RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.
For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I planted for her. It is a rambler, sending shoots to the sky that sink back down. We never gave it a trellis. I loved her too much. And there are tears in his eyes, wet, heavy things that slip down his cheeks and on to the grass below us.
I don't know what to say, so I think of the rose, of her. I think that I'd like to send this
An Exercise in ExistingFrom a shore, you watch.
Eyes dripping, contributing to an ocean as wide as space
and as deep as time.
There must be another side, another edge of this vast bowl.
And there is.
Some days you think you can see it, a haze on the far horizon,
like heat on a sidewalk or the hood of a car. You tilt your head,
eyes slit, watching the wavering lines like dancing brush strokes.
Other days, hazy days, there’s nothing more than the clouds
seeping into the water. One long swoop of grey blue green.
And on those days, with salted air sweeping across your face,
hair tangling like serpents, you can breathe again. Lungs ticking
back to life like a furnace turning on. One long rumble.
You stand there, then, taking in cold air and pushing out all
toxicity. Just an exercise in existing.
From a shore, you watch.
Your feet sinking into sand and your fingers subtly moving, glancing
across seams like a gust of air.
There is a crunch of sand in your teeth, born from every swallowed
sound. You’re a
Hello There Loneliness"Hello there loneliness, how are you today?"
Your silence says it all.
"Would you like to stare at the walls with me?"
Of course you would, that's why you're here.
"Lovely weather don't you think?"
Oh, you don't want to go out.
"I think I will close the curtains then, if that’s okay?"
You enjoy the darkness.
"Have I received any calls today?"
There hasn’t been any for a week.
"Wow, aren’t you quiet today?"
The only sound is my voice.
"I had a funny dream last night you know?"
I wished it would never end.
"Oh, how come I can’t remember it?"
Your presence makes me forgetful.
"I think I will have a drink, want to join?"
You much prefer the vodka.
"Should I mix it with something else?"
Those pills should give it a kick.
"Should I turn off the phone? Save the battery?"
Yes, that would be wise.
"Is there anything that I have forgotten?"
I really should lock the door.
"Well that’s all done, let’s get on shall we?"
You always liked to watch.
ReverieThere's always something to be done
For which we may choose to walk or run,
But oh what bliss for a change to stop
And let those heavy eyelids drop -
In comfort muted sounds to gather
To quieteness all around.
So let us stay a while and see the one
Who reflects the time then next door comes
And looks around his place to recline,
Recumbant, cosy, and clears his mind, when
The onomatopaea of raindrops landing
Through hollow senses laid down, meandering,
Onwards leading towards comfort then
Birthright burden's sense receding.
The nearby garden trees' perfume
Like Beauty to the Beast's bedroom,
Kisses 'Adieu' and breathes 'So long',
Whilst far mountain temple's timely gong
Mutes now incoherent his langoured heart's throng,
Last vestage self, and time, belong.
And who is this of whom we speak ?
Of male or female, with snout or beak
Or with cloven hoof and lonel