"greying" poems
awakening with the gradual rise
of the subdued heather hued sun
a palpable spectral silence permeated the air
the anticipation of celebration intercepted
by an enveloping phantom black malaise
hiding in obscure shadows
the terror of the twin towers final doom
elucidated quivers of melancholic nuances
rippling through the greying vicinity
my birthday september 11th a tuesday
my night to sing at abravanel hall
with the utah symphony
unable to serenade death
our voices remained indubitably silenced
in hushed wistful reverence
ensuing 9/11s channel somber sentiments
cloaked with annihilation while
dark visions occupy smudged iphone screens
this anniversary i will dissipate despair
transmuting dark despondency
splashing all with lucent petals of delight
i’ll live this day with passionate intensity
and those subsequent with equal ardor
ferociously painting back the light
i will raise my voice with effervescence
and sing in wild abandon
for my precious brothers that were lost
demonstrating devotion through a refusal
to be silenced by fear bestowing honor
with a conspicuous message that love wins
©2016janetaylor
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
Two years ago,
I started drowning
It wasn’t bad
At first
A little tightness
In my lungs
But nothing too bad
One year ago,
I was still drowning
The air wasn’t coming
Back into my lungs
Only ice cold
Freezing water
Blackness started
Edging into my vision
But I ignored it
Because no one else around me
Was drowning
So there was no reason why
I would be, unless
I was weak
I wasn’t weak
I wasn’t drowning
Or so I said
Six months ago
I started drowning
For real, this time
There was no denying
The fact that my hands
Were turning grey
And my lungs were crying out
But my blue lips
Didn’t part to
Let out that scream
And my grey limbs wouldn’t
Flail to show someone,
Anyone at all
That I was drowning
Five months ago,
I kept drowning
I was now far from the surface
Of the water
Where it was light blue
And warm in the
Shallow ends of this water
I had far surpassed that
I was in arctic water
Deep and cold
Murky and unfathomable
Drowning, and not making
A single sound
Thirty-six days ago
I gave into drowning
Well, I had given into it
When I decided that
Greying skin and blue lips
Was fine, for me
But now, I completely gave in
Thirty-six days ago,
I wanted to drown
But I wanted to do it faster
And so I tried to hurry up
The process of drowning
Alone, in those icy waters
Thirty-four days ago
Someone dangled an oxygen mask
In front of my blue lips
They told me to put it on
But I didn’t want to
Drowning was like anything else
Once you had spent enough time
In it, you became afraid
Of what it would be like
Without it
I knew drowning
I knew its pain, I became friends with it
I was comfortable with drowning
And I knew the outcome of it
And I was okay with it
Thirty-three days ago,
Someone jumped into that awful water
Or perhaps they didn’t
Jump in, they swam over
They forced the mask between my lips
And then they stayed
It came loose, a couple times,
And I found other people who were drowning
I hated that they were drowning
But I think that we were all a little glad
To find that we weren’t alone
In our drowning
I’ve kept my oxygen mask
I’m still in that cold water
But now I have others who make sure
That I don’t drown
And I make sure that
Their masks are affixed
They do the same for me
We save each other
And now that I have
Enough air to breathe
I can see, and I can see
Other people who
Are starting to drown
So I take all my effort and energy
And I swim to them
Most of the time, they don’t have a mask
And it hurts me to see that they’re drowning
So I give them my mask
For as long as they need
Until they have their own
Sure, it hurts me, but as long as it helps them
A while ago,
I started drowning
I kept drowning for a while
But then I found others
And together, we found our way
We found our oxygen tanks
We’re still drowning
But now, we can take in enough air
To sometimes swim
A bit closer to the surface
A bit closer to
Not drowning
A bit closer
To real life
And no matter how far we fall
The others will help us start going
To the light blue, peaceful water
Water that we won’t drown in
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
I knocked the black
door knocker
on Janice's nan's door
and her nan answered
and said
o hello Benedict
Janice can't come out
she let the canary out
and we had
a hell of a job
getting it back
in the cage again
so I'm keeping her in
I was going
to tan her backside
but I thought
keeping her in
was more
of a punishment
on a day like this
o right
I said
looking at Nan's eyes
and her greying hair
and unsmiling face
but you can come in
and see her
for a few minutes
shame that you
have to be
without her though
so she walked
back up the passage
and into the sitting room
where Janice
was sitting on a settee
looking disgruntled
it's Benedict
come to see you
he is only staying
for a few minutes
so don't think
you can go out
because you can't
Janice nodded
and looked tearful
and her nan walked off
into the kitchen
I didn't mean
to let the bird out
I just opened
the cage door
to get it to stand
on my finger
but it flew out
and it to ages
to catch it again
and Nan was so angry
that she was
on the border
of giving a smacking
but then she thought
keeping me in
was more
of a punishment
so here I am
on a lovely warm day
sorry about that
I said
where are you going?
she asked
I was going to Jail Park
on the swings and slide
I said
I see
she said
looking at me sadly
what have you got
in the bag?
I opened the bag
it's that Robin Hood book
I bought it
in that junk shop
on the New Kent Road
she held it
and opened it up
and looked
at the words
and pictures
maybe next time
I can be
your Maid Marian
to your Robin Hood
she said
yes
I said
looking
at the canary
in its cage
that'd be good.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
At the start
A bright beginning,
A happy union
An ignited spark
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Clutching the doll
Happily
Going everywhere
Together
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Out the door
Around the house
And maybe to see your friend's
Pet mouse
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Together forever
Best little buds
Totally inseparable
Just like a shadow
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
The doll was there
Through all the sunshine
The doll was there
Through all the rain
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
It kept you company
Through the smiles
Laughing with
Your every mile
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
It kept you safe
Through all those nights
And kept those shadowy things
At bay
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
It dried your tears
Through all those times
A simple hug
Could heal that soul
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
It waited for you
Every day
Until you came back
Home
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Then something happened;
You grew up
The waiting became
Longer
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
The distance widened,
Left behind
But still it kept on
Waiting
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
You talked less
You played less
But still it looked on
Hopefully
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
The doll was stuck
In a timeless state
But you just kept on
Growing
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Soon, you no longer
Came to see
The doll; it was already
Fading
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Forgotten, neglected
In its dusty little corner
Reminiscing of the times
Together, spent
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Wishing you would
Come back round
To look, or just
To care
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
It kept on hoping
It kept believing
It kept the flame alive,
Burning
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
But everyday
It kept on dimming
The pure white fur
With dust, greying
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Time passes
Minutes, hours
Days.
Soon, it's been a year.
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
More time passes
Just like so,
Until you were
So fully grown
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Gone were the days
Of carefree playing
Gone were the days
Of chatting
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
The doll has faded
Right out
Your mind
You were most preoccupied
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Then suddenly
You remembered
Retraced your steps
And found the corner
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
You see the little doll
You've grown up with
A companion, confidant,
A friend.
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
You pick it up
But something's different
The flame inside
Has died
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Hollow eyes stare back
At you
Cold and frozen
Over
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
With a twinge
You placed it
Back onto
A wooden shelf
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Now with the
Closing of the door
The both of you
Were parted
*A little wolf
So pure, so bright
Loyal till
The very end*
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
To behold the daybreak!
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself from Leaves of Grass
In days like this one,
when rain drops so light
& everything dips
into weeping grey
my sanity longs for memories.
My sanity longs
like impulsive recalling
of plummeting sadness
in greying day
sashaying mournful recollects
from sunrise to daybreak.
Remembering vanishes
in the joyful marrow of life.
There, forgetting lives.
Tell me the last time
bliss comforts your soul.
It is a transient tick
too stiff to evoke.
What about the last time
pain feigns your saneness.
Memories turned into bullets
slitting shrapnel
warping into my soul.
Happiness lasts for a second.
Sadness, a lifetime.
Tell me how to get rid
the hurting clout of ache
existing as a blunt fragment
benign yet reminisced.
Daybreak pours so hard
and my sanity like a waning light
crawls back in a miasmatic cave
along the river known
to be a home of a witch
& her cursing narrative
of throwing silver saucers
making her a spotless shadow
through vestal times
never again a thriving spirit.
Forget Blake. Forget Whitman.
Only in daybreak
where everything
churns into life,
my sanity shrinking back
collapsing
into surreal gaps.
Here & there,
my sanity longs for memories.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
What if they had a War and nobody came !
my sentiment all along
Actions so transparent and telegraphed a mile long
absurd anchoring, even more absurd triggering
so absurd as to be meaningless
the hotchpotch logic of simpletons on acid
The banal manifestations of the anodyne retards with advanced hysteria
Think unruly kids on Colombian marching powder
think advanced psychosis with total stage ten delusions
Watch mass hysteria contagion
Logic was never there, rationality bolted beating Usain Bolt
Inveterate liars and fantasists now control maddened throngs
Oh dear! they decided I am madly in love with acquaintance
neither I or poor acquaintance know this
But let not the truth get in the way of a soap opera by the insanes
After All meaningless triggers and Delusionary prompts
keep the sheeples busy in People's Power utopia
They are all having a war, nobody has told me about it
I don't understand their language yet they are very eloquent
Deep in their imagined Neuro-linguistic Programming or mental pygmies playing Pavlov Dog theory of the semi-illiterates
I just realized why cancer is prevalent amongst them
They carry so much poison and emotional ******* in their beings
It pollutes and eat away at them internally, they get cancer!
Never have been interested in little minds and liars and thieves
Have little time for dumb people, the toxics and the sheeples
What makes cretins think I take anything of theirs to mind
what can I learn or gain from contemptibles
I don't feel inferior so why would I want to learn
how to slander and defame others to bring them down
'Slander is the GREAT LEVELLER voiced one of them
poor inadequate soul, poor pathetic degenerate
I look twenty years younger than my years, no wrinkles
Just slightly greying, mind as sharp as razor
Because I don't carry acidic ******* hate or foul nonsense
in my head,
Because my mind is full of worthy knowledge
because I am not an ignoramus with attitude
because I am not a shameless coward or an empty headed nonentity
Because I am not amongst the madding crowd
I am not an insignificant pointless HATER with cancer in waiting!
I am NOT a SHAMELESS RACIST white THIEF discrediting the
Victim I STOLE from
OR
an OBNOXIOUS gang of SOCIALIST crazed subhumans cancerized
by jealousy and envy
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
I met you at the station
you said wanted to go anywhere but here.
I said to look for the tracks that
are the most uninviting. You
took my arm. I wished for
something better and here it came,
disguised by dirt, dislocation and greying days.
Your ticket says no return but
mine is undefined, watchful, ready
to bolt or to linger. You say you love
the stations from afar.
There's not much of me
requested, but the splinters that you
do, I gift hopelessly. The
smallest glimpse of light approaching
filtered through dank, oppressive air
are superior, surely? than finite life
exhausted watching the dark.
By the night you amplify,
when you have enjoyed my fill and
left with little but fingerprints and
recollections, casting parallel shadows
on directions that await.
I give you almost everything
except for the words that
travel nowhere but my head.
You gave me the signal
a briefest flash of red
that stopped this in its tracks.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
*Hydrangeas and tall boxwood bushes
grow on each side of the walkway.
Picket fence, greying from need of paint,
and Foxglove and Bleeding Hearts thrive in shade.
The little breeze shakes the leaves
and cause the nodding Roses to sway.
In evening when sun begins to set,
serene peacefulness comforts my soul like God.*
Тадеус
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
I hear my happy thoughts sing
Of shapes and sounds the April rain brings,
To faraway yellow hills I will go
To seek the throbbing rainbow's end
I danced along the unseen track
The path that leads to once spoken dreams
For these thundering dreams I will keep
Till at the last turning we shall meet
At the beating of the greying rain
I will find my home again
In the deepening of this world
I will find my rainbow's end
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.
He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.
Everybody admires his *****
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.
The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.
The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.
Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.
And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
Let me take you out to lunch
Mrs Bryce said
(she was a middle aged dame
old enough to be his aunt)
o.k if you like
he said
but her friend Lilly
didn't like the idea
(some jealousy
of the lesbian kind
maybe he later thought)
and was quite reserved
as they went to
the posh upstairs restaurant
he one side
and they opposite
Lilly giving him
the cool stare
her pinched mouth
wrinkled forehead
Mrs Bryce studied
the menu
her glasses on
her eyes focused
what you having Lilly?
she asked
and Lilly scanned
her menu and picked out
something in French
and then she asked him
and he said
o the stew will do
and the waitress came
and took their orders
and went off
wagging her behind
which he noticed
but they didn't
being that part
sexually blind
and then came
the small talk
the casual chat
or this and that
and Lilly straight faced
thin lipped
and icy eyes stare
but he knew
what Lilly didn't
she had no idea
about the ***
or how the middle aged
dame had it still
could still turn on the fire
could **** off his desire
but Mrs Bryce
never said a word
not a hint
she wore her middle age
and middle class morals
very well
a mask of gentility
or cultured good humour
good manners on show
but he knew
she was hot
and could go
(her husband
some middle aged guy
with sourness
and boredness
in each greying eye)
and she sat there
giving it the small talk
sipping the wine
one finger raised
her eyes pure
as cut glass
behind the specs
and Lilly listened
in soft admiration
wanting to be nearer
breathing in
Mrs Bryce's scent
dreaming of the two of them
doing whatever in
some bedroom spent
but he had the real
not a dream
and as he watched
Mrs Bryce sipping
her wine
thin lips
on thin glass
he remembered her
that time lying there
bright eyes
greying but dyed hair
he bringing her
to a seventh heaven
of yes and yes
and more
and Lilly sour faced
sitting and listening
to the small talk
but wanting
something other
for sure.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
Pure cane sugartar that sits on teeth,
sits on a canine porch swing
and swings too far, kicking the enamel
siding, wood knots, and greying-thin
windows. More exposed than Brad
Pitt's marriage or JonBenét Ramsay
on the cover of Old World News Daily
in the dentist's office. And there we
are. We're bleached white and burning
beneath paparazzi bulbs and a
a ****** case. Brief case money/
two thousand fourteen and it's still
relevant, still useful blood money.
Novocain lightning flash; burn a tree.
Cali home tucked behind parsley
palms. Fortune teller, baby, O.J. didn't
do it. Not The Juice, not him.
The gloves. The gloves. The gloves.
Comfort of picket fence rainbrushed
paint stripping. Raymour retail
of a mocha-cushion couch half-off
'cause the back's spattered with
toothpaste and taxpayer juice
like Grandma's cancer handbag.
Put your feet up, stay a while.
Don't leave.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Old men on park benches
they’re the real heroes
souls defying impermanence
greying and slower than you
recalling the days
when they dared the seasons to change
kinetic and thoughtless
they were once young men ablaze.
These elder boys sit reminiscing
as the beautiful young women prance by
not daring to say a word
for fear of ridicule
but knowing that many nights
they were desire’s center of attention
when lithe legs enwrapping them.
Elders are not holograms
just vintage men with feelings
hurting when the young and sparkling
look through them not at them
as if they were props
in the day’s act.
Elders are not mirages
but consciousness battling time
accumulated wisdom vibrating in the ether
still electric inside and unafraid of time
with smiles on their faces
they reach out for sunsets
and pull them close
with arms of love.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 6:29 AM UTC
What's that
on your collar Sutcliffe?
O’Brien said
you got some
amorous sweet girl Eddie?
Danny D said
what is it?
I can't see
Eddie said
lipstick
I said
red stuff
where where?
he said
pulling at his white
shirt collar
with the red lipstick mark
he opened his shirt collar
and pulled it downward
how'd that get there?
he asked
your cousin still
staying with you
is she Eddie?
Danny said smiling
no not her
not that bucktooth *****
Eddie said
it must have been
my mum
she insists on
kissing me
before school
can't bring herself
to kiss your spotty skin
so kisses your collar
Danny said
she must have missed
Eddie said
how do I get it off?
who with?
O’Brien said
I ask that question myself
who's the lucky girl
what you talking about?
Sutcliffe said
how do I get
the lipstick off?
God knows
Danny said
soak it salt maybe
I said
but now
how now?
Eddie said
we walked on
toward school
Eddie rubbing
at his collar
with a greying handkerchief
that's the last time
she's going to kiss me
Eddie said
the red lipstick had smeared
more like a stain
it's worse now
I said
looks like a wound
thanks
he said thanks
you did it
not me
I said
what am I going to do?
can't go to school
like this
go home and change then
O’Brien said
I can't my mum's
gone to work
he looked at us
all tearfully
it's just lipstick Sutcliffe
no one's going to care
Danny said
of course they will
he said
especially Thompson
you know what he's like
he'll have out front
for a right pasting
if he sees me
come back to my place
I said
my Mum'll put it
into soak
and you can wear
one of mine
you'll be late
Danny said
you go on
I said
we'll get a bus
we can make it
if we run
O’Brien looked at me
you're all heart Benny
all heart
so Eddie and I
ran back to my place
and he took off his shirt
which my mother
put in soak
and he wore
one of mine
and off we rushed
to school on the 78 bus
Eddie all wide eyed
and I saw Fay
going to school
with her swaying hips
and blonde hair
and all I could do
was give
a keen eyed stare.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
In dried-out marsh where footsteps lie,
Tracing steps and feet before,
Broken fence and ragged wire,
Brook and grass and harmony.
A field across the orange blaze,
Faithful cracks, surrendered branch,
Dimly grained and bowed in green,
Earth and hooves, informal dance.
A gallop halts in open air,
Squared, and chest apparent,
Perfect as my counted steps,
Alone he stands in distant stare.
A moment still I hold my breath,
Fixed and strong, he’s caught my track,
Hazel backed and scars to bare,
Solemn in a fragile glow.
Content in wayward solitude,
He does not trust my path,
Dark brown eyes and pointed pride,
Yearning for the evergreen.
In greying tips he stands his ground,
Loyal to the days gone by,
Speckled spots of brown and black,
A primal thud of cloven foot.
Stooped and still I hold his gaze,
Eagle-eyed he grants me time,
He listens fair with velvet edge,
And sees my flaws through dusty light.
A broken twig- he’s on his way-
Prancing through the deadened leaves,
Muscled buck and arrow flow,
Fluent as the river ebb.
My lens will capture sight and time,
But feeling, sounds and moments shared,
Something I would rather keep,
In mind and memory before I sleep.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 1:22 AM UTC
Mirror mirror on the wall
What is it that you see?
Say not but truth, I need to know
What others think of me
Do they see my greying hair?
Crows feet about my eyes?
I'm asking you, my hated friend
For mirror never lie
Perhaps they see a pitied soul
That life had rendered worn
Or do they see my lying grin
And eyes that spill with scorn?
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
look into the future
with a sharp blaze in your eyes
to cut clean the mourn of morning
trees are greying steadily
and our mothers have turned into fossils
but the hours still surrender
to enchantments of our heart
-quite an anesthesia-
the dying light improvises
time is the soundtrack of us
hand in hand
moulding in oblivion
some je ne sais quoi
unforgettable
an excuse of eternity
(yes, blind colts are born and love is a collocation)
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
In between the greying
and the silvering
work and life
the sombre brooding of time
and the lull after the storms
poetry crept upon me
word by word
phrase by phrase
in a metaphor
letters from the heart
filling gaps of loneliness
with welcome solitude
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
recto:
I send this from the little cell wherein
I dwell, a sealed room without a door,
no latch or bell or knocker waiting for
those whom some debt or doom or mortal sin
might draw towards this private tomb.But for
one single tiny window set up high
which holds a poor small square of greying sky
where thin birds’ flightlines scratch the current score
there’s no way in or out. Yet I shall try
to find that secret power that lies within,
that quiet light that I am storing in
this room in which I live until I die.
verso:
I send this from the little cell
wherein dwell, a sealed room
without a door, no latch or bell
or knocker waiting for those whom
some doom or debt or mortal sin
might draw towards this private tomb.
But for one single tiny win-
dow set up high which holds a poor
small square of greying sky where thin
birds’ flightlines scratch the current score
there’s no way in or out. Yet I
shall try to find that secret power
that lies within, that quiet light
that I am storing in this room
in which I live until I die.
turbo:
I send this from the little cell wherein I dwell,
a sealed room without a door, no latch or bell
or knocker waiting for those whom some debt or doom
or mortal sin might draw towards this private tomb.
But for one single tiny window set up high
which holds a poor small square of greying sky where thin
birds’ flightlines scratch the current score there’s no way in
or out. Yet I shall try to find that secret power
that lies within,that quiet light that I am stor-
ing in this room in which I live until I die.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
The canvas on our walls,
help me remember you,
our story sinking into mesh
ink captives speak in hues
Can I shelter your barricaded soul?
or disarm you with my words?
following the path we’re making,
and paint, our greying skies with birds.
Or break down your paper barriers,
fading words in and out,
ill follow your heart anywhere
of that there is no doubt.
So colour me in with our truth,
and walk me through life’s gate
because this is our story my dear,
and our truth is our fate.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
greying cilia
framing lively child's eyes
with youth not ceasing
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC
19/4/13 12.01am
Like fragile bubbles, children fly
so swiftly as we set them free
between the earth and cloudswept sky
with colours swirling magically.
I watched my sweet boy go to war
so sad-eyed, in his uniform
his colours darker than before
like greying clouds before a storm.
Go carefully into the fray
beloved boy, return to me
all I can do is wait and pray
as once again, I set you free.
*Inspired by a scene from BBC1's The Village, in which Joe (Nico Mirallegro) was about to return to
the front line in WW1 and his mother Grace (Maxine Peake) had been showing very poignant hints of
the fear she felt for his survival in the trenches.*
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
It’s thirty years since I travelled back
To wander my childhood home,
To check out the trees I used to climb
And the fields where I used to roam,
I remembered the friends that used to play,
Wendy and Paul and Mark,
And the local bully that had his way
Back then, in the Boating Park.
We’d go up there on a Sunday, pay
Our money and hire a boat,
That fourpence each to the gatekeeper
Saw the three of us afloat,
Each boat had paddlewheels either side
You could turn, and stop or start,
Or spin around in a circle, just
For fun, at the Boating Park.
The Park, laid out in a rectangle
Took an hour to paddle round,
Once out of sight of the gatekeeper
The banks would muffle the sound,
We’d scream and shriek and laugh and beam
As we rammed each other’s boats,
I often thought it a wonder that
We didn’t puncture the floats.
Then over beyond the halfway mark
We lay in the shade of trees,
The sun would sink, it was getting dark
And we’d hear the murmur of bees,
We had to pass there under a bridge
And duck, for the bridge was low,
And that’s where the bully McPherson stood
On the bridge, those years ago.
He’d jeer, throw stones and catcall as we
Tried to get under the span,
Then climb and drop into Wendy’s boat
He wouldn’t have tried with a man.
He’d paddle over the further side
And make her get out of the boat,
Then paddle it back the way we came
Get out, and leave it afloat.
One Sunday I sat under the bridge
With Paul and Mark beside,
While Wendy came along on her own
As if on a solo ride,
The bully tried the very same thing
But we each pulled on his coat,
And when he came up, he couldn’t scream
For the water lodged in his throat.
He splashed about and he tried to grab
The boat, but his clothes, like lead,
Were trying to drag him down, while Paul
And Mark, they stood on his head.
Wendy had clambered up on the bank
Controlled, and well in command,
For every time he tried to get out,
She’d stamp and stomp on his hand.
The paper said it was very strange
That he must have put up a fight,
But hadn’t the strength to pull himself
Up out of the cut that night.
His hands and fingers were shredded, where
He’d tried to climb up the bank,
But the weight of his heavy, sodden clothes
Were the demons he had to thank.
I went to visit the Boating Park
It was just the way I feared,
I met up there with an older Mark,
A man with a greying beard,
He told me Wendy and Paul were dead
Weighed down with a sense of sin,
And the gatekeeper at the Boating Park
Had gone, when they filled it in.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER OLD CAT
Beside me sit and purr my cat,
So cute a kitten when you sat
On my lap when l brought you here
To live with me so small and dear.
I was then greying when you were
A little kitten of soft fur.
I used to feed your little mouth
And watch your small teeth in their growth.
Your heart and mine both beat us through
To this old age with its sad view.
We both sit near this well lit stove
And think a lot before we move.
My cat, you are my dearest friend;
You shared my trip to this old end.
I wonder if we'll meet up there,
Where life will be quite free from care.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
____________________________________
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
I watched him wait in the sunlight
October had nearly passed
and the light had turned the whole world golden
I watched him wait on a bench in the golden sunlight
a majestic construction towering in the background
a rusty golden
I watched him wait for me on a bench in the golden light
his hair still dark but greying at the temples
his skin momentarily golden in the October sunlight
I watched him wait for me on a bench in the golden Paris sunlight
a rusty golden
I paused
took a mental picture of him on the bench in the golden October sunlight
with the Eiffel Tower in the background
He had remembered
Then I smiled and left
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC