My friend stabbed herself in the heart today the blood ran down her chest and across her belly it formed a self authoring suicide note almost black and sort of treacly in a spidery scrawl probably nanotech of some sort amazing what they can do these days she chose arachnoid stylised helvetica size 14 bold no underlines why? it is beyond me I always thought she was a calibri kind of girl but I guess that says something about me doesn’t it? not knowing “I was feeling heartless,” the words said. at this point I wanted to puke (sic) because she was the most full of heart person I knew I don’t know anyone like that anymore “I needed to know if there was anything in there. The cuts on the arms and legs just weren’t doing it. I decided I’d have a stab in the dark. At least there would be a some sort of real outcome, at least I would find out one way or another. If you are reading this it means I am dead - and I had a heart afterall!”
if a bullet were a feather susceptible to the weather denied its trajectory and death wish lost its velocity lost its hiss only then would it always miss its appointment with death's kiss
Angel carry your heavy payload until god asks for it one day Angel bitter, discard your halo throw it worlds away
Angel fly to heaven above dive to hell below Angel receive peace from a dove or scavenge it from a crow
Angel weep soul deep until your very last breath Angel sleep the long sleep pray yourself to death
Angel just Angel lust Angel thrust Angel sing Angel cling Angel wring Angel must Angel bust Angel dust Angel wing left wing right wing broken wing
Angel nothing
The dVerse prompts from Melissa today were inspired by Kurt Cobain’s birthday. I chose to take one line from a Nirvana song and reflect on the feelings that might drive a suicide. It was a harrowing exercise and I am sorry if it causes hurt. https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/20/happy-birthday-kurt🎉/
Beauty is in the moment Sitting by a window Sun streaming in From directly across the way Low in the pale blue winter sky But strong enough to warm the room Through tall floor to ceiling glass Strong black lines The shadows of the woodwork Stretch long, deep and straight Across shiny slate Framing the scene Defining the space Giving shape to enveloping comfort Warming the calm Enclosing peacefulness As I now heavy lidded Look out on gold rimmed trees Vivid green grass Foraging birds And hear the cascading water of the creek Beauty is in this moment
Within my mind within my soul There lies an ever expanding hole When I try to grasp its meaning Elusive thoughts distract my gleaning
Where I see a thing to do There I lose it to something new When I return to get more done I find I achieved exactly none
I often don’t quite know who I am Retired, a child or a working man I sometimes see the past and future It’s the present I struggle to nurture
I hear the talk around me go When I talk I don’t always know What I am saying to others there I feel anxious as they look and stare
I lose things now so easily I dismiss the losses breezily With timid laughter I brush them off Truth is I cannot understand the loss
I get confused and in a muddle I no longer accomplish what was a doddle Faces of loved ones I’m unsure of now To answer a question I fail at how
I’m sure I should be I’m not quite here There is this woman but who is “my dear” I live with remembering uncertain fear I forget to remember anything I hear I want to go somewhere but the way is unclear Why I should go there I have no idea Is this life or farce it is certainly queer I’m turned inside out my front is rear No reason for existence yet death’s not near No insight no knowledge yet I still shed a tear Life is a vacuum into which I can’t peer
I navigate life as a mariner sailing unpredictable seas Respectful yet wary of what they might bring to me
the sea is my natural element alternating tranquility with power for me there is no better firmament to anchor each ticking hour
the waves provide each peak and trough of life’s brief and epic journeys that for me is always enough with the pleasure and pain they have earned me
afloat I bob between the layers of over and undersea in my boat my capsule of life I bob most jauntily when l’m aloft the view ahead is a matter of degree when down below the view is fine,not seen murkily
time will come I’ll be called down deep by Davy Jones my time of clear air or storms on water will be done I’ll find a sandy bed to rest and place my ageing bones afar from the binding land, eyes dead to the blinding sun
Down upon him the big rogue truck bore Last thoughts were of those he adored of her and those eyes so deep and brown he fell in love with those eyes one night on the town of the lithe girl in the backyard playing with cars of the teenage boy inside playing his guitars of the home he loved for its warmth and welcome whenever he arrived back from long hauls and then some there was the dog with tail wagging as she greeted him excitedly and the chooks out the back he greeted politely what would become of his family and home how could he leave them to fend on their own? then the truck veered wildly missed by an inch so close, so close no time to flinch he shook with shock he shook with fear he looked at his life and all he held dear he knew what to do right away the way ahead was clear
Watching the moon, grey dust, hard stone. Why won’t the moon leave me alone? I watch to see if the old man there, will he ever release me from his stare. I dream the moon will fall to earth, moon’s death rattle, our deadly curse.
The sun has got to do something about that moonish sneer on that moon face snout before kamikaze moon’s suicidal spiral rings our bells and rattles our bones, shakes and quakes our earthly home. Mr Moon up there is become one with hell, the Devil’s doing, a catastrophic bombshell.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust I watch the moon I must I must!
When Mary was born she put on quite a show her hair as a floral bouquet did grow her hands had green fingers covered in earth her mouth was a rosebud first day of birth her ears were round spirals just like sea shells when she laughed she tinkled like joyful small bells her nose was a Billy Button soft and yellow her voice was a summer breeze soft and mellow her toes were soon rooted in the loamy soil of home and no further than that garden did she ever roam where at her touch fruit was ready for harvest at her invitation birds were ready to nest she ensured vegetables and flowers grew in abundance she learned all the ways of nature’s fertile dance she was one pretty maid ready to grow every kind of plant in a bed or in a row
Growing old together, our life has indeed got better. As our bodies steadily decline, get sensitive to the weather. We find our ways to appreciate the world in which we live, we try to do some good things, together we try to give.
Our children look as happy, as we can hope they might be. Our grandchildren delight, us with growth and learning daily. Our homes are all comfortable, if certainly nothing flash. We make some time for entertainment and culture, when we have the cash.
Our love is as joyful as ever it was, I hope you will agree, we take each day on its merits as I grow old with thee. With hugs to start each day and then to say good night, there’s something still going on between us, certainly something right.
I still pinch myself when we’re together, to make sure I’m not dreaming. I don’t wake up because it’s real, no fantasy of dreams and seeming. We look forward to time together, look after each other, give each other time and space. A recipe for enduring success, not one you can replace.
Your kisses still sweet, your touch still electric, there’s still more for us to look forward too. For our remaining time, while I’m still yours and you’re still mine, everything is fine.
Somewhere in France. I can’t remember where, but it had a profound effect.
It’s an old adage I know, but if everyone declined to go, if every decision- maker said no, if every arms maker built only ploughs, there would be no seeds of war to sow. Forget the patriotism of nationalists. Strike to stop the weapon fashionists. Vote out war mongering communists and capitalists. None of it is worth the risk.
To the battlefield fallen, most unknown, dead eyes to the sky, ground to the bone, lost to family, lost to home, forgotten souls of false hopes grown, ploughed into fields of woe and sighs, lost to memory, without good byes.
Soon out of sight, out of mind. Innocent victims of war’s relentless grind. Pay some mind, pay some mind.
Blue peaked hat Blue lens Blue jacket Then blue again Blue pants blue socks blue runners blue locks blue eyes blue stare blue ties blue bag blue tags blue everywhere blue disposition the man i see blue composition
I have never thought about how I write with stealth or do I attack the page sometimes I think I write in fright sometimes I write to release my rage but overall I’m a a reflective fellow like a wombat I trundle about I like to write thoughtful and mellow until an issue makes me want to shout and then I am as useful as a thylacine the stripes on my back for all to see extinct barking creature of a bygone time a target for the crack guns to eradicate me so, now I practice being an observer like an owl watching and waiting in a tree one with much less shout and more murmur I learn more about the world to better understand me
This early 2024 dVerse challenge was a thought provoking one from Dora, to create an animal metaphor for how we write. https://dversepoets.com
I drink of life’s cup. I adore its open doors. Anticipation is best when one thinks upon - there’s more! As I pass on through, into new areas to explore, I reap the harvest of experience for my keepsake drawer. I find myself in other places where nature’s spell is spun, where my fears and failings vanish into none. I look upon the sky above a sky will always stun. I take my pleasure in Mother Earth being at one under the sun.
It is winter in the dead good night. Rage against the dying light. God leaves with the day, be awake in fright. Abandoned, his flock cringe at their plight. Their church spears the sky with its needle like steeple. But the sky remains deaf to the needs of the people. Houses are blinded by shuttered, windowless eyes. The village is drowned under darkening skies. It lies in the bleak blackness, isolated from peace. Weatherbeaten by cold, grinding poverty and a universal desire for release.
The exhausting smell of brutalised lives, lived less, and known to be so, comes in through the cracks in the walls, the roof, the dirty, broken window panes and under the doors. Coal smoke and dust crusts up the chimneys and smudges the air. Existence is spare.
Suppressed as lust, here wishes are flights of fancy, lost as soon as the ideas form. They are consumed by the eternal loss of hope. Everywhere. The great consumer of dreams.
It is a wooden door that opens directly onto the street. This one, once painted bright blue now feeling blue on the cusp of being unhinged. Neither entrance nor exit, because there is nowhere to go. With a tarnished and scratched brass letter slot in it that flaps when the post man drops in yellowed paper letters with postage stamps and addresses written in inky scrawls or flourishes that always ask for money. It flaps with the icy northern winds of every arctic blow, whistling through the passageway, biting to the bone, settling in each room as a resented guest. Taking the heat from the meagre fire - if there is one, robbing the heat from the few embers of scavenged sticks and coal scrapings in the cast iron stove, extracting the heat from conversation rendering it chill, penetrating ill fitting clothes, darned and redarned woollen socks, underwear, vests, scarves and second layer overcoats.
The smell of fried gristle and butcher’s sweepings sausages comes in from the small mean kitchen in the back of the house with it’s chipped laminate table and chairs so tired they lean against each other to continue standing on legs that have been battered so long they are always threatening to break. Lower limbs splintered and scraped by generations of careless sitters. No one ever takes any notice. Table and chairs hug the wall in fear of losing the only thing they have to left to hold on too. They have learnt the lessons of the other inhabitants well. Oh, and tonight the roadkill is in the pot and the lying is done to their lot as a distraction from the truth where rats, pigeons, stray pets and their like only have benefit if they can be cooked. Foraged herbs from nearby roadsides pretend to add flavour. Bitter dandelion tea washes down the tough, sinewy meat. Grumbling bellies yet again greet the night.
The inhabitants soon leave the kitchen with little room to skin another cat, ever squeezing on each other to get by. Grunting their “Excuse me”s as potent unwashed bodies brush past without ever noticing the rancid odour. The Jonses and the Jenkins, the slag and the heaps. In the barely candlelit gloom, they meet again in the halls to rise creaking up the bare narrow stairs to the bare narrow bedrooms of worn thin bedding on narrow flat wooden bunks and groaning cast beds. No mattress of note mind, just a bundle of rags from the previous occupants, now long dead and gone. What was their name? Oh well, it doesn’t matter does it? Names have no bearing. Your name will not keep you alive in this world, or the next.
So they will not go gentle into that good night. Into any night. They will struggle through another where adults live a chronic morbid existence, stunted children play listless games of hopelessness and cruelty - death may always come early. Death shall have its dominion.
poetography.ink 