life

An apology, unaccepted

It has been a few years now…
The roses have bloomed five or six times,
five or six times petals snapped off
in the winds, in the rains.
A few loved ones have passed;
a few scars have been gained.

Yet, here I wait, hopeful;
somewhat, perhaps.
A life unexamined
is a life not worth living,
yet still a life, surely?
I washed my hands of old times
and I know the dust is yet unsettled
On those ornaments of a grudge.

The dust sits thick and brown,
like my apology:
forgotten, but not quite lost.

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Mendes 

He wants to hide with me 

in a tree-house of secrecy, 

cuddle into me 

and plant himself in my fertile soil.

He smells like wooden cologne 

and he holds me like he needs me:

up here we’re safe 

from shutters and flashes. 

It’s some kind of dream 

but I feel this like it’s real. 

Mendes, who are you? 

Why did you come? 

And why did we leave? 

A Scene 

Little Liam falls down the well 
Hits his head in some hell
Shakes it off and blames himself 
Now he sits on Hedone’s shelf 
A twist and tale, smoke for the screen 
Skinny jeans and kidney beans 
Acetone and Ritalin 
Falling short on Serotonin 
Little Liam lying low low 
So? SO?
Who gives a 
Cause Little Liam thinks he’s stuck
It’s all done with money 
The chopping and rolling of the honey 
And he’s in the making 
It’s easy once you’re used to faking

Self-deprecate

What is it we do
To ourselves late at night
As the coals simmer softly in the darkness?
The moon doesn’t exist for us,
There’s too much romance we’ve applied
To that ball of dust in the sky we’ve allied.
We’ve forgotten about the Romantics:
Wordsworth’s rainbows and Blake’s grain of sand.
But we have ourselves still –
We really do.
And we sit in the dark
In our own shadows
Within the shadow of something else.
That pain inside
We can’t quite understand.
All competing for a love we will never receive –
So it goes…
So we blend ourselves into the dark
Like the artist rubbing the charcoal on the page.
We ask questions we don’t understand
So any answer wouldn’t be noticed.
At the sight of a ray of light spilling through
A wooden blind
We see an opportunity to celebrate;
Celebrate not the light
But the unlit.
These tropes of light and dark!
Tiresias who saw all; Oedipus who did not.
Yet Oedipus saw, Tiresias did not.
So what is it then?
This grotesque Romanticism of smudging ourselves?
We’re splatters of one colour
On the same coloured canvas.
But we want to be noticed.
We still want to be seen.

Legs stop swingin’

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
– From ‘Introduction’, ‘Songs of Innocence’, William Blake

When legs stop swingin’
sitting on a high chair,
and the spontaneous bursts
of Crayola-coloured imaginings
fade into a soft grey despondency;
When no more glittering unicorns
appear in the fluffy flowing clouds,
and waking up becomes
the first effort of the day;
When I-love-you is replace
with love-you automatically spewed,
and fantasies of worlds inside the mind
become longings for the weekend;
When sandcastles on beaches
are ignored in favour of the Sunday Times,
And ice-cream truck sirens
become an invasive clamour;
When children cross over
and transition snuffs out their flames,
sadly this when life
their ethereal innocence claims.

Another Love Poem Inspired by Loss and Bitterness

You love it when I write you a sweet love poem,
but rage scarlet when I smash you like limestone
with my shiny words and these strange metaphors…
We fell like Icarus, hubris was the cause.
I saw your lusty list of your past lovers,
I was but one under your starched white covers.
Staring at the city with you – I felt whole.
Now I’m left with pepperminted loneliness and paracetamol.
How does it feel to be free from my millstone?
Read between these coloured-in rhymes: there lies my tone.
Now you’ll see me in the shadows of the full moon,
surreptitiously shining on your bed: we died too soon.

Blue Jay

He visits me in the mornings
and late afternoons,
this Blue Jay.
He sits in the branch of the tree
outside my window and
sings sweetly, mellifluously.
His feathers are a palette
of blues and whites:
a deep ocean mixed
with piercing blue skies
and fluffed up clouds.

He visits me in the mornings
and late afternoons,
this Blue Jay.
I give him some food
and put out some water.
He loves the water –
washes himself with it,
ruffles up his feathers
and shakes the water all over him:
he always makes me smile.

He visits me in the mornings
and late afternoons,
this Blue Jay.
He is the beauty among the chaos
in my world, in this world,
but each day he renews my hope.
When I see him sitting there
my heart swirls
and life doesn’t seem so meaningless.

He visits me in the mornings
and late afternoons,
this Blue Jay.
I hope he never leaves
and keeps coming back
to sing his sweet songs
to satisfy my heart that longs.

Mortal

So it goes:
Life.
In out.
Nothing turned to something
and becomes nothing again,
legacies fade too…
There is hope
in knowing our diseased ideas
die too.
Eventually.
Pink girls;
blue boys.
Are these lies fixed?
Can we escape?
Are we stuck on this island?
Surrounded,
clueless.
Existentialism consoles us:
all we have are thoughts –
theories
to try control.
Adrift at sea;
deep waters,
shallow thoughts.
The waves rock the boat
and we rock along too.

Chocolate & Morphine: Satire of Society

The faded white paint peels perniciously
from these haunting hospital hallways…
Wards filled with beds filled with bodies filled with sickness:
a stitch in time saves none.

Disinfectant (the omnipresent ghost)
saunters around like a drunk,
making sure to get noticed by all.
Helium-filled GET WELL SOON! balloons
limply deflating among deflated bodies wearing
weathered blood-stained gowns.

Plump bags filled with clear liquids
stand slumped beside bedsides:
IV transfusions transfusing HIV?
Needles, catheters and antigens
hopelessly fighting these pervasive pathogens.

Death strolls around (cane in hand)
carefree and calm,
handing out chocolate & morphine
(accepted without heed).
He alone gets to laugh last.

Staccato beeps echo like wretched weeps &
hearts murmur their mumbles,
drowning among these malicious maladies.
Society?
Critical but stable.