"ceili" poems
You walk along the beach with the sand between and beneath your naked toes, the sun touching your skin, the slight breeze feeling your hair. You stop and stare at the sea, the sound of the waves on the shore, like an old man breathing and sighing. There are no ships today; the horizon is bare; empty. You remember walking along this beach with Giles, his hand in yours, the promises he made, the laughs you both had, the look in his eyes, that smile he had. You smile briefly, wipe your small hand across your lips, try to recall that kiss, gone. The sun is high in the sky, blue with hints of white in the horizon, the sea, the far off places long out of reach. If only I hadn’t found that **** letter, you muse darkly, breathing deeply, sensing the sea air, the sharpness of it, the chill on the lungs, if only you hadn’t seen the words of his betrayal, his words of love to another, her of all people, she who had befriended you. Lies. All of those lies, you muse, those bits of truth and lies together, the devil’s mix, the lying ***** him saying those things to her, and to you he says another, liars both of them. You walk on along the deserted beach, your toes scrunching into the sand, the grittiness between the toes, the sharpness underfoot. We made love over there, you tell yourself, indicating an area of rocks, a secret place you thought was yours and his, where he had uncovered you and under those stars, moon and evening breeze, had entered you. You close your eyes and wonder if he brought her here, made love to her in that place, did to her what he did to you. The possibility haunts you, hurts deeply, drives to walk closer to the edge of the sea and shore. You want the sea to take you; want the waves to swallow you up and spit you up some miles down the coast. A lifeless body, a floating bloated cadaver. But that takes a courage you lack, a courage you do not have, despite your hurt and pain, despite your inner anger. You wish you had not read the letter from his pocket, had not searched, had not seen it and opened up the envelope. If only you had remained in innocence of his betrayal, innocent of all that filth and lies. His words to you that morning, as he rose from bed, as his arms left your side, were so loving, so kind. Ceili, he said, Ceili, you are the morning of my day. Such words. Such words said. The sun is warm on your face, the breeze a little chillier now, the sea a bit wilder, the waves touching your feet, touching your toes. What price betrayal? What reward? You wander along the shore, the sea touching you as he had done, feeling your flesh, sensing your life blood, you stop, turn back, empty your mind, vacate, the you, the memory of loss, the life of betrayal.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as
Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when
The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as
Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when
The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
When can I leave? Not yet.
When? When we’re sure, you won’t
Harm yourself anymore
Ceili. Harm myself? Yes,
Slit your wrists, try to hang
Yourself, take too many
Pills. An accident. Yes,
Maybe, but we need to
Be sure. Sure of what? That
You won’t do it again.
When can you be sure? That
Is up to you, Ceili.
How can I be sure? You
Will know. How will you know?
We are professionals,
We’ll know. Can you tell me
When? When what, honey? When
It’s time for me to go
And when I won’t do things
Like you said. Why don’t you
Go back to bed; you look
Tired. I can’t sleep; it’s
Those **** pills you gave me.
They’re sleeping pills, sweetie,
They ought to make you sleep.
They don’t work. Maybe you
Aren’t trying. I lost my
Baby. Yes, I know you
Did. My third. Yes, I read
That. My man beats me up.
Men can be creeps at times.
My pop did things to me.
When? When I was quite young.
Did you report it? No.
Why not? Scared. Why don’t you
Try to sleep, ceili, things
Will seem much brighter in
The morning. I hate bright
Mornings, they’re worse than nights.
God look at the ****** time.
What time is it now? Three.
That’s when my baby died.
The last one. I hate that
Hour. Do you want some
Hot chocolate? Can I
Have a cookie or two?
Sure you can. When can I
Leave? Not yet. When? When you
Stop asking when, that’s when.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC