Dig Deep #domestic abuse

A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse numbers (within this Covid period) and ‘legal’ /unrecognised domestic abuse – depending on country, perspective, bribery and misogyny. It is not OK to condone the notion that women exist to be beaten, abused and trodden on.

unknown source

Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
my heart.
It will not oblige
if torn from my smouldering flesh;
soothing fractals in the shadows of my skin
still glow with the pearls
of my faith, a faith that now runs as sweat down
my beaten face. My soul was always on fire –
the reason your hands are now burning.

Bury me deeply
so that the crows you tame
will not abuse me for all eternity,
when solace is no longer
a sacred place
and death becomes an arbitrary mulch.

Bury me deeply,
so that when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will not feel you.
And when you scream and shout,
begging for grief and release, since I am not
there to torture, the crows will
gather once again,
but, you will watch them shield me.
So, you should bury
me deeply.

Dig Deep #domestic abuse #hypocrisy

 

chalk bones whips blush poem

A little rant and a p-o-e-m in light of increasing domestic abuse numbers (within this Covid period)and ‘legal’ /unrecognised domestic abuse, depending on country, perspective and bribes.  

It is not OK to condone the notion that women exist to be beaten, abused and trodden on.  I cannot stand for this either, so, I won’t.

Bury me deeply
so that the sun can’t find
my heart.
It will not oblige,
if torn from my smouldering flesh;
soothing fractals in the shadows of my skin
glow still with the pearls
of my faith that now runs as sweat down
my beaten face.  My soul, always on fire,
is why your hands are now burning.

Bury me deeply
so that the crows you tame
will not abuse me for all eternity,
 when solace is no longer
a sacred place
and death becomes an arbitrary mulch.

Bury me deeply,
so when your fists rage and pound
against the rise of dank, dark soil,
I will not feel you.
When you scream and shout,
begging for grief and release, since I am not
there to torture, the crows will
gather once again,
but you will watch them shield me.
So, you should bury
me deeply.

Sappho: a small tribute

9669618740_45936cecfa_b.jpg

I speak rightly –
set not my words to music,
nor douse them in tune to vast breaths
of  tempests’
contemplative praise.

I am among you as mortal,
still.  But, please, breathe freely –
at least for a time,
then let me be to eager rests’
devoted arms –

of course your strewn petals,
benign at my feet,
speak calmly of foe and friend –
draw me close to your wondrous
adoration;  so separate me not from music’s glow

when such fragments tear you
into fractious, scattered pieces –
and so it is perhaps that great art’s worship
be confined to symbolic gesture.

I am not lost, and I am not gone
whilst echoes play
with such innocence
and voices call me.  I am translucent.
Gleaned from me is the skin you were denied.
I am always yours.  I am diaphanous.

Flaunting Hatred

Flaunting Hatred.jpg

Poem was inspired by a fabulous artist and a poem choice for his art.  I’ve just recently began following.   Please go and see the work of Anthony Grootelaar.  The picture is unrelated.

I begged him to love me,
but not for nought
as music played in the draught
of what I sought.
I scoffed his imperfections
liaised with wit
when laughter ran unescorted
on a matter of mutual concern,
and yet, through his brutal demeanour,
tenderness rose
befitting the night.
Perchance I could love better –
but only after death.

Slow Death

484615573_3250d4020c_b

I will slowly leave you.
One day, shadows will take me over
as you stand by and watch
or would you take my hand and heart,
as I drift, and ask me to stay?
Silent angels have walked with my grief
and agony for a long time now;
when my deepest thoughts can be heard
by no one, yet can be touched
by growling fingers,
they wrap their arms
around me, but one day
their song
began to slide like treacle
down the walls I’d come to dread –
swallowing me,
swallowing all of our lives;
it hung there, thick
with the lies, the violence
trapping us like flies on paper –
while the slaps, real and unsaid,
bruised the air, bruised us.
You said you loved me,
and I believed in it,
flung against the pictures
of our childhood,
flung against tradition,
flung against all we held dear,
and when that black heart of yours
grew tired,
I wished for peace,
I wished for darkness,
until soon the singing stopped.

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