sophomore year

it's not that dark

if you squint your eyes
beyond the blurred lines
loneliness pierces through the heart

people you once knew are merely memories now
and you are reduced to what they write about you on the bathroom walls

they don't need you anymore
they found someone better

all you have is me
a gun to your thoughts
and lungs that won't quit (but you wish they would)

what's that? you can't breathe?

don't worry darling
it's only down from here

You have memories
to look back on,
on-this-day ago
one year, three years, five years
ago, all-your-yesterdays

fade, perhaps repressed
or once carved with care
to exhibit the best
to omit the stuff you'd rather forget
and so the sculptor shaved

keeping with the grain
until the rather-not-dwell-ons
fell before the sweep of grace,
each scrape joining
other eliminations
to be gathered up
and cast into the fireplace.

The sculptor sanded, polished
and revealed the much loved
gargoyle within
proving once again
the effectiveness
of shaving away the best
forgotten.

The sock undid me
just a little thing
soft and yellow and drowning in a puddle
I suppose it fell off when the soldiers came
and they ran for it
I wonder where the other one is
perhaps it is clinging to a tiny wriggling foot somewhere
I hope so

I am tempted
to bear my heartache
as pure bitterness,
but
I know that there is
a blissful sweetness
that is
just as accessible.

How shall I carry
my memory of you?
Should your image
be framed in my
petty bitterness?

For you,
I know only
tenderness.
For you,
there is only love.

Place the pen on the page before inspiration hits – that’s important.  You write – that’s what you do.  
And as the pen moves, a combination of memory and new ideas combine, they interact with the catalyst called inspiration and you’ll find that the further the process is allowed to progress, the more the New takes hold and memory drops to a whisper and before your mind can comprehend the words, you find an unexpected theme.  This time it’s about the evil of memory and how it needs to be subdued / reduced, put in its rightful place so that the New can breathe / can grow / create a new memory that will one day abdicate space to the next generation of New.  
One day we might find there’s no heir, no one who cares enough to continue the line, but until that day we’ll have generation after generation of New - each slowly growing old, gradually fading thin and becoming a memory that knows its space and gives way.
I pause.
That’s always a mistake.  
To Pause.  
That’s when memory sneaks back in, raising itself above its whisper, giving pause to the New and raising an appetite for a brew which lifts the pen…
Is blueberry jam on madeira cake wrong?

The wind, he said, is lost
laughter.
Breathe it in and glory
in the joy it brings
in the forgotten smiles
of another age
and make your home.

The wind, he said, is dispelled
tears.
Let it in and as it meets your eyes
it will cool and condense,
re-creating past sadness,
distilling until the salt stings
with ancient lost glories.

the only me you will ever know
is the woman in the photo
the only thing you'll keep of me
is the photo we took that day on the beach

A beautiful sunset
A whispering breeze
Birdsong in the morning
Blossoming trees

Green buds in Springtime
The summer sun’s glow
Red leaves in Autumn
The crunch of crisp snow

The sky’s brightest star
A sparkly moon
The lilting melody
From a favourite tune

You may not be around
But you’re always still here
Every second, every minute
Each day, week, month, year.