Monday, 29 March 2010

Hush now...

Expect silence from here for a while, folks. I have fallen over and need time to pick myself up. The time I've been given is not strictly enough, which is why I must drop all else and concentrate on it...

Don't worry, this doesn't mean an end.

Just a necessary pause.


Thursday, 18 March 2010

Don't forget.

Whether mess or not
is inconsequential.
These broken boards
and varnished planks
hold together a patchwork
of timefull memories.

Stories told in yellow light,
blue canvas and thin mattresses,
while chilly condensation already forms
and tired eyes droop.

Adventures play out,
enthusiasm for every detail,
escaping children, mad pirates
and magic elves shout and dance.

Evenings rush by in dusky grey,
Straining springs squeaking and creaking,
While bare feet pound against the plastic
And bodies fly.

A small boy in green shorts,
chubby hands and rounded cheeks,
stands at the gap in the fence
and watches the workmen.

A summer sun reflects off water,
a green hose and rainbow spray,
that flickers and trickles and shivers
down goose-bump limbs.

Ladies laze under a sunshade,
on a brown felt blanket,
with feet against the daisies
and music notes under closed lids.

A small blonde haired girl,
Dirty fingers and grazed knees,
Coaxes green shoots from the raked earth
And carries treasures proudly into the house.

Golden flowers and russet leaves
Float in shifting breezes to the cold ground,
Leaving bare limbs that hit the washing line
As cold fingers peg up damp clothes.

Wondering eyes stare at delicate glory,
Pairs at a time voicing amazement at
the silk thin, glittering, rain catching webs
hammocking between jagged twigs.

Green wellies stamp in shallow puddles,
Carry the wearer from back to front,
Follow the blue wheels of a small pushchair
That, even in the cold, still rattles.

A camera flash captures the beauty:
Sharp fingers from the neighbour’s roof,
A leaf encased in translucent ice,
Drifts covering the paths so well known.

A flurry of snow announces the arrival
Of gloved hands and wrapped up bodies,
Snowballs that explode on thick coats
And creations that don’t last.


Now I stand on the trampoline
and stare around at the garden.
Plants and paths. Rocks and earth.
This place holds my home.

Whether mess or not
is inconsequential.
These broken boards
and varnished planks
hold together a patchwork
of timefull memories.
"Feels like home."

Monday, 15 March 2010

Sister, wife, friend.

A sock to the stomach. Shit. And I thought... Yes, but you thought wrong, didn't you? Or so it appears. A momentary mention. A set of meaningless words on a screen and the betrayal makes you sick.

What does she think she's doing? I don't understand, and yet I think I understand completely. Did you get someone else to gift you, my darling? Was someone else as generous as I was? Or did you just happen to be able to work it yourself? After the special-ness yesterday, today you are suddenly capable to find the ability. After your wound up mother and her anxious words, your apparent actions seem at complete odds. Do I understand you correct? Or am I reading too much into the reality that has been separating you from us for too long? Your pretty, young, stupid friends and their cliquey lives. Your mucked up group that you complain about and yet return to over and over and over...
Well then, pretty face, welcome to the human race! So easy to think yourself separate. Shame on the pride and the lies and the promises. Your pretty face and empty-full eyes won't save you the confusion and pain of an explanation this time. How many more times am I going to have to put in the effort before a hand is extended in reply?

The anger is not roaring. It's more a betrayal sick in my stomach, behind my tired eyes. Don't say you don't see me enough, my lovely. Just come and find me, I'm always here. Don't promise you'll make make it, my dear. Just turn up and let me enjoy your company. And don't tell me you have no ability to join us, my friend. Just tell me the truth. Don't let me find out for myself the extent of your love for us.

And I thought... Yes, you thought. But don't be surprised. It's happened before, you just didn't expect it at such an extent, did you? You'll have to face her on this one. Yes, you know it. Stop typing it up onto the screen. Just find a time to talk. Maybe you're wrong, against all evidence. And pray your relationship can uphold itself still. As, somehow, it continues to do, held up by the arms of your love.

Friday, 12 March 2010

"You brought this on yourself
and it's high time you left it there.
Lie here and rest your head
and dream of something else instead."


Early one morning I was making breakfast,
A panda piano symphony in my head.
My hands were holding a teacup of memories
that wept hot tears as I remembered what you'd said.

Baby blue brought me a bathos note
as my bashful cheeks began to glow.
You always were a cornucopia of knowledge
about things you'll never need to know.

Wednesday, 10 March 2010

The Ian Carey Project

Stamping hands, clapping feet.
A clash of heat where music notes meet.
Throbbing bodies and shifting limbs.
Flying hair to these modern day hymns.
Always singing, singing stops.
Heels thud against table tops.
Downwards eyes and mouthings wide.
A crowd a perfect place to hide.
"My aim is true, my message is clear: it's curtains for you, Elizabeth my dear"