Man of glass
No longer, in residence anyone of your name
Spirals of memories –
fishing boats trawl waters deep
dream catchers with their secrets to keep
flickering images of black and white
reliving fragments of others acceptance.
Mother dear you’ve stitched that piece before
I know, you knew, that one day
someone would come knocking on our door
think you can wear that blanket
of ignorance for always, strip off that outer
coat of varnish –
scrub away the tarnished debris
You should have been an actress
encore after encore
with everyone screaming more
more, more – but not me!
In shiny yellow stocking, I held
my step father’s hand
in my shiny yellow stocking I
simply – did – not – understand.
You begged to go swim –
deeply, of the fish and ocean.
So slowly with the rising of the tide
we sank to our knees, dancing
for reasons of not, knowing.
We had a love house
flooded plains, hidden from
the fat eyed women and flat-capped men
who sat outside, beside their view of life
tongues, of debased woe.
Remember when they found us, seaweed
rolled – with hair a mess and features
Didn’t I say – we needed to rise
but instead, we kept on dancing
far beyond those fields of
golden, swaying daffodils…
I don’t need my friends to come calling
banging on the door, bringing with them their platitudes
and childlike fairy-tales of happy ever after’s.
I enjoy my solitude – alone is me
I get along well, being by myself.
Does that make me sound ungrateful slightly the oddball
with my ladder, not altogether reaching normality’s floor?
Then to hell if it does – I can handle that, its people
who screw me up.
Sometimes I think I am a hologram lacking
of any bodily substance.
Therefore, I close my eyes
much preferring the world from behind this shuttered view
of which the solitude is so breathtakingly indescribable.
I know if I refuse to play their games, they will eventually leave.
Thankfully, I am not like them,
at least there is some sanity –
in my unending madness.
drizzling today – but at least it’s warm.
I sit, legs
dangling on the sandstone garden wall.
I am trying hard,
to make my final sweet
last, until tea time
yet I somehow
doubt it will.
a man in with Mama who I don’t recall
ever seeing before.
are sitting side by side eating strawberries
I really hope they
save some for me.
Their voices are low – but every now and
I can here Mama laugh.
She doesn’t laugh that
often – I guess
that’s how I notice it so, when she does.
I swallow my sweet, feeling annoyed with myself
for being so greedy.
I wish they would hurry up and finish whatever
it is, they’ve got to say.
Eventually I hear the sound of the
front door being rattled open.
Sometimes in the really wet weather
the door sticks –
Mama hit it with a pick axe once, made
no difference other than it broke the handle.
For months afterwards we used a spoon
to turn the lock until finally an old friend
came to fix it –
‘free of charge’ Mama said!
side by side out they came – he looked full of himself to me.
Mama acted all surprised on seeing me.
Can’t think why – she had told me to sit there.
started making funny head gestures towards the house.
down from the wall – but not before
the man had
strolled towards me.
I could smell those strawberries on his thick beer laden breath.
He took some sweets from his pocket, holding them out to me.
nodded for me to accept – so I took them.
soon expertly rummaging
in amongst the bright coloured wrappers
looking for my favourite.
Some of Mamas words got a
little lost as I unwrapped the sweets.
However, I think I heard
‘Mary, say hello to your new Daddy’.
I smiled – at least this one brings me sweets…
We sit, sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story, about art reflecting life.
Where contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto canvas’s
pinned to fragile walls of hope and hate.
Maybe I say.
But what about the unnoticed poets, who freed
their private thoughts
in black and white, pressed
between the pages new.
Works, where few,
seldom seem to go these days
until the writers been buried, deep
and in debt.
Then, up they rise
the new age, poetic apostle – airing
all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some posthumous
unheard of, literary award.
Well then, you smile.
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear:
Pass me, my best poets pen…
How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.
To leave us only, with their absent faces
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.
Red random now, are those petals poor,
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.
And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.
We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.
But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:
We are sorry for your loss.