Poems from a tough week

“All cried out” is an interesting phrase, isn’t it?

I’ve had it happen temporarily but it always scares me.

I’m always frightened to lose the ability to cry. Because once you stop being able to truly feel, what is left?

I want tears to keep showing up, same as I dislike rain but welcome it all the same.

If you’re going through a bad time, tears can be all that remind you you’re human.

Sometimes I trail and pinch my skin just to double check I still experience things.

Thankfully, I still do.

Bees to Blossom

Song thrushes still sing

When no-one listens to their tune

The stars grace midnight canvas

When cloaks of cloud obscure the moon

And so, regardless of whatever

I now mean to you

Connection is compulsion

Love, is all that I can do

.

The apple trees hold blossom

On the days there are no bees

The ocean keeps on rolling

When no ships are on the seas

Rain falls when every sprawling hill

Is dewy, lush and green

I still hold your soulful eyes

As most bewitching sight I’ve seen

.

I’m unsure when I’ll stop hurting

How long this emptiness will last

Perhaps one day, I can

Consign it firmly to the past

But you live in me so effortlessly

Inconvenience, all mine

For now, I’ll call the bees to blossom

Hope the clouds part, for moon shine.

I loved, I lost

I loved, I lost, I pay the cost

The summer rays birthed cruel frost

But I would do it all again

Throw fragile heart to callous wind

Our red will sit as strawberry vase

On windowsill of life’s beige pause

Forever catching glints of gold

Rogue sunbeams in this phase of cold

The morning after years before

His weight hangs heavy on my head,

Familiar robe

Town Crier bell

Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!

Love is dead!

.

Love is dead!

Is what he said

.

Indifferent tongue

Yet barbed with glass

Sand blaster voice

Shearing layers

Whittling

Til I’m bruised and bare

.

And as he planed my core, I bled…..

House brick clots in ox blood tone

Coughed up his dust, the bike chain rust

Pivoting each dagger point

A chalice of his mocking gore

Pin bites of dogs, the chafing sores

Stretched gape of wounds I did not make

I oozed their black and white mistakes

.

Ripe blisters crust to hobbling shoes

Contorted by a twisted path

A paper doll I had to lose

Wear his uniform as bind

Time harnessed hurts as waiting blades

Butchered promise as a lamb

Recoiling in this soiling gown

Prime boiled, insipid greying broth

.

It may be dead

But I still breathe

I scramble to a turret, safe

Elevated vantage point

Watch myself, in disconnect

Scents waft through bars as prison meals

Remembered banquet, damson wine

Rank punch of lacquered plattered flesh

The stench of roadkill kicked to kerb

.

“Love is dead”, he says again

His message carving me alive

I leap with deer in green no more

The morning after, years before

Maroon

His favourite colour was maroon

Where brown meets red

And brightness dies

And so it fits that love was doomed

A baby dead before it cries

With poisoned dart of poised harpoon

He left me to my island mind

The two of us, somehow marooned

For only sand and foam to find

Wishing

I was a little girl

Wishing to be grown up

So I could leave home

Now I am an adult

Wishing my son would grow up

So I can leave home

I wonder whether it will ever stop

The wishing

Dove Road

Track is dust bowl pale again

Powder made from constant drumming of obedient fingers

Dredge of drudge

Fuss is a red mist kicked up when you’re young. When you’re older you kick only yourself and one day, a bucket.

I look down at this gravel path, and all I see…..

Is the trampled carcass of my one bonny dove.