This is our time

After the seventh night of virtually no sleep and constant pain, the Oracle knows how I feel.

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Here the air is perfumed by concrete,

life-fire, desire long gone.

I remember wild red skies

velvet stars broken in the ocean.

No more breath, my voice fails.

Out, brief candles;

when we wake, you will be

a brilliant blue cloud, colour of peace,

(look, joy is kissed on your lips)

fish-dancing, flying into eternity with me.

This is our time,

the night does not need morning.

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Beneath the never sky

the sea sings so sweetly,

a blue water symphony to love perhaps

or death.

These days, the ache and the wanting

are fierce as moonlight and wind-whispers,

not driven away with the sun.

Yet we still trudge together, you and I,

no milk and honey for us,

into the shadow of the roses,

their petals crushed by the rain.

There are days when it makes no difference

 

Heart hurts

blood cells bobbing in the stream burst

airless

inside

the squabbling for mastery

leaves me breathless.

Sun bobs in and out of cloud

spring breeze brisks

uncaring

a matron

seen it all before.

Buttercups catch the light

throw it back

missing.

Outside

brisk bustle

of ruffled flowers and feathers

mocks

as the light seeps back

into the womb of the sky

leaving

me

behind.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is there,

lurking in the darkest hours of today,

waiting with its claws and its thorns that tear the flesh

and etch fatigue into every joint.

The bright dreams of once

hang like framed pictures high on a bleak wall,

not quite out of the reach of vandals.

Spray-painted worries splatter the colours with black,

and attercops spin their sticky webs

that catch not flies but silver fishes,

flick-flitting through the calm waters of what might have been.

Might yet be, who knows?

Who can see through the murky veil?

Between then and now there is no more night,

no gentle buffer zone,

just a choppy sea full of whirlpools,

the harsh cry of gulls,

and the same words, chitter-chattering round and round.

Peace and silence sail beyond the reach of mortal hand

and the sails are black.

Somewhere, far away, a sparrow chirrups.

I toss a handful of crumbs to clear the rags from the air

that fills with soft feathers and beating hearts,

and I remember the golden cube of stone,

old and sturdy, set in clay and lush meadow,

the well of quiet, that waits at the end of the night.

Tomorrow.

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Keep calm and…

Thank you ©BentleyCoon for the pic

GoMentalAndArseAbout

The Daily Post prompt is: carry. For once, it hasn’t inspired a poem. ‘Carry’ makes me think ‘burden’. A burden is something we carry that we’d probably much rather dump somewhere and forget about. The annoying thing that makes a burden a burden though is that it’s well nigh impossible to dump it.

I feel that way about writing. When life is more difficult than usual, it presses down like a mass of words, a mountain. When I’m more upbeat and the daily merde is easier to shovel out of the way, writing is more like a torrent that flows down the mountain. Either way, words, phrases, the way they fit together, the stories they tell, are ever-present. They twitter away in an undertone when I’m distracted, but they never really go away.

There are stories to tell, to set down and polish so they gleam. It’s an obligation. Where would they go otherwise? They have claims upon my time that can’t be denied unless I want them to take over from dreams and keep me awake all night. Perhaps if the voices were less insistent, I could step back from the keyboard when the final line of a story is written and say, enough—time to stop writing and do something with what you’ve written. But the final line of one story rarely sits still on the page, content to be the last line. All too often it ferments and bubbles and becomes the germ of the idea behind a new first line. So the stories build up and they sit on the computer setting more seeds. Or they sit on an unmapped amazon shelf like dead stars in a distant galaxy.

I wish I could shed this burden or at least lay it down for a while. I’m supposed to be promoting two three-book series at the moment. I should also be collecting a whole raft of stories together for publication. But there’s a bitter teenage boy and a girl with stars in her eyes insisting that I ignore everything but them.

So why don’t a few thousand kind individuals buy my books so I can get back to Jónsi and Halla? Pretty please?