#womanman
Of all the rooms in the house it was the library that you expected to find Lyndon most times there with his books and his writing desk facing the window so he could see the flower filled garden and the birds on the wooden bird table or on the lawn where they would come and pick up the bread that he had put out and as you stand in the library and look around the shelves where the books are arranged in subject matter and in alphabetical order as he liked it so that he could select the book he wanted easily and all dust cleared weekly by Milly as Lyndon watched her and gave his commands and his eyes peering at her through his glasses making sure each book went where it belonged and the fact that he will no longer be here any more with his books or at his desk takes your breath away for the moment and the thought of the funeral the week before with all the well wishers and friends and relatives with the flowers and the service long and religious which he would not have liked not being a religious man thinking it all rather outmoded and outdated but you had no strength left to argue about what happened or how or who did what or said what just wanting it over so that you could get back to the house and let out all the pent-up tears and hurt and the feelings gnawing at your stomach and worming into your mind and the emptiness of the whole house where you wandered from room to room calling his name like a lost child and Milly sent away so you could be alone not wanting the maid there at such a time with her funny ways and her chit chatter and the rooms all empty of his presence even the bedroom where he had slept alone because of his endless coughing and insomnia where his things were all arranged as he left them all neat and tidy and in order with the book he was reading with its marker still there and the curtains still drawn as you requested so that the daylight would not disturb anything or let in a new dawn or change anything and you walk to the window and peer into the garden where his deckchair still sits awaiting him like some faithful hound and you watch as the birds peck around the lawn searching for the bread no longer put out and that brings tears to your eyes and all becomes blurred and watery and you turn away and walk around his desk and pick up his pen and peer through tear-filled eyes at the last writing on his desk on a piece of manuscript with his handwriting scrawled on the page which you know so well having read all that he had written and proofread for him and now it has all stopped and the silence of the room seems to make it like a sepulchre as if all that had been here was dead and no longer had any meaning not his books his work or your life now he had gone away and the fact that you will never see him again not hear his voice or feel his hand on your shoulder or his lips on your cheek suddenly hits home and you wander away slowly from the library and its books and the memories and go down the passage to the storeroom by the kitchen where Milly would normally be at the stove muttering away as she stirred or prepared vegetables and you pick up the shotgun a neighbour had lent you to shoot the rabbits that invaded the vegetable garden and you close the door to the other rooms and the garden and the memories and the absence of Lyndon and the barrenness crowding around you and nipping at your heels and you pull the trigger with the finger that once curled itself around Lyndon’s curls and bring an end to all that pain and hurt and darkness with a bang not a whimper as Lyndon would have said quoting a poem he rather liked on his final day as the sunlight pierced dimly through slits in the curtains onto the bed cover of his death touched bed.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC
The nurse shows me
where Grace sits
in her wheelchair
out on the lawn
in the afternoon
sunshine.
Her blind eyes
peering up
towards the sun
she cannot see.
A blanket covers
her leg stumps
from view
her hands are in
her lap idle.
Hello Grace
I say.
She turns
her eyes
towards me
away from the sun.
Philip?
she says
reaching out to me
with a hand.
I take her
hand in mine
and kiss her cheek.
How are you?
I say
kneeling down
on the grass
beside her.
Depressed and bored
she replies
squeezing my hand
in hers.
Other patients
sit on chairs
or in wheelchairs
talking to others
or sitting alone
taking the sun.
Shall I push you
around a bit
away from the chatter?
I say.
The scene's
the same to me
where ever we go
she says moodily
sit beside me
go get a chair
she adds.
I go back inside
the ward
and borrow a chair
and take it out
and place it
beside her
and sit down.
Cigarette?
I say.
She nods
that'd be good
she says.
I take out a packet
and take out two
and place one
between her lips
and one in mine
and put the packet away.
I light both cigarettes
with a lighter
and we puff away.
She isn't
very talkative.
I talk of things
I have done
(except what is secret
hush hush stuff).
She talks of her day
stuck in the ward
in the dark
being washed
and toileted
listening to the radio
on the ward
playing dance music
or talk of news
and war.
I study her
as we sit
wishing I could
take her out again
for dinner or just
to sit in St James's Park
and be alone.
I miss Clive
she says
**** the War
and Dunkirk
why did he
have to die?
I don't know Grace
the whole show
is going to ***
I say.
If I had my legs
I could fend better
for myself
she says.
They did talk
of getting you
artificial legs
when I was here last
I say.
But when
will that be
what with the War
and such
she says.
The sun is warm
and the sky
a bright blue
clouds drift overhead.
I try to sound optimistic
but it sounds quite lame.
Will you make
love to me
when we can?
she whispers.
I blush
but she cannot see.
When we can
I reply
looking up
at the sky.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
Will he return?
you asked yourself.
Doubts come.
Doubts large and
depressing. How
to forget? Him and
his words, the letters
he wrote, the way he
was. The seeing of
others behind your
back. That girl from
the office, the thin
one with John Lennon
kind of spectacles,
that's who you think
he's had or having.
Will he return? You
want him to, but don't,
that combination of both.
The question why he
did haunts you, and why
with her? You lay and
stare and want it different,
want it not to have been,
to have been a secret
you didn't know. Really?
You mused, secret behind
your back kind of ****
No, not one bit. He said
he loved you. All words.
Words on words. Yours
is a lonely bed now. None
to share, just you there
crying and lying there.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
She wonders how many
Other hearts he’s broken
Like hers. She just wants to
Lie and sleep and forget the
Creep. But even in sleep, he’s
There and her old wanting
Him lights up again with all
The despair. She sits and stares
At walls drinking too much,
Forgets what her mother once
Said of men: all such and such.
She’s considered ending it all,
Overdosing, leaping in front of
A train, jumping from some tall
Building and splat loud to the
Sidewalk. People will know then
How she loved and lost; they’ll
Softly talk. Yet her coward self
Puts such thoughts aside, cannot
Bear the thought of the mess left,
Someone else to share her distress.
She lights up a cigarette and inhales
And tries to forget. Other hearts are
Not her heart; their pain and hurt not
Hers to feel; his betrayal, lack of real
Concern, hurts and burns her still. She
Wants to wipe away his words, unstick
His kisses, unfeel his touches, unsex
His sexuality poured and stored now
Turned sour. The wall has no ears to
Hear, no lips to say, sorry for your lost
Love my dear. Just wallpaper fading, the
Odd pattern and the echo of words that
Seem to say over and over, you slattern.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC