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.

Inside, Will the Sun Shine?

imagesQRU62QCA

I wish it was possible to live
without a heart,
and walk inside a head
without thoughts
and dread.
And as I was walking in my head,
the lighting wasn’t set –
good moods left me at the lamppost –

its metallic flavour permeated my tongue
as I wrapped my cold arms around it,
while your taste
and the taste of blood
brought me darkness and tears.
I had hoped reinventing
the sunshine would bring me
memories like ham rolls,
and hot mustard
spilled onto a tablecloth of time
where I’d lay out my choices;
of meetings in the square,
casual and attentive,
awash with shadows
when they came to serve the daylight,
and with more than enough warmth
to dry these morbid tears.

I still walk for hours and hours,
but never venture out.

Bring me sunshine,
bring me laughter,
bring me love.

See the Ivy

I wrote this way, way back…did a quick edit.  Inspired by the ‘b’ side of a Kate Bush song.  I hope you enjoy it.

Feeringbury_Manor_garden_steps,_Feering_Essex_England_-_low_sun.jpg

‘It won’t take me long
to show you where to find me,
to show you where I’ll be…’

Her skirts brush a path through a dusting of dead soil trying to steal
the crazily paved thoughts that lead the way down through the tolling bells
of Fuchsia that ring only in her ears.

Wilted scent long since a memory, wafts past her nostrils only.
Birds never sing or hover gently – there are
no lush enticements such as sunlight or colour for them to repose in.

The ivy, once triumphant in its climb, has grown weary;
its brittle hands crumble without so much as a touch,
just as she would, and so easily, we fear.

Heavy oak doors sigh and groan as a frail, ashen gesture
endears her to them, and they give as if opening for her
and her alone. She turns to wave us on, and she smiles at us,

the intruders into this labyrinth of sadness, where melancholic
blossoms lay forlorn at her feet. She does not see us –
she does not see anything at all – but she smiles knowingly,

tilting her head back slightly as the wind begins a cooling serenade
causing her gait to slow. She comes to rest upon a mildewed bench –
her skirts still once more, and there she waits;

we cannot tell for what or for whom, and not just from the widening
of her smile. She heaves a heavy sigh and plucks imaginary petals
from a spent stem, long since dried and rotted.

She plucks rhythmically to the deadened beat of her tired heart.
But for her, inside her secret garden, inside of her walled off mind, the beautiful colours fall lazily, and one by one, she counts them all.

‘He loves me,
he loves me not,
he loves…’

We tip our hats and bid her good day, all of us without the heart
to remove her from within – from her secret garden… and she smiles.

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.

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

Lessons for My Daughter

o-wisdom-facebook.jpg

Italics are quotes from George Ivanovich Gurdjieff who was an influential early 20th century Russian mystic, philosopher, spiritual teacher.

do not wonder where we
have been –
all footsteps are obliterated,
all teaching is gone
and knowledge dissipated
by the curse of war;

harness wisdom
as if it were the sun’s energy,
learn belief and hope
outside of bricks and mortar
and scholastic endeavours.

Knowledge is a gift
but wisdom must be earned,

use it wisely as new seed
to enrich dry soil,
fuel the mind and healing
compasses turned by the wind’s
desire to grow stronger –
while lands toil

turn greed into respect
for the beauty of all things
and all people,
let humanity enter this uncertain
phase together so that we can
feed each other

with “wisdom” of the Orient
and the “energy” of the West

and let us stop, as a world,
destroying all life with impunity

 

my life as a piece of string

... from a silent space

Letters on my Heart

The Broken Cannot Rise Alone...

Discarded Recollections

A Repository of Discarded Poetry, Story Prompts, and Memories

Lluís Bussé

Barcelona's Multiverse | Art | Culture | Science

The Lonely Author

Pain goes in, love comes out.

Light Touch

Just wondering at the miracle called LIFE .

The Stories In Between

Author River Dixon

Wezzlehead

poetry by Robert Ford

Rachana Trp.

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.

Story Of The Footloose

In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well.

Megha's World

A potpourri of emotions

pouringtruth

Poetry and words

The Bouquet Gallery

A collection of beautiful things and thoughts

Stuff and what if...

Exploring writing and the creative randomness of life. Snapshots of moments.

Just Brian

"Not all who wander are lost..."

newtoneapblog

A Discarded Plant

A Cornered Gurl

I am more than breath & bones.

MY VALIANT SOUL

My poetry is my religion.

A Blooming Scribe

Poetry, short essays and other work showcased by a Scientist, Philosopher, and Adventurer. Posts on Monday and First Fridays.

Everyday Strange

Dark Writing and Strange Inspirations

The Words of Akunda

The Little Poetastry; The little stories

The Broad Spectrum Life

Exploring Rhymes, Reasons, and Nuances of Our World

Elan Mudrow

Smidgens

David Redpath

We're all on a road to somewhere.

Seductive Darkness

Provocative poetry and musings on life

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

MYMonkey MIND

Your Brain is a Radio that Does What its Told

SentientVoice

Encouraging animal advocacy and compassion

Mark Deeble

A wildlife filmmaker in Africa

LOU RASMUS

big book guy

vividlyfoxxy

Just another WordPress.com site

Hearing The Mermaids Sing

At Least Trying Too

michnavs

Poetry by Mich

Frank Solanki

If you want to be a hero well just follow me

ALEX MARKOVICH ART

MarkovichUniverse AT gmail DOT com

johncoyote

Poetry, story and real life. Once soldier, busnessman, grandfather and Poet.