Posts from the ‘Of Few Words’ Category
A chasm of softly spoken words Reflecting, echoing, reaching Touching hollowd ground Passing traffic Brusied tissue Colliding memories of ifs,buts and when Photograph tenderness Boarders, teashops, cheap oniments Tranposrt cafes and loud laughs Sad goodbyes
Every moment you were physically here.
Every second you remain with me to this day.
Every lesson you taught me.
Every memory you left me.
Every bruise you kissed away.
Every time you ruffled my hair.
Every face you pulled in distaste.
Every sacrifice you made, and;
Every time you said. “it will be okay.”
Every birthday card signed in your name.
Every time you offered me a hug.
Every sigh you made when I said, “I’ve fucked up………..again.”
Every shopping trip for shoes that would never quite fit.
Every pain, ache, and discomfort you handled with grace.
Every time we refused to say, “goodbye.”
Every time your husband tried to cook a pie, and;
Every time my sister teased me about being a mummy’s boy deep inside.
Every day I think of you Mum.
Because, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
I will be forever proud to be called your son.
As with all things.
A step of enlightenment that brought hesitation.
Like walking on thin ice on a warm day.
It all comes down to timing.
The pathways to horror are many, but most are man-made. Causes belied with hatred, greed and intolerance. The manufacturing of the tools to extinguish life. The devastating impact when the horror in a far away land becomes a horror in your neighbourhood.The ritual over analysis of 24-hour news channels struggling to fill time with empty words. The peddling of shaky images and grainy films from mobile phones across social media. The silent space vacated by reasonable people who just want to live a peaceful life. The bigots and political thugs with their contorted facial expressions, gasping for air, to fill their lungs and expel their prescribed rigid ideology be it faith, Marx or Smith. Those who hide behind the artificial boundaries of nationality, those who pull the trigger, those who embrace the ends of days, those who manipulate and spread poison in the shadows of ignorance your darkness will ultimately consume you. Sometimes it’s ok to say nothing and just reflect that a chair once occupied is now empty and an embrace once given is no longer provided.
I am your innocence
Bring the broken bones
Wrapped in woven sack
Tied then opened
Released and spread out
Assembled they are a body
For you to collect again
To gather and place back in woven sack
Placed on shelf
Amongst the past
Awaiting to be opened
In candle light
It fits perfectly.
Like a fearlessly sought after lost jigsaw piece.
It completes the picture.
A boat tied securely at a lock with smiling faces.
Set in the English countryside.
So marry me.
Amazing reds and yellows merge with satin black to make such a beautiful camouflage. To conceal, disguise and yes deceive, although without malice intent but survival in mind, for the butterfly life is short.
How can something so beautiful, so bold be so delicate as butterfly wings? Becoming disabled and unable to rejoice in the freedom of clear blue skies when touched by my mere human hands.
Drawn by a naked flame, captured in their beauty, distant within their vulnerability. Hidden beneath your camouflaged heart, I find your butterfly wings. Enslaved within a prism, darkened by a reluctant essence.
Your buttery wings when open display a world so fragile and innocent, when closed they attempt to conecl your natural wonder, beauty, your inherent power.
While walking along unblemished river banks, drifting through feral grass from the corner of my eyes, I see your butterfly wings. Gently they glide, hovering, capturing sunbeams and occasionally stopping to rest and gather valuable energy from wildflowers.
Leaving only flighting memory.
A moment captured in time.
Now so different.
As winter exhales her chilly breath.
No fantastic reds and yellows merge with satin black.
On these insular riverbanks, I await a warm breeze.
Your butterfly wings.
I spent all night with you. Still, the motorways rage on. Maybe the gypsies will curse the bruise you have left.