Glaciers, white and blue,
fill the spaces between me and you.
In a torn, faded photograph,
a happy family displayed
as they joke and laugh.

A mother's smile,
a father's firm grip
on that of his only daughter.
The gentle waves of water
and rocks the shade of emery,
lay the scene for this sweet, fleeting memory.
A brother pulls down ******* his hat,
the wind blowing it flat.

Each face a sweet montage of a life lived,
the wrinkled eyes showing all they've survived.

Father's dead now;
the mother holds her son,
their love an unspoken vow,
the likes of which
is broken now.

In this frozen photo, all of this remains unspoken -
a family of which I now have only this small token.

children's park
two swings
one broken

childhood memories
a desire to time travel
i know i can do it

nightfall
barely any trace of humanity
darkness
cold and clear sky

feet take me to the swing

only now
as an adult
do i feel
the infinite poetry in swinging

swinging alone
in the dark,
head up to the sky,
eyes asking for salvation from the hidden stars

give me your blue peace
take me up forever
breathe your infinite void into my soul

heart keeps hoping for a flight
eyes keep looking at the sky
soul's afraid to miss a second of the infinite silence

even the screech of the old iron swing
can't break the harmony
it's the harmony itself
it's the universal sadness

mind awakens the feet
fears return -
darkness,
aloneness,
strangers passing by
spreading more fear
with their cold eyes-

the swing stops
the illusion of reality returns-

get me home,
i feel belonging in those four walls
only when sleep aggravates on my eyes-

other times it's all about incessant estrangement...

In the hand that only asks, wants and takes
There is little room for gifts
So I expect none.

In the mind filled overflowing with self,
Pleasure and the moment
There isn’t space for gratefulness
So I won’t look for any.

In the heart that sees itself abused in the midst of cosseting
There is no quarter for love returned
So I’ll not hope for that.  
              
In the soul that locks itself away, a willing alien,
There is no inclination to give
So I go empty-hearted.
                

Not real people,
just characters,
defamiliarized,
playacting through
the stage dressing
of their
unconvincing, plywood
lives.
In one small spotlight,
one character
is deciding
not to call
the other character,
and a
second spotlight
picks out a
telephone
not ringing, and
the second character,
who could
call the first,
but doesn't.
Between them,
the few metres of
darkened stage
represent the cold,
separating sea, or
their emotional
estrangement, or
the shadowy uknowability of
the inner self, or
something.
They don't elicit sympathy,
these characters, only perhaps
an intellectual empathy,
critical and objective.
They are devices
by which we might learn
some abstract lesson about
the human condition.
They cry, or don't,
soliloquise about their fears,
their guilts and their woundings,
or are silent;
they damage each other,
themselves, and seem
incapable of learning
from pain.
But they are not
real people,
only symbols,
only the roles
they occupy:
Father,
Daughter.
It might be heartbreaking,
if it wasn't all so
far away.