His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.

Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the

Construction site.
I wanna work like this when
I grow up, he says in

Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach

And kneel down in front of
Him. So you want a job,
Buddy? I ask him with a

Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the

Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a

Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. Well, I'll see you in a
Few years, I say with another

Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,

But you can start with this
And get some practice. I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max

Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,

Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a

Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading

Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.

Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.

~

Crimson clover round the bend
Parted of a sorrowed tool
Planting phrase on what is said
Who now stands the empty fool

In this garden, sheer delight
Wilted from the summer heat
Fenced in by a stone of white
Destined to be incomplete

Oh the beauty it hath lost
When your eyes did cast away
Counting change amidst the cost
Of this bloom now gone astray

On this bench of marble form
Headless statues bid adieu
I shall sit her in the storm
Clinging to the thought of you

For this rain shall find my weep
Fills the puddles of despair
Deep within their hollows keep
Nothing less that I’m aware

Loneliness, this garden seed
Found of hedges twist and turn
Taken from the soiled need
Am I ever soon to learn

Here behind an iron gate
Draped in vines so long now dead
Brittle touches prove too late
Of the love my heart has bled

As the sun does set the field
Now as darkness comes to play
Time I find my fate is sealed
Lonely gardens I will stay

I felt the loneliness of the crowd
sought out the company of hermits
they allowed me to stay
at a distance

We were on the bomb site
off Meadow Row
Helen was re clothing
her doll Battered Betty

I was looking for small stones
for my catapult

over the way
by the coal wharf
coal men were loading up
the trucks
and horse drawn wagons

these clothes
have just about had it
she said
buttoning up
Betty's dress
at the back

Mum said she'd look for more
at the jumble sale
but Dad's not earning
as much at present
as he was off sick
she added  
sitting Betty
in an upright position

Helen was wearing
a dull grey dress
and white ankle socks
her thick lens glasses
made her eyes appear
larger than a were

I’ll ask my mother
if she can knit some
she's good at knitting
I said

maybe if I show her
she will know the size
Helen said

I picked up a handful
of small stones
and put them
in my trouser pocket

hope you're not
going to fire them at birds?
she said

no tin cans or bottles
I said
sometimes I stand tins
on top of each other
then shoot them off
one by one if I can

a boy near where I live
shoots birds
with his catapult
she said

I shot at a rat
on our balcony
the other week
I said
missed it
but it took off afterwards

she picked up Betty
and said
where we going?

let's go to the herbalist
and get some sarsaparilla
I said

and a liquorice stick too?
she asked

sure we will
I said
showing her the 1/-
my mother gave me
for doing chores

so we walked off
the bomb site
and across the New Kent Road
and down by
the railway station
towards the herbalist shop

she with her doll

and me with my catapult
sticking out
of my back pocket
and a pocketful
of small stones

she with her brown hair
in plaits

and me with my hair
plastered with Brylcreem

me thinking of seeing
a new cowboy film

she with her own
dolls house dream.

You pull on my lip like an aircraft emergency oxygen system.
Our engines catch fire
as our tongues flutter like the wing's peeling metal,
and as our eyes peek at one another
between each plane crash of lips.

We've lost cabin pressure
as we can no longer control our bodies.
We gasp for each other's breath
as our shimmering structures
roll around on the sky of my bed.

We kiss like we've only got seconds left,
when in reality,
these moments will never die
even if we do.

I am wheat
I cry, I cry
Again
You leave your dead
At my feet
Oh why, oh why

At Gettysburg
We cried
Again, again
They rose and died
Below our stalks
They lie, they lie

From Stalingrad
To Leningrad
One million dead, one million dead
The Panzers came
Wheat fields aflame
They burned, they burned

And once again
You leave your dead
Ukraine, Ukraine
Oh, Putin's shame
The innocent lie
In wheat, in wheat.

r ~ 7/19/14

I write you out
Give voice to the silence
I would talk about it out loud
An injustice though, for those unfamiliar
With loss
You hear the words
But do not feel them
Cradled arms hold close and tight
To memories full of soul deep and light
You brought so much joy
Jeremiah
Your name still feels whole on my lips
Life is always a stage
Some would say yours was a tragedy
I know better
An epic drama full of love, adventure
Comic relief
When the despair becomes unbearable
That is what I cling to
My oasis amid drought
A light house beaming bright
During storms raging against rocky shores
I'm still afloat with our laughter
I'm still afloat

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

I lean back on my factory-fresh
Couch (that still smells of IKEA)
And turn that Jeff Buckley's Grace
Up so loud the cat escapes under

The bed; ears flat, wide eyed...
And remember. I flip through
My own history -forgotten love,
Nights of such beauty they

Forged themselves onto my
Mind. I see myself stronger;
Dumber. Rougher hands and
Mind.

I hear Chris Cornell and Tori
Amos in shared recollection.
I walked Oslo's paved streets
From a job I loathed.

But it was summer.
I was free.
I was a rock star waiting
To be.

I see hopes I had that remind me
It's not too late for that.
And begin to resonate with
This is your time.

This is when you choose your
Future. Choose.
It's never too late for
Anything.

I dance for you in the safety of solitude
feathers all gleaming the sun sparkling my eyes
I sing for my beloved from dawn till dusk
and fall into the dreaming world of pure love

Where he said he’d meet
You, on the beach, Lake
Michigan. But he

Never showed; you just
Waited until the
Tide went out and the

Sun lowered itself
In the sky like a
Fat lady on her

Chamber ***. There were
Few people on the
Beach, even less when

You realized that he
Wasn’t going to
Come and turned for home.

You’d worn your new coat
And hat, had your hair
Done, your face made up,

All for that. Him not
Showing. The wind blew
At your clothes, lifting

The hem of your long
Dress, revealing your
Ankles and shoes. You

Watched the sea and wide
Horizon, waiting
Patiently, smelling

The sea salt, hearing
The roar of waves on
The sandy shore. Still

He never showed up.
Never came, despite
His kind promises,

Despite all the hot
******* the day
Before. All lies it

Seemed, him, his soft words,
And his deep blue eyes,
Deceiving beneath

The shell. There was a
Chill, a biting of
The flesh, a nipping

Of the thin fingers;
But hope was still there
Inside, despite all

That, like smoke hangs in
The still dry air, like
An echo lingers.