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Somewhere
on the other side of the world it’s warm the sun is shining and skies are blue but here down under it’s dark and frosty cold the perfect time to sit by the fire and write…
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Today is your birthday
I’ll celebrate it with memories Of thirty-seven years together And eternity in Heaven I envision a beautiful world
a world inhabited by people whose characters are defined by love kindness and respect for each other. One in which all people can live together in harmony and peace. I envision a world where people cherish trust dignity for all and have faith in each other one where all lives count no matter of what color,race,gender or nationality, where guns are replaced by hugs and acceptance a world we can call our home, one in which our children are nestled and raised not by the fear of uncertainty but rather by the assurance of a safe future. I envision a world where egoism and hate are supplanted by goodness and generosity, a world where a helping hand takes the place of a shooting one, one in which laughter and joy are a substitute for tears and sadness. This the world for which I hope. Harvest toil with that black eye
cooking at the peat hearth with a livid slap mark loving but love never returned only contempt and mental cruelty She writes her pain into this landscape forming words out of passing clouds dreaming of escape but missing him too each blow hammers another nail into the coffin of her disconsolate life... How swiftly triumph turned into disaster:
Justin steered good old Leyton Orient back into the football league thrown up high by his team right to the top of the world. He played for Spurs for many a year, so many team-mates would have shed a tear for he was fit and not even fifty, the world at his feet, far too young to be snatched away by the Grim Reaper and the manager who replaces him might sense a ghost in the office but he lived and breathed the beautiful game and football fans...will remember his name. When the night lowers its wings
and descends like a bird over my broken heart, like a derelict battered by the storm I search for refuge into your welcoming heart. My soul like the Phoenix regenerates and clings to your comforting body leading us to a safe place. There we will find love again. I’m green
I’m the green in lush flora Like a virus, I spread over the earth I’m the green in lacy ferns, grassy meadows And the towering pines in the forest I’m the green in a garland of Spanish moss Hanging from branches of old oaks I’m the green in murky water And the algae growing within I’m the Green Giant My picture is on cartons of frozen vegetables I’m Green! Sicily: this is my land,
calling me through the voice of her people,of her music and of her history. She pleads for my return there where I was born and spent the happiest days of my childhood. This is the land of my people, of my mother and my father, of my grandparents and great-grandparents. This is our land. This is her voice that resounds like an echo penetrating the hidden paths of my fragile existence. I would like to stretch myself carry my body beyond the shores of her heart and of her womb and find myself a child again along the meadows of my youth. Sicily: land of joy and of tears , of sorrow and of songs, we live and we die faraway or nearby. Finding me again among people I knew experiences I lived and seeing myself a child, reliving the days bygone the dreams not fulfilled. This is my land. From the summit of the Wenallt I view
cumulus clouds slowly rising, drifting in from over the Channel. They are as snow-covered mountains, thunder groans like a far off bomb. A rainbow which arcs above the South Wales coast fades and then disappears as if a ghost as seagulls shriek warning of storms with rain which may turn into hail. The dark clouds peer down on our little boxes where we consider ourselves important though as transient as mornng dew but the huge cumulus clouds which tower have a glorious, frightening power. Your arm curled
with a wave waving back wading your hair sea-weed washed skin; of tiny pearls sharp teeth You held my hand and we walked together into that deeper part undulating in that older rhythm moving with liquidity serpent coils of foam sight of land lost Lungs bursting in ecstasy Western Myanmar was no place to raise a family, yet the decision to leave was still heart wrenching.
Their dream was Australia, but their new home was a Malaysian detention centre. Six long years, Australia and her safety proved elusive. Six years sustained only by a dream, eventually the news of their acceptance came. Leaving was no burden. They found paradise in Australia, he found employment, their dream of paradise became a reality. Five months later, he pulled over to check his load and a truck straddling the service road was unable to stop. Paradise lost. Like a dream
I looked for you tonight, I looked for you once again among wandering shadows in the night filled with moonlight softly settling over abandoned paths inside my heart. I looked for you in my thoughts inside yours, imagining you immersed in peace and solitude: but you weren’t there, just faded memories of a spring afternoon seated in a corner of your garden my heart overflowed with joy. I saw you look at me at my face inside yours, your eyes,like two red sparks, offered a soft caress to my trembling body: I felt alive. From faraway,a wandering song drifted through deserted paths reaching me. Suddenly I felt your heart beating, we looked at each other eyes vibrating with hidden emotions, I extended my hand into yours but you like a dream, had already vanished into the sunlight. She stands,
Eyes brimming, Cheek burning, Waiting, for the car door that signals him gone. Is it enough, to make her brave? That slapped cheek, or broken bones, bruised ribs, black eyes, cut lips. What will it take? her hope is gone, her dreams are shattered, her body is broken, her love is rejected, her heart aches. What will it take, to find her courage, to pack suitcases, to leave, to walk out and start over again? What will it take, what last piece of strength must she find, what last piece of dignity must she lose to be ready to run when that car door slams? I would like to close my eyes
and find myself a child again along the meadows by the sunny rubbles that surrounded my house. Finding myself there again immersed in a chaotic emptiness that peeked through innocently from beyond the walls slaughtered by horrors of war, and yet in that chaotic emptiness I saw my schoolmates again, and everything that created in me the desire to go back there in that part of my life that doesn’t exist anymore. The young sailor dreamt of his lover
deep into a Pearl Harbor Saturday night and maybe imagined he was still locked into the land of sleep as the Japanese planes attacked. The ship was sunk to the sound of screams, youthful lads never to achieve their dreams with the young sailor now sleeping forever. Black smoke over the Arizona: more than a thousand perished on this ship alone lying in the shallow harbour water, a steel tomb you can hear creak as if the spirits of the poor doomed crew the fish indifferent...to the tragic view. The feral woman is an omen
like bug infested fruit. Spoiling on the inside, spilling out across the attic floor. Ravaging lace and flesh, she impersonates a female. A martyr of motherhood they’ll make of her yet. The wilderness of womanhood is a utopia for the lamb pretending she does not see the slaughterhouse before her. Ungodly, she stares down car headlights, about as much use now as roadkill. Soul rapture; like pulling trash out of a lake. The seed of submission nesting in the belly of a god. This rampage of tenderness will make a woman of her yet. A tribute to Roky Erickson 1947-2019 You were a pioneer way back in 1965
refusing to graduate from high school because you would not cut your hair writing an immortal song at just nineteen that is part of the rock’n’roll pantheon. But demons tormented your soul robbing you of your youthful years spent forcibly institutionalized until you came through the pain to grace the musical world again. So goodbye psychedelic warrior you were a man poetic and oblique your sweet music a unique memorial created in that zone you described as where the pyramid meets the eye. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though. Just submit them using the submissions Storybox. Archives
June 2019
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