An Echo ignored
Made sprung a yellow beauty
On stems of desire
Narcissus
1
Tag Archives: poetry
Misplaced Belonging
Your name now a stranger,
in person and in ink.
My heart held a safe distance,
from the torturous brink,
of a misplaced belonging
that carried no weight,
the emotive sad rivers,
continue to abate
yet courage is magnified;
my soul stands to applaud.
I am gently nudged forward,
newly born, self-assured.
Within the safety of worth,
the lies start to diminish.
Another chapter unwritten,
of a story with no finish…
Knee to knee, shin to shin, bubble to bubble
Within each crease lies my past.
An historic furrow,
burrowing above my eye line.
The platinum curls form
a crown, not yet the weight
of the band, that held our vows.
Safely set aside, to marinate in the salt
distilled from inconsolable tears.
Daily, as the bath fills
I recall us sharing a story,
knee to knee,
shin to shin,
bubble to bubble,
until the burst promises
were replaced by goosebumps.
Had we both outstayed
our welcome of the other?
I wish I had been more courageous.
Stepped out of my mind and body
months, years, a decade earlier.
Yet now on this day, some seven hundred
and twenty since, I stand, proud
of the visual indentations sadness has left
and wrap my right arm, gently
around the shoulder of your memory.
A marked down emotion
Like a drunk, I sway in the wind,
legs opposing the mind’s intention
to keep parallel to the path.
Only determination holds steady
this march of commitment, amid
a sea of uncertainty walking, a path
cracked and downtrodden,
loose with unfulfilled holes, spilling
desire into puddles.
My stomach creeps up to my throat, seeking
reassurance from its familiar cries,
that a Mother’s bliss could soothe
by the lullaby of youth now outgrown;
unaware that innocence had a sell-by date.
A marked down emotion, now piled high
at the end of an aisle, its tainted promise
offering nothing more than the value of immediacy.
‘Too good to be true’, remembered,
and immediately forgotten
that first touch, that made my world whole.
Am I now vintage, not newly discarded
or merely second-hand perhaps,
to be found by another who has mislaid
one similar? Can a touch become new,
no comparison made to the hands
that knew every crevice
like the back of his own hands?
The dictatorship of man
The musty scent of testosterone
hangs stale in every corner of civilization.
Feminine intuition drenched.
Oestrogen driven saviours
down trodden, weakened,
by the muscular sinews of masculinity.
Their strength visible
in the eyes of every living creature,
except man.
Whose continual struggle
with his own ego,
will reduce life to a pile of rubble.
Worthless to everyone
but the puppeteers,
whose pockets we mindlessly line.
Loose change
thrown absentmindedly,
into the outstretched hand
of a begging nation.
He averts his eyes,
in contemptuous judgement
of the playmate of his youth.
Grace tugs at the veil,
continually conspiring.
Her soft scented hand attempting,
to remove the heavy scent
of the dictatorship of man.
His Decorated Soldier
I attached pins to his words;
wore them like badges
sewn onto my breast.
Accomplishments, they were.
Skills attributed
to an adherence
of another’s will.
Another’s way of being.
A projected accolade
to which I conformed,
reflecting nothing more
than his desires;
a mirror of his intentions.
How proud I had been,
to be his decorated soldier.
My medals shining
more brightly than my heart.
The velvet lined box,
taking pride of place
above and beyond
any of my own desires,
which sat muted
in the shadows of a love
I could never make whole.
shiny pebbles 