My three year old daughter
Bubbling with laughter
Sang to me a sweet song
In a long ago summer.

Fresh washed and brushed blond hair,
A pair, of bright white shoes
With heel and unformed soul combined
To give this girl in new blue dress
And eagerness for lucid life
A twirling grace, that framed her
Face with swirling curls, which spoke
Of innocence to win the race
By perfect form and fortune born
Of a pure and guiltless mind.

Remind me; despite my tender care,
That this fair and loving child
Was an embryonic wild and wanton woman,
Whose finite measured days of fun
The sun disdainfully allowed to run;
Whilst guileless beauty, golden, turning,
Passed the infant hours of learning
Unaware that time had planned
A moving of the hour hand,
To end the promise
Of this fresh faced start
In pain the coming rain would surely bring,
Filling these growing years with knowing tears
To slowly stain this new and true blessed heart,

And force; this singer, and her long departed song,
A long; long way apart.

© James Rainsford 2010

Spring has arrived here again;
Growing its colours across
The quilted countries of your truth,
Finding in each waxing moment
Fresh fertility, to form anew
The atlas of familiar fields.
Fields, where you had grown,
Enduring many seasons of time’s pulse.
Learning as you grew,
That even here, where in the mist
Of last November’s thin grey rain
We left your winter mound unmade
Spring would return; to conjure
From your fading flesh
The irony of birth.

Growing from your final bed
The transmuted beauty
Of posthumous flowers.

© James Rainsford 2010

Humanity, whom I have never loved
Can leave me with dismay
At its array of triviality.
Normality is hard to bear
When I’m aware
That sometime,
Somehow, and perhaps somewhere;
But more especially someone
Can make the fun,
Provide the light,
That makes the sun more bright
The night more right,
And gives the fight to live
An edge that’s often blunted
By the boredom of the birth
Of ordinary days.

Hey!
It’s not just praise that satisfies,
Who provides the prize should realize
That what’s required
Is not retired minds
Where finds are difficult to make,
I need a risk like gamblers take,
Where the rake-off could be high enough
to make the sky seem small.
So that even when compared
With all that is or’s ever been,
The momentary scene could shrink
the total cosmos to a single wink,
and encompass in an eyelids twitch
The which,
The how,
The when,
The why.

So that;
Just once before I die
The reason for the pain
Is plain.

© James Rainsford 2010

The end begins,
not with the first stain
of red sputum on a white handkerchief.
Nor by fingers grown numb with
seizure from the heart’s decay.
But, with an act
that leaves a toy discarded
in the nursery of early choice,
reviving for abandoned deeds
the doppel-gangers of dead youths,
clothed with reproach and unfleshed
figments of the mind’s high hopes of
futures fenced in a child’s green field,
that now is hedged; and ploughed,
and grown bitter with a
named and known crop.

© James Rainsford 2010

Mountains may seem unscaleable,
Whilst you appear available.

Both suppositions may be frail
when it’s just the fear of
failure that prevents events,
and wents only remembered
as occasions that occurred.
From all I’ve heard reality
requires risk.

For death demands that a degree
of dare be spare,
For living to be less a chore,
and more a rare affair.

© James Rainsford 2010

Last night,
At the moment between sanity and dream,
The conjuring I had acquired to keep you caged
Was cancelled by a stronger spell.

For even after years,
You came unbidden to my bed,
And tempted love into regret.
Even here; within a bedroom you were
Banished from by my desire,
You found a way to lie
Your ghost beside me,
And possess the still and sleeping form
Of yet another stranger by my side.

When you first left,
To live apart through our
Shared motion of the sun,
Destroying days with dark mementoes,
And nights with savage wakefulness
Where all alone, I had invoked
The Furies, to pursue your faithlessness
Through every hope you treasured
And held dear,
Fear of my wish for your decay
Had marked each day,
With lies to mutual friends,
Who heard I wished you well.

Yet even now;
I burn within the hell
Which I unleashed for you.

© James Rainsford 2010

I journeyed to an unfamiliar place,
To frame your known and lovely face
Within the small yet feeling space
Between the fond intention of my hands.
And, had no plans for you to know
How time dilates the slowness of
Our separate days, where we both stay
Disguised, among the wrong established choice
Which younger voice; thought right.
Yet for tonight, you let me see
How it could be if others claim
To own your common name; were through.

Why then, should I feel blue,
Now that at last, you’ve said
“I love you too?”

© James Rainsford 2010