Dreaded Whispers

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush –

fighting, but wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams,
it drapes the water,
pondering depth and death,

and, whereupon streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect pink wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of still water
and life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

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Silently, I Go

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.

Dreaded Whispers

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush –

fighting, but wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams,
it drapes the water,
pondering depth and death,

and, whereupon streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect pink wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of still water
and life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

Smells

326201072930PMst_bruno_flake_pipe_tobacco

St.Bruno-smoking kills-writingasitcomes

I have a section in my blog called Ghosts from the Shoebox.  I took some verse, accidentally stumbled on, and kept writing.  Anyway, ’tis there, lol.   My dad smoked a pipe, and in it he stuffed St Bruno pipe tobacco, which I loved the smell of and crave it now.  Probably why I became a smoker. But in November 2018 it will be 10 years since I stopped smoking, and 3 years since my dad died.  With my husband in the US for a family visit and me dwelling as the day is resting, here I am.  My dad is the reason for my blog to begin with. So bear with me .  And ever the activist, please, please do not be tempted to smoke, take drugs or anything you are curious about.  It is not worth it!

Newspaper clippings,
old stories spilled on the floor.
No smoke, no cigar.

All good stories emanate from
tall skinny houses
with their cracked secrets
and crumbling walls?

Great monologues
came from those giant shoeboxes
and pipe tobacco –
the houses I have left

to tobacco flakes
from an old St Bruno tin –
they inherit occupancy.

There are no rooms for emptiness
or spaces for grief.
There rarely is smoke
without heartache.

Dreaded Whispers

AF0EEDD8B65EF78E39DD438AD8C90519.jpg

Cotinus Young Lady-SmokeBush-writingasitcomes

Been gardening again… love this plant.

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush

wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams
while pondering the water,
pondering depth and death.

Subdued, hushed panicles warp,
subtly interwoven
inside black steel ripples
made by water splashed sedge warblers
flung across the sheen of bleak, black,
stretched canvas

where streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of water
and of life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

You Are

love-2331486_960_720.jpgPixabay

(Co written with my then husband to be, Jay Nabonne (2009 ish) 

When I see an attractive woman,
she embodies the best in women
and she becomes you.

You are attraction.

When I see a movie,
lovers kissing and holding hands,
all I can think is you and us.

You are romance

When I look to a future of times shared
and discoveries found together,
I can’t see anyone but you.

You are companionship

When I lie in bed and fantasize,
it’s your face I see
and your body and your sighs.

You are intimacy

When I feel in my heart what I feel for you,
I know there can’t be any other
to take the place of you.

You are love.

And to me, you are

the brushing of my hand against my hair,
I feel your presence interwoven in the strands
because you have been there.

You are the air

when I stop and hear my breath,
I see you as my chest heaves
because you were once there.

You are my heart

when shadows run and fade away,
I glimpse a glance until they return to
see the other part of me.

You are my soul

when light hits my eyes,
and shines on my face between branches
from a nearby place, I see that
 
you are the moon

when heavy breath whispers
into my ears and makes bristle my longing.
I yearn and I am moved and I sway.

You are the wind

when I can feel soft down against my skin
and see the rougher greys of time embraced by
every other person passing, I see

you are man

when time stops and slows
and its gaps are filled with warmth and
radiated energy, I feel

you are the sun

when I can’t breathe and hope to die,
if only to take you with me forever.
Blood surges through my veins. You

are my life

when I hear laughter and a voice
deep in assured tones and his smile
presses down on her face, I think you
 
are my smile

when prints imprint and fingers
interlock as if to feed a need
that can never be sated, I feel you

are my hands

when thoughts of us spur me on to try to make
the world a better place.
It’s all because you’ll be there to see it with me.

You are

my inspiration, my love, my heart’s beat.
A time without you would be a sad waste
of living; all this time later, I still love you.

My Green

close-up-1842325_960_720.jpg

Picture source; Pixabay

In the serenity of green leaves there is tenderness,
which strives to wrap and bind us

in memories, all whilst blowing in the breeze.
Our imaginings glimmer on soft stems

nurtured by life strewn far and wide; oceanic green
floats around us, and can dance while being thrown

to kingdom come; like the explosion of flamenco’s
wooden sound and its far reaching flamboyance of

grimaces and stoic craftsmanship – all of which try and make nature
tremble under stampeding foot – but nature and its

green, especially that which whispers together,  will always
be the force – there will always be harmony, there will always be green –

despite us.

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