By Sara L Russell 31st August 2014 at 04:26am

After he died,
his spirit was determined to
apologise to her
in the next life,
for all the abuse.
He came back as a spider
In her bath.
She washed him down the plughole.

The First-Born Blues
Sara L Russell 22nd August 2014 20:59 revised 27th Aug 2014, 13:58

So I bite down on bitter words
and I eat my humble pie
for those who will not understand me
Until the day I die.
self-pity's for the birds,
where the golden egos fly;
if you will not understand me
should I bother to ask why?

So you know I'm always me
and I never will be her
and you know she's gone forever
things can't be the way they were
I survived, unworthily
though you think I should concur
that death struck out unfairly
- should have taken me, not her.

So I wear my comfort cross
and I carry my cross of woe -
each a spiritual placebo
from the God I used to know;
and an eerie sense of loss
follows everywhere I go
for this poor downtrodden ego
that you always overthrow.

Sara L Russell*

Bright colours in a pool of crystal clarity
reflecting all the spectrum of our days
slip down into a quagmire of nonentity
with nothing left to sully or erase.

This cold disease that strips a man of human soul,
is worst of all the ravages of time;
behold those eyes, devoid of everything you stole,
yet blissfully unknowing of your crime.

This bright man, worn away to barest minimum,
this one-time writer and great raconteur,
this poet - will not travel to Byzantium;
his world is fading to a senseless blur.

Sara L Russell, 17/5/14 00:29am*

I speak, therefore I ****.
Complacent in my seat of ancient learning,
  I can and will
undo your fragile notions,
your vapid little dreams;
I'll pierce your ego with a word.
  Your ego is absurd.

I sleep in blameless peace.
Reclining on my cloud of contemplation,
  I can and do
lampoon your trite devotions,
tug on their fraying seams;
I'll take your confidence away
  with everything I say.

You're weaker than I am,
Regurgitated clichés haunt your writing,
  you know it's true
You wear the same emotions;
no common sense redeems
the foolish things you write
- till I slay them with spite.

(for Elizabeth) 30th January 03:11am*

Through towering colonnades of stars
She rises with the daybreak's fire,
As angels strum on lute and lyre
And frost sparkles like fractured glass;

And when dark clouds have filled your eyes
Pray do not yield to let them cry;
For she is where the white doves fly
Amid the glades of Paradise.

(for Elizabeth, 1962-2013)
Sara L. Russell, 16th December 2013, 17:14

Somewhere out of reach
in memory's inner eye
is a windswept sandy beach
with an endless summer sky
and a mischievous light breeze
always messing up my hair
and always calmer seas
in the days when you were there.

Somewhere in childhood days
there was so much to believe
always so much to amaze
it was never time to leave
there was always time to run
to let imagination fly
no harm came to anyone
no-one ever said goodbye

Sometime long ago
when the warmest summers blazed
or when winter brought the snow
we were endlessly amazed
and everything seemed light
as a snowflake on the air
and the whole world seemed all right
in the days when you were there.

Sara L Russell, 28/2/14, 00:30

Given time
the inner eye of memory sees with softer reverie,
as through a muslin curtain; softly veiled and far away -
and how temptingly tranquil seem the waters of the past.

Given time
lost minutes lengthen into hours, to long-remembered days,
lost words that needed saying fall like petals in the rain
Turning slowly in the air until they fade to dust at last.

Given time
a distant haunting melody's translated into sighs
birdsong at morning lilting like a glimmering of streams;
and moments of reflection spill too swiftly through our hands.

Given time
dry leaves fly through the chilly air and scatter in the sky
summer will have her finery returned from green to gold,
and snow will cover everything, like time's relentless sands.