andronicus-vi - Hello Poetry

Arthur knew his mother had died before anyone told him. Not because he was particularly close to her—in fact the opposite was true—but because there was no other reason for his sister to be calling him at eight o’clock on a Friday morning. Arthur looked at his phone vibrating in his hand. He was standing on the corner of Queen Street and early morning commuters rushed around him this way and that on their way to whatever very important business they had to do that Friday morning. Nobody noticed the man standing on the corner with his old-fashioned homburg hat, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other who was at that moment imagining yelling at the crowd, ‘Here, you answer it. Perhaps you’ll slow down a minute and remember your own mother and how many days it’s been since you spoke to her last’. It had been eight hundred and forty days since Arthur had spoken to his mother. Anna, his sister, would text him every now and again to give him updates such as, ‘Mum’s been diagnosed with cancer,’ and ‘Doc says she won’t make it til Xmas’ and Arthurs personal favourite, ‘Don’t you think it’s time to make amends?’. Arthur’s phone was still vibrating. The street crossing bleated and the throng surged around him. He looked up at the flashing green man and back at the screen in his hand. He would have preferred a text. Anna would judge how he reacted to this phone call. No matter what he said, he would be unequivocally wrong. Would she be crying when he answered? Probably. Would she expect him to cry? The crossing signal subsided. The green man disappeared, and a red one appeared instead. Arthur shuffled away from the road and answered the call. He was right of course. He’d been around the block enough times to predict people’s behaviour though he was still a little unclear on how they expected him to react. Mirroring Anna’s wails of anguish seemed inappropriate. Instead, he attempted what he hoped would be a comforting approach by pointing out that their mother was no longer suffering. He’d intentionally kept his voice even, yet he could taste the bitterness in Anna’s voice as she retorted that it wasn’t the point. He hadn’t even been there while she was suffering, she said, and she supposed he wouldn’t be interested in attending the wake on Saturday either. In fact, Arthur had no problem with attending the wake. Now his mother was dead, she could hardly do any more damage. Eight hundred and forty days ago, Arthur had had no intention that it would be the last time he’d see his mother. He’d gone over to see her like he did every six months or so, sitting in his childhood home at the table where he grew up, drinking tea out of the floral-patterned mug he’d gifted her for Mother’s Day back in 1982. It was all very familiar. And as usual, Arthur felt a smouldering in his stomach as he listened to his mother complain about her life and telling him how he should be living his. You’re selfish, she’d tell him. No wife, no kids; all alone, just living for yourself. Arthur didn’t live all alone. He had an aquarium of fan-tailed guppies, but he didn’t bother telling her that. This day as he sat at the table only half listening to his mother, he noticed a pigeon had made a nest in the tree outside the dining room window. He watched as the pigeon fluttered down to the nest and two tiny gaping beaks popped up, squeaking for food. ‘Pigeons,’ he told his mother, motioning toward the window with the floral mug. She and glanced toward the window and narrowed her eyes. ‘Vermin,’ she said. ‘I hope a storm blows them out of the tree. We don’t need pigeons around here.’ The steady smoulder moved from Arthur’s stomach to his chest. He drained his tea, stood up, walked the kitchen, rinsed the mug, and put it in the sink. His mother shuffled after him from the dining room. ‘Where are you going all of a sudden?’ she asked. ‘I’ve gotta go,” he said. I’ll see you later.’ And he meant it. He thought he would see her later. But in the months that followed, for better or for worse, a peaceful kind of apathy set in before the smouldering subsided. He didn’t hate her. He just didn’t want to see her. Or hear her. Or interact with her in any way. Even when he heard about the cancer. The silence was too beautiful, like a spell that shouldn’t be broken. At the wake, Arthur sat down again at the dining room table. People wandered around the house like ghosts that didn’t belong. A few elderly ladies patted him on the shoulder and told him they were sorry for his loss. Anna glared at him and said nothing at all. She was preoccupied playing the mourning daughter. Dressed all in black, she went from person to person showing them how distraught she was by dabbing a handkerchief at her smudged eyes. Her husband and their two teenaged daughters solemnly distributed cups of coffee and sandwiches cut into triangles. To Arthur, the whole masquerade felt like the final scene of a B-grade movie; predictable, boring, laughable. When the credits began to roll—the boring parts like cleaning up afterwards—all these spectators would get up and leave. This wasn’t their problem. It never was. Arthur glanced over at the window. The pigeon and nest were gone (that didn’t surprise him). But the tree was gone too. There was nothing. Arthur stared slack jawed at the empty space until he found himself wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.

0

Dec 13, 2024

Dec 13, 2024 at 12:33 AM UTC

andronicus-vi

The Passage of Time

Arthur knew his mother had died before anyone told him. Not because he was particularly close to her—in fact the opposite was true—but because there was no other reason for his sister to be calling him at eight o’clock on a Friday morning. Arthur looked at his phone vibrating in his hand. He was standing on the corner of Queen Street and early morning commuters rushed around him this way and that on their way to whatever very important business they had to do that Friday morning. Nobody noticed the man standing on the corner with his old-fashioned homburg hat, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other who was at that moment imagining yelling at the crowd, ‘Here, you answer it. Perhaps you’ll slow down a minute and remember your own mother and how many days it’s been since you spoke to her last’. It had been eight hundred and forty days since Arthur had spoken to his mother. Anna, his sister, would text him every now and again to give him updates such as, ‘Mum’s been diagnosed with cancer,’ and ‘Doc says she won’t make it til Xmas’ and Arthurs personal favourite, ‘Don’t you think it’s time to make amends?’. Arthur’s phone was still vibrating. The street crossing bleated and the throng surged around him. He looked up at the flashing green man and back at the screen in his hand. He would have preferred a text. Anna would judge how he reacted to this phone call. No matter what he said, he would be unequivocally wrong. Would she be crying when he answered? Probably. Would she expect him to cry? The crossing signal subsided. The green man disappeared, and a red one appeared instead. Arthur shuffled away from the road and answered the call. He was right of course. He’d been around the block enough times to predict people’s behaviour though he was still a little unclear on how they expected him to react. Mirroring Anna’s wails of anguish seemed inappropriate. Instead, he attempted what he hoped would be a comforting approach by pointing out that their mother was no longer suffering. He’d intentionally kept his voice even, yet he could taste the bitterness in Anna’s voice as she retorted that it wasn’t the point. He hadn’t even been there while she was suffering, she said, and she supposed he wouldn’t be interested in attending the wake on Saturday either. In fact, Arthur had no problem with attending the wake. Now his mother was dead, she could hardly do any more damage. Eight hundred and forty days ago, Arthur had had no intention that it would be the last time he’d see his mother. He’d gone over to see her like he did every six months or so, sitting in his childhood home at the table where he grew up, drinking tea out of the floral-patterned mug he’d gifted her for Mother’s Day back in 1982. It was all very familiar. And as usual, Arthur felt a smouldering in his stomach as he listened to his mother complain about her life and telling him how he should be living his. You’re selfish, she’d tell him. No wife, no kids; all alone, just living for yourself. Arthur didn’t live all alone. He had an aquarium of fan-tailed guppies, but he didn’t bother telling her that. This day as he sat at the table only half listening to his mother, he noticed a pigeon had made a nest in the tree outside the dining room window. He watched as the pigeon fluttered down to the nest and two tiny gaping beaks popped up, squeaking for food. ‘Pigeons,’ he told his mother, motioning toward the window with the floral mug. She and glanced toward the window and narrowed her eyes. ‘Vermin,’ she said. ‘I hope a storm blows them out of the tree. We don’t need pigeons around here.’ The steady smoulder moved from Arthur’s stomach to his chest. He drained his tea, stood up, walked the kitchen, rinsed the mug, and put it in the sink. His mother shuffled after him from the dining room. ‘Where are you going all of a sudden?’ she asked. ‘I’ve gotta go,” he said. I’ll see you later.’ And he meant it. He thought he would see her later. But in the months that followed, for better or for worse, a peaceful kind of apathy set in before the smouldering subsided. He didn’t hate her. He just didn’t want to see her. Or hear her. Or interact with her in any way. Even when he heard about the cancer. The silence was too beautiful, like a spell that shouldn’t be broken. At the wake, Arthur sat down again at the dining room table. People wandered around the house like ghosts that didn’t belong. A few elderly ladies patted him on the shoulder and told him they were sorry for his loss. Anna glared at him and said nothing at all. She was preoccupied playing the mourning daughter. Dressed all in black, she went from person to person showing them how distraught she was by dabbing a handkerchief at her smudged eyes. Her husband and their two teenaged daughters solemnly distributed cups of coffee and sandwiches cut into triangles. To Arthur, the whole masquerade felt like the final scene of a B-grade movie; predictable, boring, laughable. When the credits began to roll—the boring parts like cleaning up afterwards—all these spectators would get up and leave. This wasn’t their problem. It never was. Arthur glanced over at the window. The pigeon and nest were gone (that didn’t surprise him). But the tree was gone too. There was nothing. Arthur stared slack jawed at the empty space until he found himself wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.

15

Land line Help line Life line Clothes line Under line Stop line Lion line Help line Life line Kids line Hold the line Dance line Phone line Out line Family line Somewhere along the line Professional line Border line Fishing line Queuing line Out of line In line Help line Life line Production line Ledger line Line up back to back Try line By-line Bar line Paul line Fine line Time line Number line Hem line Punch line Water line You're lying I'm lying We're done

0

Dec 2, 2024

Dec 2, 2024 at 11:59 PM UTC

andronicus-vi

Lyin'

Land line Help line Life line Clothes line Under line Stop line Lion line Help line Life line Kids line Hold the line Dance line Phone line Out line Family line Somewhere along the line Professional line Border line Fishing line Queuing line Out of line In line Help line Life line Production line Ledger line Line up back to back Try line By-line Bar line Paul line Fine line Time line Number line Hem line Punch line Water line You're lying I'm lying We're done

40

Roll up! Roll up ladies and gentlemen! You've never seen such a creature before! Are you quite sure it's safe? Quite sure? Shouldn’t the beast be led by a ring through its nose? Such intelligent eyes! Almost as though it knows… Did the chap say it came from India? So exotic! My good fellow, the thing hardly moves! It’s rather idiotic. Roll up! Roll up ladies and gentlemen! Come see mon chéri! You've never such power. That I guarantee. The horses are ready. Mon chéri, mon chéri. Here, here, bedtime beer. To help you sleep big baby. Mon Dieu! I can barely fathom what's before us. Voici c'est Claire, the famous rhinoceros! Look at the ribbons! Did you see her hair? This style is called Le horn à la Claire. Come see French nobility, come see for yourselves! You can each buy a knick-knack to put on your shelves. How extraordinary! What an incredible beast! I've seen one before, but now it's deceased. The horses are ready. Mon chéri, mon chéri. Here, here, bedtime beer. To help you sleep big baby.

0

Jul 8, 2024

Jul 8, 2024 at 1:36 AM UTC

andronicus-vi

Rhino in the throat

Roll up! Roll up ladies and gentlemen! You've never seen such a creature before! Are you quite sure it's safe? Quite sure? Shouldn’t the beast be led by a ring through its nose? Such intelligent eyes! Almost as though it knows… Did the chap say it came from India? So exotic! My good fellow, the thing hardly moves! It’s rather idiotic. Roll up! Roll up ladies and gentlemen! Come see mon chéri! You've never such power. That I guarantee. The horses are ready. Mon chéri, mon chéri. Here, here, bedtime beer. To help you sleep big baby. Mon Dieu! I can barely fathom what's before us. Voici c'est Claire, the famous rhinoceros! Look at the ribbons! Did you see her hair? This style is called Le horn à la Claire. Come see French nobility, come see for yourselves! You can each buy a knick-knack to put on your shelves. How extraordinary! What an incredible beast! I've seen one before, but now it's deceased. The horses are ready. Mon chéri, mon chéri. Here, here, bedtime beer. To help you sleep big baby.

20

It did not matter in the end of days For god did not come up from hell to smite The once down trod who stopped to think and fight Who ate no bread nor drank the cabernets Though nightly even still one kneels and prays And asks for wisdom knowing wrong from right But now the heart and mind not filled with fright For now one sees the broad and narrow ways Those left behind who would not speak their name Are married now with five to fifteen kids The peers who were indoctrinated youth Now truly think her resting place is flame They hate the ones who do what god forbids They hate because they think they know the truth

0

Jul 8, 2024

Jul 8, 2024 at 1:35 AM UTC

andronicus-vi

In the end

It did not matter in the end of days For god did not come up from hell to smite The once down trod who stopped to think and fight Who ate no bread nor drank the cabernets Though nightly even still one kneels and prays And asks for wisdom knowing wrong from right But now the heart and mind not filled with fright For now one sees the broad and narrow ways Those left behind who would not speak their name Are married now with five to fifteen kids The peers who were indoctrinated youth Now truly think her resting place is flame They hate the ones who do what god forbids They hate because they think they know the truth

14

Here we are again standing on the precipice of war Paralysed by the past and the greed of our forefathers While the inside battle has raged since birth Good enough? I think not. History only repeats its worst parts They saw a green orb signalling GO GO GO Faith in illusion the yellow-blue glow Look but don’t touch! You’ll break it child! But, they silly foolish daisies flitter flutter in the breeze What nature? What love? What future? Roars the uncanny double As it reappears, so much better now at creating disposable monstrous insects Death? Very well, I guess we accept. We’re ***** for pain But why walk into the river with rocks in your coat? You’ve never been to war they gloat As the wax drips steadily sealing our fate And so those monstrous insects march by one by one Hurrah! hurrah! here we go again old sport!

0

Jul 8, 2024

Jul 8, 2024 at 1:33 AM UTC

andronicus-vi

On the brink

Here we are again standing on the precipice of war Paralysed by the past and the greed of our forefathers While the inside battle has raged since birth Good enough? I think not. History only repeats its worst parts They saw a green orb signalling GO GO GO Faith in illusion the yellow-blue glow Look but don’t touch! You’ll break it child! But, they silly foolish daisies flitter flutter in the breeze What nature? What love? What future? Roars the uncanny double As it reappears, so much better now at creating disposable monstrous insects Death? Very well, I guess we accept. We’re ***** for pain But why walk into the river with rocks in your coat? You’ve never been to war they gloat As the wax drips steadily sealing our fate And so those monstrous insects march by one by one Hurrah! hurrah! here we go again old sport!

17

Jade is a speed date that goes for six hours A waltz of coffee and posy of flowers So, we drink cocktails and talk of our lovers Then we laugh at the others And of our dead mothers Together we cheerily mourn Jade’s hair is pink, and her heart is warm A pigeon's nest of twigs and twine Her name is green and so is mine So, here I’ll drop a line Of appreciation And overall-tote-bag admiration Now herbaceous vegan progress begun A switch of books and witchy poetry Seems there’s no hurry, so just wait and see.

0

Jan 26, 2023

Jan 26, 2023 at 11:32 PM UTC

andronicus-vi

Jade

Jade is a speed date that goes for six hours A waltz of coffee and posy of flowers So, we drink cocktails and talk of our lovers Then we laugh at the others And of our dead mothers Together we cheerily mourn Jade’s hair is pink, and her heart is warm A pigeon's nest of twigs and twine Her name is green and so is mine So, here I’ll drop a line Of appreciation And overall-tote-bag admiration Now herbaceous vegan progress begun A switch of books and witchy poetry Seems there’s no hurry, so just wait and see.

15

The most important story I ever wrote Opened with a *** scene Was weird Closed with death Then sparked a conversation The best speed-date I ever had Opened with abortion Was tragic Closed with cocktails And caused a cautious smile The best strange friend I ever have Opened both our lives Was Jade Close but not too much Sends me letters in the mail x

0

Jan 26, 2023

Jan 26, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC

andronicus-vi

Sprout

The most important story I ever wrote Opened with a *** scene Was weird Closed with death Then sparked a conversation The best speed-date I ever had Opened with abortion Was tragic Closed with cocktails And caused a cautious smile The best strange friend I ever have Opened both our lives Was Jade Close but not too much Sends me letters in the mail x

16

The sadness is your mother. Nobody warned you at your grotesque birth You had no choice This is who you'll "love" This is your mother Until she's not. You don't want your mum to die Sometimes you just... wish she was dead So the pain would feel more real Less like a play-doh wall Childishly constructed For protection until the day you can finally Sigh Relieved that it's all over There's no turning back now Even if you wanted to cut off your right hand And hand it to her as a peace offering. What a relief when there are no more Chances (choices) to repent in dust and ashes For formulating opionions... Mother, nobody warned you either One day the ****** screaming, mess You call child Will be dead to you And in return for all your "love" Will wish memories of you were only that.

0

Jan 21, 2023

Jan 21, 2023 at 6:10 AM UTC

andronicus-vi

Really sad grotesque writing

The sadness is your mother. Nobody warned you at your grotesque birth You had no choice This is who you'll "love" This is your mother Until she's not. You don't want your mum to die Sometimes you just... wish she was dead So the pain would feel more real Less like a play-doh wall Childishly constructed For protection until the day you can finally Sigh Relieved that it's all over There's no turning back now Even if you wanted to cut off your right hand And hand it to her as a peace offering. What a relief when there are no more Chances (choices) to repent in dust and ashes For formulating opionions... Mother, nobody warned you either One day the ****** screaming, mess You call child Will be dead to you And in return for all your "love" Will wish memories of you were only that.

26

Last night I dreamt about suicide High on a bridge ground way below falling falling falling Or was I? Honestly it felt good knowing Everything would soon be done the end

0

Jun 7, 2021

Jun 7, 2021 at 8:50 PM UTC

andronicus-vi

Dream

Last night I dreamt about suicide High on a bridge ground way below falling falling falling Or was I? Honestly it felt good knowing Everything would soon be done the end

11

Man You fit into my five year plan You ARE my five year plan You're my plan and You're my forever plan You're mine forever You're my forever Man and I plan to be with you Forever Man! Forever is a long time I make time for you You're my time My time is your time Forever Man!

0

Jun 13, 2019

Jun 13, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC

andronicus-vi

Plans

Man You fit into my five year plan You ARE my five year plan You're my plan and You're my forever plan You're mine forever You're my forever Man and I plan to be with you Forever Man! Forever is a long time I make time for you You're my time My time is your time Forever Man!

19