I sat
and felt
the changes
come
the ages
rinsing
over
me
I sat
and saw
exchange
of sun
for rages
rushing
up to
see
I sat
and cried
and rain came down
how strange
for one
with pages
still to
see.
I made a mistake.
This isn’t my life after all.
They said; ‘life’s what you make it’
but that’s just not true.
I would never admit defeat,
but must own up to some conceit -
I thought the world was there to take,
thought the earth was mine
beneath my feet.
But now come whisperings,
thoughts I should probably heed -
responsibilities and tripping points
like nine tenth icebergs,
cold and waiting underneath for me.
Yes, I’ll now admit to my mistake -
at least that’s one choice
I alone can make.
What they had is gone,
And all I feel is blankness.
Numbed like some medicated fool
Avoiding their wretched reality.
It’s not indifference or avoidance though -
I suspect it to be more a kind of odd guilt,
Like a fog that pities the landscape
But nonetheless must smother the light below.
Something IS there, but must not be seen,
Something is aware, but nust not be known.
All they had is gone and I’m numb again.
With hollowness, with vague intent
Writing to you under
Postcard-dry skies.
What else can
I do?
Who stole
the lighthouse keys?
There’s no beacon I can see.
Where is the roaming beam
that circles by degrees,
that reaches out across the sea,
to keep the rocks away from me?
Who stole the lighthouse keys
and snubbed my candle reach?
No seam of light that holds the night
or mark and guide cross awkward skies,
now just screeching gulls of eventide
once more a fearful mystery -
controlled by they, that stole
the lighthouse keys.
I was thinking about you
All your things in readiness
Held in a drawstring bag
Clutched like pearl and trove
in netted treasure sack.
You, looking so … little
And scared in the blue
Of losing cool and shine
Of forgetting who you are
At the mercy of cold hands
Lying passive and waiting -
How like a fish jumped
Into strange waters!
Minutes rising, countdown’s pull,
Of meeting bloodied dark
Of growing fate through stir
And current that tugs and calls
Like black queen crawfish
Moving in a mystery game.
How cruel such creatures are
That make me think of you,
Sifting the night sounds
Tossing and turning but not moving
Stilled beneath cutting sheets
Of ripple click and midnight tuck
Of care that feels like harm,
Pin-dropped cold in the pool
And drifting, where no-one knows.
But yet, I think of you
And time rushes as if water
Flowing free the crusted hold
A return to whom you know
In joy of being - of belonging
Back to friendship’s spoils
And the untethered laughter
Of good times swirling endlessly
Like unhooked river trout
Playing in whitewater smile.
I was thinking about you, and know
You will race the stream again.
Please know that yours is not a lost cause.
You will sidestep these horrid, barren gulleys
These concerns ascending though purity’s tears
From here, you will climb still further
Up, through the mist toward sky’s veil
Where some have fallen, and some have paused
Amongst stalagmites chiselled by unkind wind
You will smile at ancient lichen etched in quartz
You will face cold stone’s grimace and find anchor
Beyond knowing and the known, beyond today
Beyond tomorrow and life’s tremulous hold.
There is always the memory of you.
The water cries
Through bloated hands
Outstretched to catch
The slamming doors
That one by one
Undo their hold.
They, the nailed souls
Pummelled and bent
Now held below
Like corroded pins
In ocean’s spill
Bleached and sunk
And stilled in fall.
Waiting for the hammer
and its weary call.
I am pillow bound
to cradle hold
and rest my head
on crumbled ground.
I am willow sound
in river fold
and test my dread
of humble gold.
I am shallows found
in winter’s cold
bad times ahead -
a thousandfold.
I’m gonna do it.
This thing I’ve been diverting from.
No more sidestepping the situation
Or jumping desert sweat on hotplate rock
Or leaving fly-spun fruit in crusted brook.
This has simmered away in hope, for long enough.
Like pressured steam from the very vent of me -
Excuses, promises, commitment - all lost in the boil
The condensed atoms of ‘if’ and ‘but’ -
Like rolling mist, clinging,
To a mountainside.
We are crawling
Under the beams
Dodging flashlights
Without being seen
Yet still we crane to see
Through the darkened glass
Of who we want to be
Whispering to be opened
To be unwrapped before
The time of what may happen yet
Staying curled up like infants
Ball shadow flat against the wall.
In fear, of what we may become.
Pity your eyes.
They have seen too much, but not enough.
Cross eyed stare - lost gazed across the row,
seeing detail in the detail but not the canvas.
Damn your hands.
They have felt, but do they touch?
Rough as sinew thread - hardened by ages sun,
cotton reeled and fretted like driftwood.
Curse the silence.
You do not hear, what could be said.
Murmer lost in shout - plaintive soft,
in the darkness of the quiet.
I praise your heart.
A coda strong and truthful,
still not adrift - nor blooded witness sea,
to life overflowed.
Your heart still lives, and can be heard.
If I go blind, see for me.
Lead me through a darkened life,
as I shuffle towards a change of light.
If our eyes no longer intersect,
tell me the way onward.
Still without words.
When the hood of these eyes,
is forever noosed and tightened,
will you be my guide?