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Olive B Sep 2015
No combination of words
no choice phrases, no desperate adjectives
will help,
when telling him what I mean, feel, know.
Though how could it help when
all of it, in the end, he reads as fiction anyway.

Try as I might, try as I do
I craft the altercation
as I sleep, work, eat, unwind
constantly, constantly.
It seems to always come out the same -
contrived, because it is
pathetic, because it is
and meaningless, because that, in the end, is

The problem, I have found,
is that dialogue is what I crave.
To bounce off, thrive off, relish in -
though silence tends to come from him.
Maybe though, just maybe
He only needs,
One word, which amongst all these gets lost,
and perhaps, can never find its way again.
Olive B Mar 2013
An Artist chose to paint a piece
That spoke her very mind
And hopefully would be placed among
The great works of it’s kind.

So she placed carefully upon the easel
A canvas plain and bleak
She took a paintbrush in one hand
And the colours began to streak.

She smeared some colours onto the work
They did not want to blend,
Cerulean blue and a violent orange
Served only to offend.

She tried to daub the vicious reds
That she felt in her heart
Instead it did not suit so well
So she ripped the canvas apart.

A curious change came over her
As she tried again to paint
Her eyes took on a glow of joy
As if she were a Saint.

And finally, without a doubt
Her painting had to stop
And with a sigh of relief
She let the paintbrush drop

She stepped back, abject and weary
From the War she’d had to wage
And on the canvas, her painting was done-
A beautiful, blank page.
Olive B Dec 2012
Worry had never been the cause
of his laughter lines, the kindly crow's feet,
except that moment; the time
we all realised.
Being old had other symptoms
than grumpiness, and white hair.

So, like watching a monument crumble,
we saw the old man shudder and shake.
Then with mouths agape, we knew
he had other flaws, our Old Wise Owl,
and so it turns out,
our Grandfather, placed on the pedestal tall,
was, in fact, afraid of heights.
Olive B Dec 2012
He sighs through his nose and closes his eyes.
This, as they say, is the life.
Forget the sun-stained beaches.
Abandon the synthetic blue sea.
And who needs smooth sand?
When one has air?
And pray tell, where is the demand for rushing waves?
When one has silence?

Pictures and people are shown to him.
Autumn ’58, she tells him.
The jive, she says.
Bright dresses, say the pictures.
Polka dots. Fedora.
Vague smile, he says.

Here’s something he knows:
Peace lies in thoughts.
Serenity basks in plainness.
Know nothing.
Remember little.
Vacant, simple, and ignorant.
Ignorance, they say, is bliss.
Less, they say, is more.
Simplicity is splendour.

— The End —