Graffiti - Draft 3
An artificial, sweet, chemical smell
spell another curb-stone coup
Another has graffitied upon the chipped walls
Joining the marks of artists past
some of which are well crafted and uplifting
others are dark, complicated, and foreboding
Of course also; the cock and balls as a "Fuck you"
to the world (to me?)
then the phone numbers with their messages promising sexual favours.
With homosexuality still this secretive shame or adolescent prank
A "Dave was ere" scrawled over the previous beauty
a name to desecrate the nameless
And others in search of permanency jab and stab at the masonry
Dark subway places, that few dare tread
The pillars that hold up entire highways
The forgotten zones made into art for the few
Where lichen abounds in the damp of unshed urban tears
and moss fills long forgotten cracks; softening those rough edges.
Shattered bottles lie strewn,
emptied of their broken promises.
The shards scattered in shame as anger is doused.
Thrown to the concrete by a tattooed arm
tattooed to get the world onto skin
Grafittied to get the inner
onto the world.
spell another curb-stone coup
Another has graffitied upon the chipped walls
Joining the marks of artists past
some of which are well crafted and uplifting
others are dark, complicated, and foreboding
Of course also; the cock and balls as a "Fuck you"
to the world (to me?)
then the phone numbers with their messages promising sexual favours.
With homosexuality still this secretive shame or adolescent prank
A "Dave was ere" scrawled over the previous beauty
a name to desecrate the nameless
And others in search of permanency jab and stab at the masonry
Dark subway places, that few dare tread
The pillars that hold up entire highways
The forgotten zones made into art for the few
Where lichen abounds in the damp of unshed urban tears
and moss fills long forgotten cracks; softening those rough edges.
Shattered bottles lie strewn,
emptied of their broken promises.
The shards scattered in shame as anger is doused.
Thrown to the concrete by a tattooed arm
tattooed to get the world onto skin
Grafittied to get the inner
onto the world.
Hunger - Fasting
The other evening a small group of us reflected on hunger and fasting for lent, and I wrote this piece about different hungers:
Hunger is drowning in a lake
surrounded by water,
yet still thirsting
Hunger is filling the void within
with the bad; abundant food that is all around
Hunger is looking in all the wrong places
over and over again
Hunger is being surrounded by people
yet feeling alone
Hunger is not caring for yourself
yet indulging the self
Hunger is having to know,
and forgetting to trust
Hunger is without gratitude
and eternally grasping
Hunger is a clenched fist
with white knuckles
and a palm hidden in the dark
Hunger is too much
and not enough
Hunger is drowning in a lake
surrounded by water,
yet still thirsting
Hunger is filling the void within
with the bad; abundant food that is all around
Hunger is looking in all the wrong places
over and over again
Hunger is being surrounded by people
yet feeling alone
Hunger is not caring for yourself
yet indulging the self
Hunger is having to know,
and forgetting to trust
Hunger is without gratitude
and eternally grasping
Hunger is a clenched fist
with white knuckles
and a palm hidden in the dark
Hunger is too much
and not enough
Unshed tears
There is a feeling you get after you have sobbed
like you have a bad cold.
You struggle to swallow
and keep air and saliva down.
Often that has happened to me
when the tears won't come.
The body responds as if I have wept,
but for some reason
all that salt water and snot
instead of falling
and cleansing
has collected around the vocal chords
straining speech
and absorbing
the heavy breaths.
Forming a ball
of molten lead
moving liquid to solid
as breaths stutter
in and out.
I marvel that this most vulnerable part of ourselves:
that slender pillar
connecting head to body
can hold all that weight.
Though it seems destined to,
sitting as it does;
at the juncture
connecting body and brain,
heart and mind.
Holding onto
that which has become
stuck betwixt the two.
like you have a bad cold.
You struggle to swallow
and keep air and saliva down.
Often that has happened to me
when the tears won't come.
The body responds as if I have wept,
but for some reason
all that salt water and snot
instead of falling
and cleansing
has collected around the vocal chords
straining speech
and absorbing
the heavy breaths.
Forming a ball
of molten lead
moving liquid to solid
as breaths stutter
in and out.
I marvel that this most vulnerable part of ourselves:
that slender pillar
connecting head to body
can hold all that weight.
Though it seems destined to,
sitting as it does;
at the juncture
connecting body and brain,
heart and mind.
Holding onto
that which has become
stuck betwixt the two.
Fireside
Stacked, slanted
to form a tower
that leans
as if built upon a marsh
defying sense
Bark and fibre
call to mind
the characters
of stories and flames
long burned out
Dancing with light
and shimmering in heat
this offering to the present
whose memory
warms long after
all is turned to ash
Grown from dust
and to dust returned
recalling all the those flames
extinguished long since
though truly
their energy
can never
gutter, splutter
or truly die.
to form a tower
that leans
as if built upon a marsh
defying sense
Bark and fibre
call to mind
the characters
of stories and flames
long burned out
Dancing with light
and shimmering in heat
this offering to the present
whose memory
warms long after
all is turned to ash
Grown from dust
and to dust returned
recalling all the those flames
extinguished long since
though truly
their energy
can never
gutter, splutter
or truly die.
A moonlit-scape
The Shadows flow away from solid
as the slanting light
ebbs away; breaking the day.
A star strewn rest
stands guard
and silver orb
bobs in the midst
creating half-life shadows
within the greater dark.
Babbling brook freed
from harsh light's busyness
now carries its own melody
as if a thousand tiny bells
gurgle
happy
in their own company.
Bruised reed's scent
now lingers
no longer to be drowned out
by the greening heat
but now free to seep
into frigid air.
A mist gathers before sight
The fox
cries bloody murder,
and for that missing
beat
the heart can glimpse
its coming defeat.
With thanks, not this night.
Keeping Schtum - The dark power of silence - The light power of speaking
This year has left me contemplating the damage that a secret kept can wreck. As a counsellor I hear many things that distress a person and many that also distress me. In this dynamic there is a release valve in the form of supervision which I attend once a month. Also a client is not a person that is close to you and though you esteem them, their life circumstances do not infringe on yours. But what if a family member tells you a secret and swears you to secrecy? A secret that has played an injurious part for many years in a variety of ways. A secret that unbalances the picture you've held about someone close, about yourself, about the past, and the present. A darkness that for the one dear to you has held onto alone through the tears and its seditious tentacles have subtly shaped so much of the experience of life and relationships with others. I felt over the months that the secret now known and held by me latched onto latent anxieties and fears and created yet more darkness in the fertile fields of my own mind. Through attending my own counselling and talking to trusted friends I have been able to untangle the mess that was created in my mind. Just being able to say the message of the anxieties out loud gives space to healing, and the other person listening accepting you and reminding you of the truth ushers in peace.
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