but I think I had written it around 2006 or so. A bit bleak, but hey ho. Anyway, I hope you are all doing well, and staying safe! Take care.

cropped water

Unknown source

It’s been such a long time; it could be ten thousand years. Time passes much faster when you cry all your tears. Last time I looked back, I could only see my feet. I never saw the sky, I missed a treat, and I miss my old life. I can only look back and cry. I miss my future, but it is too late, I say. And, I cry for the passing of time, all of the day.

‘There are blue skies and a cold yearning face. Catching the breeze with eyes closed in embrace. Swirled on tip toes, hearts lift in the air; wind cool on the fingertips is chilled in the stare. Longing and heartache kept warm all the while, and never a dry eye let down by goodbye. She holds it all in still after many have cared, but don’t tell her you’re leaving, don’t stroke her there.’

I take off my robe in ankles held deep. My hands fill the water with each step of my feet. The waves fully clothe me until I’m replete. I disappear from view to drown in this pain; and I miss my future, fresh and anew, but, I can see the stars now, over and over and over again.

Bookmark

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.

Black Dog

Black_dog_of_depression

Inspired by a good friend Tammy of Tmezpoetry.

Someone throw some bones,
but use your good arm or else save them,
for soup maybe or… the birds,
and not like the butcher’s begrudging
contribution of a half smile,
half pull yerself together,
half fight yer for it type of tidbit
to a pleading, begging, growling
disease when the black dog bites.
Usually I get skinny
pieces depending on the time of day,
covered with sawdust and grit
or sinews dangling like forgotten relatives –
the spare parts left behind –
blue mould already at the next stop
on the journey of spiritual awakening
for the animal it never was.
The paucity of concern
is often greater than the inedible
or indigestible morsel; it would not
bind wounds or hold
life within a blood supply –
annexed like my spirit’s
bloodless, rancid cells
devoid of fight, always hoping
for somebody to throw some bones,
to make this palatable,
and aspects of life to be amusing again
once we release it to the chase
when the black dog barks.

Pane #Quadrille

pexels-photo-26691.jpg

Tapping rain becomes the omen,
blackbirds pecked once here before,
feeding at your safety harness
before the window cut through your shade
and more; crumpled, slain, within your own
reflection, you are shattered glass singing
shrill and bleakly, before quietly resting,
as confetti floor.

Desolate Sounds

blackbird-163503_960_720.jpg

O quilted sky
drape gently on me
here in my shallow darkness.
Before the moon is high,
let me in as nightfall’s
shadow soaked image
becomes secreted
under such a fine cloak,
and this day, which has seen
all there is to see,
is hidden underneath it all.
As I lay crying, I will remember
not to wish or want for it all;
sadness is what it is,
but because it is nightfall
where no one can see,
I will share my thoughts
before I dream
to the edge of sleep –
and until its frayed corners
sift the yawns of sunshine
and covers this bed.
I will rise refreshed on my
bleak horizon
and watch the morning’s
soft dew dissipate
with tears still in my eyes
trying to escape with it
into the air’s naked light
where birds,
half lit, wake
to congregate as buds on boughs
with fingers spread to
temper such glowing
melody; their songs will echo
the stirring winds ’til this full chorus
becomes the daylight of each new day,
and I can breathe it all in.

West Window

24802-142E61B649F1F4951C7.jpg

When dusk falls,
its heavy heave presses –

the sun is no use to me –
we are both lost,

abandoned by an empty window
bereft of flame

where a tallow once touched,
now naked, fumes impatience

blown from within,
but I cannot give a time for my return –

when rain rises in an autumn
pool and the moon steals

the place of daylight,
together we can light the candle.

**Inspired by Sent North on a Rainy Night
Li Shangyin

Melancholia

472px-durer_melancholia_i

Woodcut by Albrecht Dürer

I feel like I am drifting
call me close.
The sky is not uplifting
small the dose
of despair’s bitter taste and remedies.
Tomorrow’s sun is shy
the moon is high tonight
should I die,
and if I do I won’t know
what your summer was like
or what your winter will be
all the while without me.
Will the birds sing sweetly still,
or will summer cry a misty chill
when haunting autumn sweeps a melody
of dead leaves chasing our abandoned tree?
Cling to me but wrap yourself tenderly
in warmer summer days.

I feel I have been taken,
hold me near.
These dreams are not for waking,
all in fear –
no colours here amid sleeping hope
tomorrow’s day is turned to night
but morning is here
I will die tonight –
but before I do, tell me
what you will do without me
and how you will send me
into spring’s warm arms awaiting
summer’s amber smile abating
into autumn’s cooler sating
of the ambling seasons all
longing for winter’s sigh –

I feel like I am slipping
hold my fears…

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