What do you think of
when you think of
methamphetamine?
Me? I think of..
Well,
I guess,
When I think of ****..
I think of
Pain and suffering,
sickness, illness,
fear, and injury

And the man
In my home every night
Who waits for me
Cooking a healthy
nourishing dinner
That we both will eat
And waiting
To express
His love for me.
I think of
Abuse and hurt
And lies and deceit,
Lies that I retell
to my
friends and family.
I think of
Him and me;
A future that is
lost to robbery.
I think of
Staying or going,
Giving up hope
Never knowing
I think of
Empathy
How hard
This is for him.

Not just me.

I think of
The gentle soul
He possesses
And if his love is
Another lesson.
I think of
Losing,
Losing hope
Love and trust
And the man
I love so much.

Not fully here,
Not fully lost.

a man’s voice pins the room.
he sits at the naked bean.
hands tremble. camera bag hangs low.
news clippings spill.

he whispers to no one—
a minister’s name, a sum,
enough to endanger his family.

dust threads his veins,
pressing against bone.
the ossicles in his ears
still ring with what he heard.
pollution and corruption
sound the same at this frequency.

minutes drift.
his words gather at the edges,
crowding the margins
like they know what’s coming.

elsewhere:
a wife curses her phone.
sweat fogs the lens
of the man watching her house.
children hurried to bed.

they carry him in—
shoulders lifting his dust-bound body,
veins dimmed with residue.

corridors white, strained.
nurses pass, faces pale.
the rinse of hands. the check of charts.
drawers of pills, overtaxed bodies.

even in silence
they observe him:
veins threaded with dust,
bones carrying truths
no one dares to speak.
the weight of truth,
survives in every body they carry                                                   home.

{ FREEDOM  “We may want to linger, to stay, to arrest the flow and talk about it, photograph it, lyricize it. Yet this beauty is mercurial and we must let it go, for it is already slipping away to be replaced by the new.” -Stuart Sovatsky }


YELLOW FIELD OF WHEAT


Angel of Death skims blacker than tar
a skeletal knock overturning bowl of oats
smelling of frankincense and ashes
to carry you to a yellow field of wheat
where you will dance radiant waltzes
haloed free

your laughter pranced across blue walls with
Michael Jackson, Spider-Man and cheeky elves
relishing Kentucky Fried Chicken as you
played scrabble with forlorn neighbour
your bony body birthing revolutions of
roulette with green life and grey death

how you endured those precision needles
wanting to instead drum tapered fingers on
waiting desk overflowing with car sketches
your thirteen year old bald head smiling
veins on an enchanting spring moon as our
hidden tears crystallised hospital sheets

we tried to keep up with you scoffing
encyclopaedias, Dickens and muffins alike
cancer like a chess game mastered chemo
doctors and nurses becoming kings or pawns
time in the now or endless pathos stalking
Laurel and Hardy keeping our hearts unlocked

on Merlin’s star-patterned couch you will
jokingly converse with Pele and his team
soccer ball silent under quiescent table
my ink cannot pen sad lines as I feel your
lips still ******* for warm dripping milk
your freedom moonwalks on a yellow field of wheat


©GhairoDanielsPoetry2012

We used to float,
Raising our glasses.
The great unknown before us,
Surely great.

Life in its many colours
Filled my senses, and friends were treasures.
Time an illusion, and crying… just to cry.

With your loss,
My shadow grew.
Every shade of paint against the sunlit skies
Greyed, faded—
Dead trees forming a rigid silhouette.

For one to love life so,
Lighter than the morning breeze,
Understanding beyond understanding—

On your knees you pulled the moon near,
You kissed the sun
And found love wherever you went.

As I drag my shackles day after day,
As the moon moves nearer to me,
I cannot see it.
I do not feel the warmth of the sun.
Nor do I embrace love wherever I go.

For it was ordained then
That I would survive you—
Though the weight had not been foretold.

The shadow puts its hand on my shoulder,
A solemn kindness in its grip.
It is time to go,
To endure… again.

I trespassed through many lives,
some of them mine,
yours most of all.

Being young
does not excuse,
only shows how long
I've known better.

I thought breaking
was just another way
to change shape.
I mistook leaving
for becoming.

You stayed.
You learned to sleep
on a wet pillow.
I know.
I brought the storm
and called it weather.

You wake.
You endure.
You build a life
where I am a name,
a story you no longer tell.

You rise
like someone who had to.
I vanish,
like someone who chose to.

I see it.
Even now.

And I wonder
what it cost you
to stay kind
to the memory
of me.