I too am wary of past’s ghosts, squeezed by daylight into ethereal painted diaphanous landscapes,
and where equally pellucid capes waft in the nothingness of such a delicate dimension.
Sunshine filters through the interstices of arching trees – their spindly finger shadows pierce the throb of my ripened veins resting under the mirror of spider branches hanging lazily –
adust words tease the vastly hollow chambers of my heart and mind
whilst unwanted ghosts, these stark strangers, pass by me trying to scavenge my thoughts – thoughts once hid, but which now bustle briskly under this fair poplar – but adamantly refuse daylight in their presence
my muse blows timidly to rustle up my tired parchments not scratched since autumn opened its eyes on the majestic fade of green –
before it reawakens – under these dreaming spires, I will write a sonnet for her –
to coax, to not be afraid of ghosts, nor reconcile me with my own by her very absence –
me thinks I’ll keep it safe in heart, away from prying eyes and strangers’ judgement at least until summer comes again.
I see you, haunted muse come out from the shadows.
Words tremble and form on my lips. In the middle of nowhere, on an old, abandoned field’s icy, quiet calm – I can see those words as frosted air, palpable, almost real. Almost. The memory of ecstasy ripples vehemently in rifts, saying, ‘don’t let go – don’t let go of the moment, the tenderness and the journey that has begun – don’t let go of the time invested and the heart’s own life span,’ – I clap my mitts together hard. I need to hear another voice in the heavy, thick dullness of meaningless, inside this bitterly cold wilderness – an expansion of existence. Inside this perfect ring of O, caution and doubt is excluded by the wintry tourniquet and deep seated bleakness. Within this rink of fire, I have found a plan; idly scraped into the dense snow’s virgin white territory are thoughts and decision making – a bittersweet means to an end. I exhale and words reverberate – detached. Let loose, they do their own thing. I believe that trust is its own reward, and love is a consequence of that very airing – so, I let them breathe. My lips tremble from more words, although I can’t hear them, they spill and the cold lets them sit there. Sat on the snow, memories cosy up to them, of when tears made me choke and lies made me half blind – now they both thaw like a discarded ice lolly bleeding into the impacted prisms hidden in this pristine foundation. I rub my insulated woollen hand over the small pond’s glass to see a lifetime spent asking why amid my mind’s sighs to half answered questions and doubts, and painful bouts of inertia. I find a heavy rock, and listening only to the whispers between my thighs’ nylon energy, I smash it into a face in the ice – all of those things are finally released and surface through the shards of their confinement – roaming prisoners cut loose to set me free, to crawl out onto the debris. Wading knee deep I try to remember what was instilled in me; I was taught to swim and love, and trust in rewards, I was loved and I am loved, a consequence of not sinking – swim freely. The temperature plummets within, and still knee deep, I am caught in the ice of limbo like a reluctant, unbaptised infant who already knows its own mind. Today, it is not as simple; revisited once again, by dark clouds that come to smother me with their words – they take their place in the queue in this time lapse of a snowy day where whiter clouds come and go, but like my words they are seldom realised, and so I have to withdraw into a quiet blackness – the Narnia sheen of glistening reason is too bright, too stark, too vivid when shouts scream from it. The pool of unhurried water is a starkly black dilation – of a welcoming eye – the pupil inside this giant O. I fall into its gaze, and like yours it swallows me up.
Corrupt hearts and cracking shins, elicit all that is bad in us, it surfaces in the night when death’s courtiers seek vengeance and atonement.
Spectres ravage putrid night air,
harbouring grim justice,
at their own grumbling, aches and groans,
their bickering and jabbering
among bleary headstones
where slyly they plot and gleefully
to repay their murderers
and savour their screams.
In freezing cold they’ve been pacing
these long ago hours,
stomping for warmth already dead flowers
as the rounded silver
of the moon’s howl dies down,
they shiver together their collective frowns;
the enticing warm soil, laid out below,
beckons ever so nicely
to the greying ghouls aglow;
‘On reflection, vengeance is overstated, silly –
do we really want justice –
on this night so damn chilly?’