A swing slung low with weathered ropes
Worn, sun-beaten wood told tales of abuse
Once swung high - a vessel for the her hopes
Never once judged, even everyday a new bruise

It’d take her, accommodating her heart’s fancy
It’d carry her and cradle her fragility gentle
She’d forget her tears as she flew almost freely
Winds would whisper of a place far and simple

It’d scoop her up - made light of what seemed heavy
It’d drink up her laughter, release her captive innocence
It’d hold her aloft as it promised her safety
Together they’d immerse, in an intimate dalliance

Went on forever, as days turned into weeks
A girl and her swing, lost in their very own world
Alas the swing couldn’t offer the salvation she seeks
None could tell, what evil twist had brutally unfurled

                                     •••

A swing hung limp, silent as it woefully wept
Its worn wood sang only songs of stifled cries
For once it knew a girl, whose painful secrets it kept
Now judges itself remorsefully, as she fades and dies

.
”If you are to love,
love freely and unburdened
by the tombstones
of past miscalculated regrets.”

But the heart
inadvertently beats
to the mismatched rhythms
of a hundred
caged doves’ wings.

A palette blessed
with every possible shade
and hue there is…

But somehow,
the colours are all wrong
the moment
they meet the canvas.

Time rides
but on wings of butterflies.
Hardly noticeable
as they flit by…

From flower to flower.
Underscoring the fragrant,
outlining the beautiful.

Yarrows to daylilies.
Lavender to pansies.
Goldenrods to marigolds.

Supposedly impartial yet,
seemingly bestowing
just a little more
upon those most pleasing.

And the unchosen only watch
with bitter, hungry eyes
that go unnoticed, unslaked
and
          unvisited.

.
     Our stance strong,
     our conviction -
     unwavering,
     brandishing knives
     with blunt tips.

                           But our hearts fail
                           to acknowledge
                           the shallow
                           and feeble breaths
                           that hide behind
                           cracked ribs.

Like blood slowly
ballooning into a tiny orb
from a pin *****.

It simply swelled
and bulged…

As it clung precariously
upon the tip of my nib.

A slight tremble,
almost a hesitation -
seemingly afraid to take
the leap of faith.
Afraid to take the plunge,
only to wilfully break
the expanse of blank parchment.
Afraid to taint the whiteness
with the ruthlessness
of indelible black.

We played with words
and peddled euphemisms,
as we hid behind veils.

We had reality
twisted and bent.
We chided and spat
into the winds
of coercing gales.

Take me to the swan-graced waters...
Where dragonflies would visit,
and skim the surface on tireless wings.

I’d sit with the grounds’ keepers
- the cicadas.
Invisible guardians,
whose shrill song and calls
would only echo through the sparse foliage
and trees - entrancing me into a state of
accompanied aloneness.

A calming solitude,
that enables the eyes
to lapse into a deep,
unjudging gaze into the lake.

And as time slows to a halt,
each breath would lengthen...
The sun would dip into the distant edge
of the lake.
And my heart would skip
as it interprets the dance of the sun
on the water.

When the periphery is muted,
one walks the precipice -
long and narrow.

Open minds are fenced in;
And are inadvertently confined
to hushed tones
and feeble babbles.

Life then ceases to be a journey...

But rather,
                 a recurring commute.

.
If our family was a tree,
you must be the roots.

Forever planted,
forever supporting,
forever nurturing.

Just so that all of us,
may bask in the amber
of the sun...
And bathe in the silver
of the moon.

.

Even when all
the ruby shards
and splinters
had vaporised,

I’d pretend
to gather
invisible
broken pieces

outlined in chalk.

If you stood still,
and depend
only on the earth’s rotation,
the change you sorely seek
will come - but not too soon.

If you could wait no longer,
elect to move along
with the ground,
you’d soon enough find
as your ceiling
- new skies.

If indeed
my heart knows
every word
to this song,

why then
does my voice
argue that it
should never
be sung?

They say
that love
is a fool’s errand...

I guess
I just enjoy
running errands.

.
     Captured breaths
within the
       moments in time.

   Broken snapshots
              frozen almost...
  Solid yet fragile
        and so brittle.

         Fractured and frail
      but in many ways,

              perfect.

.

It’s so old and used,

and it barely did it’s job.

It had to be quickly replaced,

and put down...
                              without a sob.

Hello there
familiar stranger...

Between the waking hours
and persistent unsleep,

you’re still
as much as the chaos
in my head then
as you are now.

.
Morn’s lingering mist...
Silently skimming
off the water’s edge.

          Deft tendrils reach out,
          to playfully
          taunt and tease...

Digging and uncovering...
Like a slow and worn...
But trusty dredge.

          Unearthing unwelcomed
          memories of (c)old,
          like an abrupt winter’s breeze.


.

Ernest prayers,
as it always would begin...

     “Eddying echoes...
     Be not my foes.

     Let sand under feet,
     be kith and kin.

     Let arms that toil,
     be hands that sows.”

.

A vessel

with no harbour...


Adrift with its anchor.

That had dangled and swayed,

almost mindless...


As if caught in an entrance -


in the spell
of persuasive currents.

our mouths go dry,
our actions get lazy,
our anchors unmoored,
our directions change,
our bearings are misaligned,
our charts remain unplotted,
our complacencies swell,
our greed metastasise,
our ignorance nurtured...


How then,
would our story end?

.