A poor solution

Have you ever
jumped
leaped off the edge
how did it feel
were you scared
were you aware
more alive

Did you stop
at the precipice
look down
see the depths
feel the fear
tingle of excitement
but anyway


Did you jump
a leap of faith
believing
the outer edge
would miss you
leave you falling
into infinity

I heard the call
some nurse
did I know you
was I related
shared history
locked eyes
killing you

I remember
pain unrelenting
hidden deep within
monster moving
rough hands on us
eyes imploring
can we escape

Not then but now
we are bigger
children grown
bodies beyond desire
of despicable urges
adult form without
child still within

I hold your hand
I will you well
I wish you better
and yet, and yet
healing withheld
waves washing over
buoys notwithstanding

I wait for news
white coated men
who keep secrets
from those who care
who wait outside
seeing these movies
reliving this with you

What resolution
some healing somehow
will you accept
a life half lived
a healing half given
a compromise
a poor solution

New love

I have been trying to think of something to say
something that might just conceivably help
the silence lengthens and with it comes anxiety
if I say nothing, if I skirt around the edge of it
take the cowards way out, offer platitudes instead
what will become of friendship if friends do this

This fear you have is hard to express clearly
implicit in your words are echoes of heartbreak
a deep love lost, and now new love just budding
the possibility of lasting happiness after all
is it betrayal? Can you honour a memory still
but live in the present too, live ... laugh ... love

Does it devalue what was if you focus on what is
how does one combine treasuring a memory
with finding joy in these moments with her
can one love forever, but also love again
would she understand, or is there wrath to come
at infinity's door when lives lived are done

As these implicit and explicit questions whirl
I am struck again by the honesty of your love
not easy to win, but once won never lost
as a friend you are a stalwart of loyalty
such depth of feeling was bound to arise
with the advent of this blossoming romance

Life is to be lived, in the fullest way you can
if that means loving again where is the wrong
how can a soul begrudge the living of comfort
and knowing this particular soul as we do
how hard is it to believe that she would smile
knowing her gentle man now is gentling another

Fear is natural but only through expectations
which are raised within and compared against
a losers game involving far too much thinking
not enough following of your inherent instinct
for being close without threat, opening your heart
do you remember how you won your first love?

With quiet walks holding hands, sitting on the wall
talking into the twilight hours of future dreams
pausing to point out the calls of the night owl
and then home for tea and comfort in holding
building hour upon hour a love everlasting
she told me, never had she been held like that

A man that can make a woman feel this way
is a special person, what I'd call a gentle man
and so what I think is that you should do this
find a slow way to woo that keeps the essence
of your gentle style but differs from the first
creating a newness that honours both of you

The pact

How can I tell you, after so many years of silence
might it not shake what we have to it's very core
undermine your belief in us, our sound foundation
can you separate this one thing out from the whole
accept that in all other regards things are good

More than good, that having you here in my life
enriches me beyond anything I ever imagined
my love, when I say I love you it's no small word
it is a form of surrender, a total giving of myself
to the point where I try to give more than I can

And therein lies the problem we come to here
if I tell you that I sometimes dread your touch
that will hurt you in a way I have no right to do
the hurt lies within me, this ancient damage done
years of being taken from make it hard to give

How I wish I could travel back to those early days
I should have told you more, given you reasons
but trust is slowly built and secrets easily kept
the passage of time creates a sacredness in silence
where keeping the pact is an act of faith in itself

That by my silence and continuing endeavour
all will be well, giving will become second nature
but time is passing and the ease is not there
if it were a matter of sheer will, I would
without hesitation I would welcome your touch

I love you my love, I do with my whole heart
will you believe such words, will the years count
faithful committed years, trying always trying
or will it be that if I open this door, let you see
that you will withdraw once more from me

And might that in itself solve the problem
could your absence create the longing not there
I fear not, for you have been long absent before
many months pass at times without touch
whilst you wrestle the dark waves of despair

I ponder this question from time to time
trying to tease out a way forward without hurt
seeing this tangled web of needs as yet un-met
I see trust in us in your eyes and I value that
above any need to break my long kept pact

Ritual blessings

Peace be with you (and also with you)
words from my radio reverberating through
reminding me of so many Sunday masses
of gloriously coloured dresses on men
of parades with candles, song and incense
filling the air with that distinctive smell
smoke drifting past stained glass panes
shepherds and sheep, deep reds and blues

The message buried beneath layers of ritual
standing sitting kneeling in fixed intervals
flipping through our leather bound missal
distracted by pages of ceremonial verse
words never used in my everyday language
epiphany, annunciation, transfiguration
pronouncing them this way and that
trying to find meaning from their sounds

Meanwhile going through the motions
watching the phases of habitual ritual
I caught no inkling of The Maker here
nor even a whisper of The Giver either
just men in robes with candles and smoke
somewhere separate down at the front
by an alter which really any fool could see
was just a big table with fancy tassels on

But one part I can always remember
the lead up to the finish, the final blessing
the main man would stretch out his arms
mirroring the pose on the cross overhead
and in solemn tones after a long pause
would come those sacred words so familiar
"peace be with you", and in my gratitude
an end at last, I'd reply "and also with you"

Outside trooping past the robed old men
shaking damp hands, exchange of smiles
then on to the long walk home in silence
a further continuation of the holy hush
the sky gradually drawing my gaze upwards
watching the clouds scatter white on blue
seeing evidence at last of The Maker there
a hint of The Giver gentle on the breeze

I remember Dad repeating his blessings
a sad tradition after far too much to drink
may the Lord bless you and keep you
may the Lord make his face to shine upon you
and be gracious unto you, may the Lord
turn his face toward you and give you peace
I prefer simply turning my face windwards
whispering to the breeze, peace be with you

Family

There is such comfort to be had laughing with you
sharing a joke and a smile across these many miles
visualising you hanging backwards off your chair
phone tucked neatly under your chin, shirt and tie
how did we become almost proper grown ups now

I look at your photo sometimes, stern upright man
you hate having your picture taken and it shows
so too does the love you have for your daughters
arms resting lightly across their small shoulders
one with your smile, one with your nose and eyes

What few could ever suspect is your humour
gentle teasing escalates to laughter rip roaring
which must make your work colleagues wonder
at this so serious man with the contagious giggle
reserved only for wives, little sisters and daughters

I see you now behind your big desk, corner office
visiting you there is like landing in alien territory
where doors shush closed, and people talk quietly
serious money being dealt through leveraged deals
golf days, I have no clue about what it is you do

But fundamentally I know you, 46 years of knowing
from small children spitting out angry words
to sneaking out to smoke dope on the back porch
watching the moon rise over the maple trees
keeping an ear out for raccoons raiding the garbage

Moving on and then years of not knowing so well
time passing, career building, family making
and then started the phone calls, every few months
then letters interspersed with calls, monthly chats
and onto every other week tea and donut time

You closing the office door, an early morning call
me rushing home from work to make it on time
the phone often ringing just as I walk in the door
sinking into our battered old blue sofa, bare feet
talking to my suited and booted biggest brother

Planning our next gathering, renting big old houses
filling them with laughter and love, happy times
relaxing with three generations of our kin
carbon copies of features seen again and again
softly spoken words on a different back porch

We're holding our family together across the ocean
creating something of the nothingness that was
weaving a web of ties that should always have been
building a bridge over the treacherous past
you bringing the donuts and me bringing the tea

In the end there's something about family though
even one dismembered of some of it's members
a lingering core, a remnant of almost wholeness
a joy in seeing a breaking in the endless cycle
a newer generation now unencumbered and free

The shadows

Can I tell you something
do you want to know
what it was like
have you ever been scared
I mean wet yourself scared
shaking uncontrollably scared
wishing you were dead scared

That's what it was like
making desperate deals with God
promising everlasting goodness
a lifetime in the nunnery
a life of pious prayerfulness
of doing only good deeds
gladly repaying an eternal debt

Didn't fuckin' work though did it
prayers so earnestly prayed
and for what, to what end
did it stop the monster man
hold back his evil desires
no, my prayers did not suffice
and so what became the sacrifice

A life lived amongst the shadows
an endless quest to heal
a hope against hope
that all will eventually be well
that striving is not a waste of time
that prayers might yet yield
a solution, a final way to heal

My memories are hard to deal with
the pictures, sounds, feelings
the shame, which I know shouldn't be
but how do you tell a small girl
that the secrets she keeps are wrong
that the pain she feels is real
she is not quite a woman just yet

I'll tell you what it was like
it was terrifying, knee trembling
want-to-run-away-from-this fying
this man knew what he was doing
knew what he was taking
fumbling with his zipper
such a strange expression dead eyes

And then in and on, thrusting now
but I'm mostly gone into the cloud room
where this can not hurt me
the monster man has his way
whilst I'm gone from this moment
in my own place where I can play
where fear is but a heart beat away

How can I hold that young girl
reach back through time with comfort
saying even monsters die in the end
and when they do it's the time
to put aside forever guilt and shame
learn again to hold tight my gentle man
who hears no whispers in my embrace

Storms

How can I explain this, this slipping
sliding into an old uncomfortable groove
of drowning out the rage, dull ache
slicing through the constructs
built in feeble defence, walls tumbling
ruination, piles of rubble at my feet

I build these structures each time
in forlorn optimistic hope of longevity
that they will hold against the onslaught
withstand the battering at memories door
splintering cracks appearing each time
suffocating images come flooding in

Can I take your hand, will you stand
with me here in the face of such storms
facing this all alone gets so wearing
and yet how to ask for such help
how to admit to my desperate need
can I, dare I, risk rejection yet again

This really is after all my fight alone
I can't build defences based on your help
not that I doubt your honourable intentions
but reliance holds no lasting solution
I must find a path through the morass
a lasting solution, some finality at last

Pointless wishing what might have been
a past free of horrors, to have it unseen
undoing the undo-able is beyond my doing
a way of living with the fallout must be found
that doesn't involve a trip through dependence
through to further stages of addiction

No answer then at the bottom of a bottle
no way to cope with the everyday stuff
I wish ... oh god how I wish, but why
what is the point. I am who I am right now
a survivor, I fought the monster and lost
it seems I'm still losing this battle today.

Sea of tears

I am not sure how it happened really
must have left the back door open
or something like that anyway
looked the other way and didn't see
the sneaky way you have of re-appearing

Turning around and suddenly there you are
and there's fuck all I can do about it
the people who live in our minds
they can't be shown the door so easily
sometimes things just have to be endured

The resurgence of memories not faded
glorious technicolour surround sound
sensational sensations, small girl sounds
big monster man groans, small boy moans
background music, shadows on the wall

Spinning, the movie reel turns, speech
lights, camera, action zooming in on me
small frightened me in my fluffy pyjamas
wanting only an end, a return to my bed
curling tight with my back against the wall

Why are you sitting here in my head
with your bad teeth and beery breath
pipe smoke on your jacket, calloused hands
small dark piercing eyes, glimmer of a smile
plotting new ways to deaden our souls

There is a sea of tears shed by children
old and young subjected to monster men
the moon turns the sea silvery smooth
reflecting the endless sky there on its surface
the sheen barring any sight of the depths

Under the surface lies pain undiminished
an inability to heal the fundamental hurt
of being robbed in a way where recompense
becomes completely meaningless to us
children in grown up shells upon the shore

A troubled young woman

If only I could just figure out a way, I would
I would venture tiptoing into your head space
walk with you through those vaulted echoing halls
looking at all of the changing hanging galleries
taking time to share your thoughts such as they are
I remember so well the intensity of teen years
those changing times with such uncertainty
where much too much changes much too fast

And whilst reading the likes of Nietzsche
may well set you apart from many of your peers
it is not perhaps in the way you surmise
it indicates the bleak desolation of your outlook
well, that coupled with your incessant withdrawal
which is the cause of those worry lines appearing
on the forehead of your mother my friend
if only you knew the deep pain she keeps hiding

The nature of parents is to worry, that's true
and you give some cause with the way you are
so smart, so articulate, so very condescending
of a parent who can not appreciate philosophy
she just wants you to eat and stop hurting yourself
your ideas of the pointlessness of existence
are of little comfort to her as an explanation
if only you knew how much she does understand

You aren't the first person to find relief in pain
a way of gaining control through slicing in
watching the lines appear, turn red with jewels
a silken string, shiny deep coloured hue, calming
quietening the the deafening tumult within
she knows, but I can't tell you anything of that
batting instead ideas of master and slave morality
searching for a chink of light, some small bridge

Any small chance to build some kind of rapport
cutting through the loneliness of a child woman
to reclaim what is left of a childhood shed too soon
Nietzsche says god is dead and that may be so
but you are very much alive despite your fear
that you won't be good, bright, beautiful enough
that measuring up will always remain beyond you
you forget there is no scale for distinctiveness

There is no way of measuring the uniqueness
of your individual worth, but take a look here
look at the love in the faces of your parents
the doubt you have is natural but unfounded
no-one is forcing them to love you as you say
and you can of course keep pushing them away
easier than taking another look at your actions
evaluating again your fears against the reality

I look at your dark eyes skimming all ways
not resting except on your twisting hands
I can almost feel you wishing me from the room
so I pick up my copy of Ecce Homo and leave
coming into the kitchen to find your mother
with her not quite invisible scars, inside and out
shutting yourself away is a natural response
I wish I could tell you her story, what I know

History has an awful way of repeating itself
the scars passing through the generations
the pain weaving itself around each new soul
creating a sense of complete and utter isolation
that subsequent years fail to quite unravel
and so the channels of meaningful communication
are snuffed out by guilt, shame, and denial
a perpetual willing blindness fed by fear

Hopefully nothing dramatic needs to be done
a gentle word or two each day ... drip drip
stoically putting aside ones own needs for now
pulling down the walls, showing vulnerability
and strength, love, hope, purpose in this life
in time healing comes to those who persevere
a mother needs her daughter at such times
perhaps then the healing can run both ways

Rifts

Walking with you has it's own distinct rhythm
there's an ease that closeness brings of course
the knowledge that whatever is said will be OK
and even more precious are the comfortable pauses
the silences that neither of us rush to fill
the swish, the brush of hands, exchange of glances

The talk runs from surface to deep and back again
following each others thoughts with instinctive ease
so many times I could complete your sentences
and I know it is the same way for you too
the depth of such friendship lies in the unspoken
and yet if I could name it, what would I say

I'd say that it's invaluable to have someone close
who knows awkward stuff but never speaks of it
who sees your blind spots and lets you off the hook
or not, when doing so reeks of looming disaster
who is brave enough to risk the hurt of truths
whilst wise enough to gently blunt the sharp edges

Who gives much and confidently expects much in return
knowing that words said can be counted upon
politeness has no currency, is no exchange for meaning
care is taken, not caution which is quite different
but care to say what we mean, what we want or need
and it's OK to be specific, spades are shovels

Even so the art of allusion is deployed at times
there are things we talk of by skirting around the edges
not diving in as the depths look too dark and murky
I can swim, but can I hold you up should the need arise
I wouldn't want to risk it, and I sense your reticence
there are things even the closest needn't know

Do you ever think about the years of our separation
how strange it felt not having you here in my life
there is nothing I have ever done that I regret more
than those moments when we both broke all boundaries
and in doing so nearly shattered something I'd believed
would be everlasting, a cornerstone of both our lives

Despite the hurt caused on both sides we circled
or rather spiralled, for reconcilliation was inevitable
funny how forgiveness is easier to give than accept
and no more so than when both sides are equally guilty
so true that two wrongs make matters far worse
a lesson learnt well, not so well that we don't fight

Mistakes are funny things though aren't they
good and bad can come out of the most unexpected events
and though I regret breaking those barriers long ago
I do find some comfort in knowing that extremities
can be breached, can be repaired, can add knowledge
an awareness of danger at the outer edges of our friendship

Your grin

I got your photo today ... looking good there bro
so much to celebrate in such a simple picture
there's you of course, lounging, ever the cool dude
there's your little boy leaning in, looking up
what's so arresting to me is the sight of your grin
that exact expression has me tumbling back in time
to so many scrapes you talked me into, infallible logic
up against gullibility on a scale rarely seen

I remember the way your arguments were built
the circles and spirals, your utter conviction
that the unworkable could in fact work if only
I'd not just say I believed, but acted upon it
like the time you told me I could fly, defy gravity
with the power of my mind, jump you said and I did
bloody knees, scraped hands, stains on my dress
disbelief, then more rough justice at parental hands

Did that cure me of my incessant gullibility
not by a long chalk, I am given to it still
to the point where friends laughingly tease me
and tell tall tales watching carefully my acceptance
right up to the point where they pull the rug out
slipping it from under my feet, leaving me wondering
where the truth ceased in reality and the lies began
we all know that truths are hidden in such games

And therein lies one of those strange conundrums
gullibility is a surplus of faith in others' goodness
and as such I am quite happy to be guilty as charged
yet despite all this I have this sneaking feeling
that the good outweighs the bad in almost everyone
in other words quite typically I still think I'm right
and the label has unfairly been given a bad name
cynic or gullible one, I know which one I'd choose

And whooshing back from remembering I look at you
at your grin, at your relaxed happy stance, your grin
I keep coming back to it as I smile at you there
feeling again the excitement of unexpected happenings
that any number of disasters never fully cured me of
my willingness to at least try, to give it a go
you instilled in me a sense of adventure that survives
and very occasionally even now defeats my shy reserve

Some days

Some days are good and some are not so great
it's funny how sometimes you know right off
you open your eyes and the sun is shining
the birds are singing the flowers are waving
all the outside things are looking as they should
but inside things are jarring, jumbling

Where is the rhyme and reason in this
why should the sun shine despite the darkness
and why is it so hard to keep the night at bay
with its mumbled murmurings of impending disaster
which create endless cycles of anxiety and doubt
if I look to the sun why see only dark clouds

The answer to this lies beyond my understanding
that much has been clear for many a year
as the clouds roll in and out at will, not mine
but perhaps the will of some universal designer
arbitrarily deciding which souls can withstand what
which are more of Job's ilk and which not

I remember reading of Job in the black leather book
of hearing what an example he was to us all
that faith untested is of little lasting value
but tempered by pain and suffering it becomes gold
what I remember was thinking what an awful thing
that God bet with Satan over the faith of a man

Such omnipotence is beyond me, this I know
and in times of trial there is much comfort
to be had in the many cadenced verses therein
the eloquent description of unceasing despair
the steadfast insistence that there's always hope
but still I am appalled at the nature of the bet

Appalled too at passing judgement in my ignorance
what know I of matters weighty only in infinity
if I can't even plan to negotiate past these clouds
to get from the morning to the evening of a single day
to edge past the seductiveness of doing nothing
to refuse crawling into yet another hibernation

Some days are are full of a sense of foreboding
knowing the clouds are gathering on the horizon
knowing that action in defence is useless
that the clouds come at a time of their own keeping
and disperse again only at an imperceptible signal
from who knows what, and from who knows where

Some days are not in any way like this though
awakening to the reassuring buzz of everyday concerns
turning on my pillow to see my gentle man snoring
padding off to make tea, to look out over the garden
planning, scheduling, juggling time and tasks
I forget to pause and be thankful for some days

My first glimpse of Charlotte

I remember you every day
the awakening knowledge of you
my fear, and yet also joy
a fluttering inside, changing
the flittepy flop of movement

The realisation of you
with your tiny arms and legs
the blurry image of you
your shape upon the screen
your heart pippity papp

I saw you, your bum, your head
your teeny tiny nose
the perfection of your fingers
the sound of your heart beating
your life waiting

Indigestion, the need for a pee
oh god, am I really going to be
a mummy, a parent
a person to be relied upon
are you sure, is it to be

Every night awake feeling movement
an ever growing belly
a tenderness, milk filling
changing shape, making room
a growing excitement, anticipation

Making plans, drawing close
looking at your picture
thinking of all the possibilities
the person you might someday be
loving you, even now

And then pain, a flowing, bleeding
a rush as we try to get help
and then dark blankness, lost time
a holding of hands, a whisper of words
Charlotte is gone, she's an angel now

I try to hold on to that thought
as tight as I can
I search for your mourning
but it's buried deep inside you
a place I'm not allowed to go even now

I have a place like that too
buried deep within my heart
and Charlotte is there
growing, living, dying, transcending
becoming something more

Oh Charlotte I wish you'd been born
been allowed to breathe, to grow
to give me grief on a different level
I'd have waited up on graduation night
I'd have sat through your first heartbreak

Better that than the heartbreak
of losing you before having you
of seeing only a picture on that screen
of never holding you in my arms
of hearing of you from faceless blue suited people

I remember you every day
I think of the girl you might have been
the woman you might have become
the daughter I would have loved
if time had blessed me with your care

I named you Charlotte knowing
that had you grown
I'd always have called you my Charlie
so you could choose to be
blokey or not as the case might be.

The look

There's a certain look that tears at my heart every time
evokes in me a desperate need to reassure, to stand alongside
it's that vulnerable expression speaking of the fear of rejection
a fear so many of us have and one I share wholeheartedly

So when I saw that look recently unexpectedly upon your face
I was torn by a need to keep my distance yet also draw near
you taught me I must learn to conceal my emotions like a weakness
that crying was an activity to be confined to solitary privacy

For too many years you have shown little care for my fears
creating a false note in every interaction, refining the act
and having learnt to act my part I must now shed the mask
show my hand at last, but there is no succour, no triumphalism

However many unresolved issues of anger there are between us
where there is need I feel the need to help, to comfort even
but breaking down the barriers between us, learning a new honesty
I have to say I do find the prospect of doing this quite scary

For I risk that feeling again but with a much increased intensity
knowing I have never been the daughter you would have wished for
never been made of the right stuff, too weak, too emotional
too prone to tears, to saying how I feel, to telling the truth

Perhaps it's easier to tell yourself these things than to see
that we are very similar we two, experience carving the difference
creating the schism ... the mirror is such an uncomfortable place
yet for me there is some comfort in seeing you in my reflection

I have learnt to curb my behaviour when I'm with you, act the part
speak more carefully, choose my words, avoid upset at all costs
but the sands of time are shifting and fracturing the game
we may have to learn new rules, new ways to be around each other

Until I met my gentle man, I had no idea how it felt to be safe
to be cared for, to know that with all my faults I am loved
your withdrawal from all the chaos and hurt during our childhood
left no room for the simple acts of love, a gentle word, a hug

Lost to us in your own world, protecting yourself, shutting us out
I wished I'd known then what I do now about the dark clouds
about the despair and fear you felt, the need for any escape
the deep lasting hurt that even now has such a strong hold on you

Did you think I wouldn't understand, that the passage of years
wouldn't at some stage awaken in me some measure of wisdom
some degree of compassion for a woman in such desperate straits
that survival depended on a willingness to shut everything out

For all we never speak of it, I love you still, as you do me
and I suspect that these shifting sands scare you more than I
to admit to the need for help is a hard thing to learn years on
another part of coming to terms with the late autumn of your life

With age comes fear, bred from seeing your growing undeniable frailty
an understanding that there will soon be the question of dependence
will you be able to depend on a daughter whose faults are clear to see
I wonder if you feel undeserving of care, having cared so little

No that's not right, it's not a lack of care on your part is it?
more an inability to unwind enough to speak this foreign language
a fear that you've left it years too late to start all over again
and that's mostly my fault, I should have never bought into the act

I should have started years ago to show you the person I am now
should have led the way, hugged you, said words despite your unease
caused upset, shown my emotions, taught you this foreign tongue
I should have done everything to stop you having to give me that look.

the turning tide

It has been a bit of a mixed bag these last weeks
some days spent where you're here with me, the next not
but then the tide turns and here you are again smiling
so I try to bury that old resentment and smile back
there's no point in resenting an illness, no point at all
and yet the fact that you refuse to acknowledge the tide
or the length and depth of your absences, it scares me

It speaks of the breadth of the distance between us
what you call being a bit down has lasted some months
relentless days of silence interspersed with raging fury
but when I mention this you deny, refute and anger builds
I'm being over dramatic, trying to make it more than it is
if only I'd leave well alone things would be just fine
it's like an old tune that one, I've heard it many times

The temptation to continually avoid confrontation is huge
but the knowledge that silence makes me complicit in this
drags me almost against my will to suggest discussion
I am met with a hard stare and a trip to the wine rack
a sullen silence ensues as the wine is drunk, one glass
for I am in no mood to dull my senses further, to drown
this has proven to be a false alli in such endeavours

It's pointless having this discussion now the bottle's done
your eyes glaze as you stumble off for more, so I retire
knowing that the new day may bring a change in the tide
may see you on shore wanting to walk in the shallows with me
holding hands, laughing at the spray, enjoying the day
for the tide turns both ways although silence beckons you I know
wrapping you in your inner thoughts far from my knowing.

But I do know that you're emerging, the undertow is less
and whilst you still look wistfully out to sea you stay
more and more days here with me on the shore, warming me
keeping me company, lessening the resentment slowly
rebuilding what we have, reassuring me that you're here
but somehow this seems largely on your terms not mine
a fear of discussion does not seem a sound basis to me.

Timing is so important though don't you find? I do
to avoid things escalating into another towering rage
that leave me feeling frightened and child-like again
not scared in the physical sense although a bit I admit
more this knowledge that things said can't be unsaid
and things heard likewise although I try not to hold these
I try to let go, to give them flight into forgetfulness.

This illness robs us both, though you can't see that
your lack of acknowledgement does not negate the facts
this tide that drags you out to sea is not of my imagining
it is like the dark clouds that come for me sometimes
but I don't deny them, I tell you of their existence
although the telling makes you uncomfortable I need you to know
when the clouds gather I leave unwillingly, but I will return.

I wonder how it would be if I did what you did to me
spent weeks unspeaking, not acknowledging your presence
not washing, rocking, sitting in the dark, drowning nightly
and then daily and nightly, consumption spiralling upwards
and with it withdrawal, an ever increasing distance, coldness
if I did this would you then call it being a little bit down?
I suspect I'd find myself resident at the local funny farm.

And just as I think I've got the hang of this letting go
this shelving of the the resentment caused, there it is
in all it's bitter glory. I hate what this illness does
I hate that it takes you and makes you almost unrecognisable
turns your gentleness into something altogether harsher, harder
as the despair sinks right into the pit of your being
god I'm glad to see you back on shore my love, please stay.

Fun

Shhhh, she might still be sleeping, thump crump fumble, but why?
stage whispering is not a skill learnt at aged three it seems
and neither should it be, freedom of speech being all important
and no more so than when asserting your right to seen and heard
regardless of tender years and we all know this might end in tears
and anyway I can't very well enjoy a visit if I carry on sleeping.

I'm awake I call, for if I rely on my speed to get up they will go
so up comes one of my very favourite small people bearing treasure
a slightly crumpled paper airplane, and it's for me, super duper
it just can't be beat that feeling of receiving a homemade gift
one that's been carried with determination, presented with pride
what can one give in exchange? A cuddle with no hint of a grimace.

And of course admiration as the plane takes flight ... kind of
there is a tendency to spiral and dip, but a fold here and there
a slight straightening up and we're away, luckily it works a treat
and so pride is restored and my young aeronautical engineer is happy
as am I, for a bit of paper plane maintenance is a welcome diversion
to hear laughter, running feet. Three year olds don't walk do they?

And then a spot of tea and cake. Of course this involves soft toys
of which I confess to having a small collection; a rabbit called Fuzzy
a bear called Chomodeley which has a very odd spelling indeed, anyway
there's a small mouse called Harriet, and an orange "thing" called Bug
all these are arrayed for the tea party with plastic plates and cups
and water of course, but only a tiny dribble, floods have been known.

If there is a phrase that three year olds are mostly immune to
it is "be careful" followed by "not now", I try to avoid these two
and almost without fail this leads to mess, floods, splats, smears
but you see I have the supreme luxury of a limited time to endure this
and however shocking, really most mess can be sorted relatively easily
I hide away anything likely to cause stains, I'm not that stupid.

But I'm determined that good times should be allowed whenever possible
with the fewest constraints other than those that safety dictate
for fun is something we've forgotten the value of, busy being adults
and whilst of course we can't play all day every day, we can sometimes
we can shed the shackles of grown-up-ness and rediscover playing
and in doing so we might discover something amazing, we can have fun.

Such a simple word and yet if you pause for a second and ask yourself
when did I last have fun? For too many of us it has been far too long
life is being lived on the run, no time for such simple pleasures
no time for pausing for thought even, well isn't that a bit convenient?
a bit of a get out of jail for free card? I'm too busy leave me alone
how long does a game of tiddlywinks take, do you know? It depends.

time off for napping

It's torn ligaments apparently that's all it is, what a relief, well of sorts
this doctor who looks about fifteen years old helps me down from the table
and whilst I'm standing wavering slightly in my agony she talks of Pilate's
all I'm interested in is effective analgesics, but there are hoops here so I wait
and armed with a mighty cocktail I creep home hand on wall, old lady walking.

And safely home I look at the goodie bag, reminding me of candy at Halloween
I take my first dose of everything prior to reading the contra-indications list
in the end it's all about priorities and pain ranks up there big time at the mo
seems like I could keel over from any one of these meds for too many reasons
so I figure not too worry overly, at least the pain will eventually subside.

So time is passing in a slightly muggy fuzzy daze of drinking tea, dozing
wondering why my incidental eye infection rather than clearing up has flared
so that looking in a mirror I look like my face has gone all squishy and puffy
but at least I can navigate the stairs quite safely, albeit at a snails pace
and the trip to get another cup of tea requires careful planning and a nap.

I am so seldom laid up for any time at all so it's quite a strange experience
a little peak into the lives of people who disappear for months from work
re-appearing completely changed, gaunt, or quite the opposite, but changed
talking more quietly, moving less certainly, thinking perhaps a bit more slowly
and looking out of place, the pack has been shuffled whilst they were away.

And work is like that don't you find? That those who turn up without fail
find themselves being shuffled due to the temporary absence of colleagues
who on their return hold them responsible for not learning to juggle quickly
and in choosing which balls to drop without fail drop the most critical of all
leaving plenty of scope for the blame game, the game apparently no-one plays.

So instead of resting up and enjoying this time away I am worrying about this
for I know my fellow jugglers in this case all too well, and skilled they are not
well, not in the keeping of many things tumbling through the air they're not
they're bloody good at letting it all crash down and pointing fingers elsewhere
I suspect it'll be a shambles. Must ensure I get more nap time in before then.

now he's dead

Are we defined by what we do, or by what is done to us
if we are whole people surely it is at least partly both
so again we come to this matter of balance, of re-alignment
if everything truly has an equal and opposite reaction
there should be an equality in the effect of things done.

So we return to the thorny issue of abuse, and of surviving
of kicking back against what was done, but only to the point
where further kicking achieves little, diminishing returns
and somehow this time has come round and I'm not ready yet
which seems a funny thing to say after nearly forty years.

Having spent less than a year finally facing up to these things
of actually trying to find some form of resolution to all this
to then have the monster up and die on me has left things open
hanging there in a way I've yet to find some way to figure out
how to bring some closure, what kind of a word is that anyway?

And what does it represent? Is closure acceptance, quiescence
since nothing can be done ... nothing can be undone in any way
so should I quiesce? Bow to the inevitable, accept my fate
accept that as damaged goods I must carry this damage within me
I keep hearing these phrases... work around it, live with it.

So waking with a feeling of him on me, inside me, is that OK?
feeling his hands pushing me this way and that, forcing me
forming me, creating his fantasy, destroying me, is that also OK?
and feeling this when my husband has love in mind, wants intimacy
to feel a connection with only me ... not me and my memories.

I know I should stay grounded in the present, breathe in and out
for fucks sake ... haven't I have been breathing my whole life
but not like this ... out with the dread ... in with cleansing hope
I try to suspend my cynicism, I do ... I so want this to be true
that peace can be gained even now, and so I practise my breathing.

Well, and thinking, I really wouldn't be me if I didn't think some
I can almost hear you groaning, but even so, we're nearly done
I read what you wrote about breathing, about cleansing breaths
learning to live in a monster free zone, healing my inner child
it's a big ask. I want to ... far more than you can ever, ever know.

Your faith

You have such a gentle humour it passes me by sometimes
but then other times it niggles through the outer morass
to tickle me for days at a time, the way you see life
the way you can separate the essentials from the rest
your insistence that you're probably talking rubbish.

But you know you aren't, there's no real uncertainty
perhaps a slight lack of confidence a peculiar diffidence
it all adds to the gentleness with which you say things
compels me to listen in a way I seldom find myself doing
peeling back the layers of meaning to discover the core.

Can you imagine having The Givers power? ... a deep well
and trawling the depths of such questions can't be rushed
so you sit quietly, your head to one side, looking at me
I can see by your smile that you think I'll have no answer
and whilst answers are not at all what I have I still reply.

The Giver features quite a lot in my thoughts, always has
since those long ago days when I called out for help
but none arrived, repetitions, petitions, promises to be good
there was no end to those early negotiations and pleadings
I concluded that The Giver must be deaf because I wasn't good.

It never occurred to me that the lack of any response
was due to the absence of The Giver, I was so very sure
that if I could only find the right promise and keep it
could find the right way to be good then I'd be answered
that The Giver would then come and whisk the monster man away.

So I have come to realise that the rage runs both ways
towards The Giver for leaving me to deal with monsters alone
towards myself for not being good enough to elicit help
... how else to explain to such a young mind that absence
the allowance of unutterable deeds done far from prying eyes.

If I had that over-arching power? I'd use it to re-shape
to go inside the minds of monsters of all kinds to re-wire
to make whole all those fractured tortured twisted parts
I'd go inside the bodies of those inflicted with illness
reclaiming all the damaged cells, making right what's wrong.

I can feel the possibilities spinning through my mind
an endless list of needs ... an endless list of neediness
would I feel overwhelmed, would I balance needs differently
if The Giver is also The Creator does her heart not bleed
does she not despair at the sight of such bitter desolation.

You smile your pensive smile, your faith shines even now
I would never presume to question something of such value
faith is an intrinsic part of what makes you so unique
in my experience you don't just believe it, you live it
if all believers were like you, would I, could I believe?

I just might you know, might find it somewhere in my heart
to forgive a Giver who can bear to allow the unallowable
balancing the present against the vastness of all eternity
throwing the present to one side, disregarding it altogether
forgiveness in exchange for the forgiveness of my many sins.

What you want for me is what you have, I know that too
I do not mistake your generous spirit despite how we differ
you are an ambassador of a faith I may never subscribe to
but I would never shut that door though, not completely
faith may yet one of these days steal into this old soul.

dark clouds

That's the problem with feeling like a waste of space
these feelings of worthlessness follow no rationale
they are not easily confronted in such a weakened state
and of course weakness comes from far too much drowning
too much dulling of the present so as to avoid the past.

It does seem an endless loop of making a little progress
only to slip back, feeling the strength of the undertow
giving in to the tidal force, being swept out of my depth
and even seeing the shore receding doesn't matter enough
to make me want to ... even try to swim. I want to be lost.

I want to disappear and become the nothing I feel I am
and the strength of this wanting is quite scary in a way
the handholds I rely on seem less certain at times like this
the things I've learnt about positive thinking seem puerile
the dark clouds gather and some part of me welcomes them.

For this is familiar territory to me, a known landscape
of featureless days followed by stretches of sleeplessness
where my minor concerns grow to huge, massive proportions
in those long lonely hours between the darkness and light
where sleep descends but too late, a new day must be borne.

The gradual weakening escalates further with the continuance
of what-he-did dreams making nightmares seem like child's play
and which leave me shaking in damp sheets come the cool dawn
when I try to gather some semblance of the normal facade
something to hide the distress, attempt to keep it all at bay.

Where the dark clouds come from I can't really say for sure
but even seeing them building I haven't yet found a way
to run away towards the sunshine, I can't sense the direction
I can't turn the right way, when turning I see only clouds
anyway I don't have the energy to run so I lie down and wait.

In the background is this relentless feeling of not rightness
and even on the sunny days there is an element of it there
but in the darker days and nights it feels an inevitability
that this pattern will never really be broken regardless of me
so hopelessness descends to keep company with worthlessness.

All seems dark and bleak, if I trust my feelings here I'll stay
and this is where feelings are not to be given free reign
this is when choice becomes such a potent weapon against despair
if only one can work up the tiniest spark of the energy needed
to light that small flame of hope, of patience, of perseverance.

The dark clouds can be pushed back, they do not have to engulf me
or if they do, I don't have to do nothing, I needn't submit
despite the lure of slipping once more into that inky black water
I do have choices, there are things I can and must try to do
and there it is .. that spark .. the very essence of my struggle.

kissing you

I didn't know that being kissed could feel like that
or that kissing you back would feel even more so
I didn't know I had such intense feelings within me
and yet I did wonder at times what you had in mind
but this deep fear of intimacy takes all its forms in me
I would never have dared to without a drink drunk
I would never have dared at all if you hadn't first
You are the brave one, the thrill seeker of us two
I am the plodder, the thinker, the boring slow one.

I often wonder at your patient forbearance with me
why stick with a friendship you get so little out of
you are not fooling me with the "my life is so dull"
nothing is duller than someone who takes without giving
how did we get to a place where you are the giver anyway
is it safer for you if the trust runs more one way
does it allow you the grace of not thinking too much
I know you get fed up with me thinking the whole time
you want me to break free, be me, whoever that might be.

I'm not brave, I'm not really a grown up at all you see
I can put up a decent show of it at work, with these men
where pretending is so easy to do, everyone is complicit
in the everything's fine thank you game, we play it daily
but however fine I feel in this moment that can change
suddenly and with almost no warning signs I'll be gone
triggered by the turn of a head, a suggestion of a smile
a flick of a hand, an adjustment of position, so many things
staying grounded here now is a constant challenge you see.

What has this to do with kissing ... I see I have meandered
from the delicious memory of you, your face, your sighs
never in my life have I been the cause of another's sighs
it awoke in me a response I didn't know was even possible
and left me feeling a conflicting sense of wonder and woe
for I know that this can not be repeated, it must be lost
packed away in the cloud room where only daydreams go
where only I can know of the broken promises lying therein
I can feel you still, the softness of your skin, the glow.

It scares me because it calls into question my nature
in my inexperience this has an altogether different feel
despite my fear of being close I want to be close to you
and because I tremble you pause take time to re-assure
yet in the next second you astonish me with new sensations
a feeling that all things are possible in these moments
if I can just stay here ... in these moments with you
holding back my fear I give in to this, this sweetest embrace
I would again if the situation arose, should you so desire.

disagreement

You tell me that my approach is too academic, too intellectual
what? ... me? are you having a laugh here at my expense maybe?
I look over our exchanges of ideas and I can see your view
where you are direct and to the point I try to draw analogies
trying to find a way of agreeing to disagree, avoiding conflict.

Then accusations are thrown, not from my side, not intentionally
but there's a misunderstanding of our fundamentals, our differences
I strongly abhor the results of intolerance, you see no danger
you think you are right and have confidence, arrogance in a way
your attack stings .. gives me pause for thought, am I so wrong?

You say you speak from the heart from the wealth of your experience
I say there are dangers in using solely our own world view
that we paint our own mental pictures to validate such views
but that doesn't make them true, is that so hard to understand
that truth is not in every single situation an absolute thing.

You say that I speak not from the heart but from dusty books
that my insistence on using such knowledge gained is unfeeling
that by not trusting my instincts I am missing the vital core
and I do agree that there is that risk, I believe it's true
but collective knowledge and experience must count too surely.

Where I believe that tolerance patience forbearance are the key
you tell me that straight talking does a hell of a lot more
you say my approach allows, almost advocates self indulgence
and I see your point, I do, but I have to disagree to some degree
however much you think I'm just being stubborn let me just say.

Respecting an individual involves respecting their right to choose
allowing for this requires us to give space, patience and tolerance
whilst the process of respect involves allowing for other choices
choices we would never have made for ourselves in such situations
but our journeys may yet still at some point coalesce in resolution.

I hate confrontation I really do, but I won't be bullied by you
I will stand up for what I believe is true, I will be counted
alongside people who are being subjected to such intolerance
but how to do this without causing massive offence again to you
is it really beyond us to work towards a compromise understanding?

same old same old

I've been visiting that hard dark old place again
you know the one .. the muddled fuzzled one
the place that too much drowning takes you to
and once there, shutting the door softly you sit
gazing inwards and backwards, same old same old.

Holding on to the glass, watching the level drop
and with it your own spirits plummet lower still
you know you are doing again what you shouldn't
but the web of dependance is such that some days
it translates through warped thinking into wanting.

The wanting builds as the days of giving in pass
they start piling up as the mind and body weaken
as progressive drownings take their inevitable toll
and yet despite the bleakness, the deepening gloom
there's such familiarity here so the way out is clear.

It's right there in front of me, just a step away
and part of that first step is this ... this writing
acknowledging once again that there are things I can do
decisions made in bleak times can kick-start resolve
resolve leads to action, leads in turn to redemption.

All too easy to say in the cold light of a new day
hours until the time that siren call will be heard
but a start must be made even so, and so I choose now
no drowning for today, today is for swimming, floating
taking back the reins, closing that old familiar door.

A weekend breakfast

When you crawled into bed beside me early this morning
you were about as surreptitious as a gigantic elephant
it made me laugh that you were so surprised when I woke up
to tickle you and make you squeal, hopping down again
I whisper, go and get your brother let's all have a play
since I'm awake anyway and it's just about getting light.

I can hear my brother-in-law snoring when the door opens
and two wide grins appear, and so a new day begins here
with laughter and hugs, squishing three to a single bed
which is perfectly possible as long as everyone holds on
or rather if I hold on to these two small squirming bodies
which is not that easy when we are all laughing like hyenas.

Tumbling onto the floor totally out of breath to be found
in a heap by a very sleepy and not overly pleased parent
so I make shame faced .. well kind of shame faced excuses
but my semi, not quite straight face is not to be trusted
to be fair poker is not my game and joy will not be held in
so I agree that we'll go downstairs now and play quietly.

So off we go down the stairs with much smothered giggling
when breakfast is suggested by hopeful young appetites
into the kitchen we stroll, shutting the door very softly
a quick look in the larder yields the makings of pancakes
with over an hour til "real" breakfast we have time to kill
and cooking really is just the perfect activity for three.

One person for reading from the Big Cook Little Cook book
one person getting stuff out and measuring to instructions
and one mixing and stirring, making a humongous big mess
which we will have to clear up before the grown ups appear
oh, and I'm in charge of removing egg shell fragments too
that takes a special skill only given to those over the hill.

Then there's heating until smoking and flipping which I do
aided and abetted by a lively cheering, clearing up squad
who do far more cheering than clearing up, which is fair
as it's another thing specifically suited to my set of skills
once the pile of pancakes are safely stacked in the microwave
when we've de-floured, de-egged, de-milkified the cheery boys.

A thumping can then be heard overhead so number two dashes up
taking orders for tea in bed, the clearing up isn't done yet
a massive amount of headless chicken-like rushing about ensues
with flour being suddenly accidentally tipped over everywhere
queue mum coming to have a quiet word about quietening down
I can't hear you I yell as we pale ghosts fall about laughing.

my step father

I have a wonderful father whose name is not Dad
I didn't meet him until my late teenage years
when he met, then dated and finally married my mother
joining two different families to become almost one.

I gained a new little brother, a big brother too
and a new sister making quite a crowd in the new house
I was stonked by all this, it was really such good news
seeing love at home, their home for I had left already.

But coming home on weekends and holidays still
and getting to know this man who had won mum's heart
over late night chats with the others gone to bed
I found unexpected friendship in the midst of change.

Years have passed since those long late night chats
and yet we ocassionally still indulge when we can
you tell me of dreams that you've never fulfilled
and how empty old age is with all its aches and pains.

And the feeling that everyone has no time for you now
to just sit and look out at the garden drinking tea
and the sad truth is that I don't have much time
to fill the empty hours you are faced with each day.

But I will make more effort to be here more often
taking time to spend with you has never been a burden
perhaps I haven't made my feelings plain enough to see
but you are much more than just a step father to me.

Who was it taught me to mend old ripped oil paintings
to use plaster and gold leaf on sculptured gilt frames
to build a wall with studwork and beams, to lay carpet
to hang signs, to re-upholster a sagging old chair.

Who was it who sat for hours on the river bank with me
talking through how to create water flow onto canvas
who taught me to write poetry, who was that then
did you think that I would or that I could ever forget.

You taught me to look at paintings with my heart
to use feelings in a new way to gain an understanding
that what rages in others hearts can be expressed there
in short strokes, in vibrant colour, in dark rolling skies.

Trips to galleries that's what we must find time to do
for sitting here in your old arm chair isn't much fun
I don't mind walking slow, I can help with the stairs
I'm sure you have much to teach me from the old masters.

Yes I know about the need to plan carefully for trips out
ensuring level ground, close parking, trips to the loo
a nearby pub with decent real ale, a secret to be kept
shall we set off then, are you ready to have an adventure.

nothing

I didn't recognise myself in the photos you sent
I've never seen quite that expression on my own face
it was the same on the face of my bother, same eyes wide
same vacantness, same grim forebearance of pain

I look at the girl who was me holding his hand
with absolutely no understanding of that hurtful desire
which was inside people who should not look so normal
it was my undoing, a part of me is stuck there

Stuck in the never ending loop of their doing
it makes me not want to ... well not want to be here
what was done long ago makes me want to be nothing
and I am really, in the overall scheme of things

Except I'm not, for I am a loved person now
and since that's true there's something worth it here
worth pushing on through the treacle of the dark days
to enjoy once again the sunshine when it comes

Sending those photos was a low thing to do
I was wondering, trying to anticpate your next move
and seeing your writing there on the letter you sent me
I knew I shouldn't have opened it, I was right

I put them in the fire burning up, making smoke
no-one here which is a good thing as I need solitude
time to shed yet more tears over a parent who sends hurt
creating children out of adults and the other way

A father, it should be such a simple thing to be
an easy relationship involving laughter, love, safety
a port of call to be sought out when life seems harsh
not you though, always were quite the individual.

missing her

You miss her because she is gone
she won't be coming back ever
and the finality is just brutal
for your love didn't just stop
when she did, when she died
you love her still I can tell
and telling you that you're OK
that these things take some time
when you say it's now three years.

It doesn't seem that long ago
since holding that frail hand
talking of hopeful things as if
but she went along with it too
easing us into the idea of it
of a time ahead without her here
and here we are still missing her
holding back tears until later
sparing each other that sight

Or we would've except we didn't
seeing the fullness in your eyes
and taking your hand we leave
to walk under the trees nearby
a few minutes away from everyone
moments to honour her memory
a much loved friend, a dead wife
a wonderful remarkable woman
who did the impossible it seems.

She it was took your broken heart
and made it completely whole again
healed a wound so deep inside you
that few were trusted to know of it
her kindness was really your undoing
for there was such fire in her too
she was the real deal that one
a mender, a giver, a taker too
until she herself was taken away.

Leaving you with such emptiness
with plodding through dull days
in turn marking time, waiting
without really knowing in any sense
what it is you're waiting for
you can't readily describe it
the daily realisation of absense
of others togetherness all around
where now even hand holding hurts.

If I could impart healing I would
I would recall her from death
re-instate her into all our lives
but especially yours, I miss her
but my heart doesn't break
at each awakening, each new day
this grief is hard to express
when people keep inferring somehow
you should've gotten over it by now.

Some people move on quicker I guess
but surely it's individual
reliant on so many factors
to have waited so long to trust
never believing it would happen
not trusting at first even then
even with her standing there
putting her heart on the line
yes of course you still miss her.

a nap

So what is going on right now then
thoughts are whirring through my head
rock's blaring from the sound system
the wine is open, husband's passed out
looking like an old man lying there
on our very ancient faded blue sofa.

I'm looking at a video of The Band
they're looking very young, very fit
if you know what I mean by that
thin scarf jauntily hung from his neck
cigarette hanging from his lip
he talks of stealing food of starving.

Of strolling on into a Wallmart somewhere
and stuffing sausages into his pocket
and walking back out with bread rolls
to make an impromptu picnic there
in the back of some rickety old bus
in an anonymous car park in the USA.

Touring might seem quite glamorous
until you've been starving out there
far from home, living on the dream
trying to break into the industry
making a big name for yourselves
becoming the famous ones some day.

But don't you sense the emptiness
the lack of a true grounding
like something has passed them by
a meaning that remains elusive
a feeling there's something missing
the core of what this is all about.

It's a circular argument, a recursion
a dream within a dream, a wish perhaps
a hope to hang on to in bleak times
an acknowledgement of the void
but hope springs eternal, and youth
which seems everlasting at the time.

But which is in fact so ephemeral
temporarily granted to the almost mature
until wisdom can overtake us with age
it tells us what exactly, that we're old
a glance in the mirror is sufficient
a look at my gentle man confirms it.

And that's what makes me smile again
the lines on his face speaking to me
of our history, of our shared past
for these lines are something we share
they came upon us whilst we were together
binding us in a shared remembering.

When you wake eventually you look for me
I am your anchor in life's stormy seas
and you are too, well you are for me
I say hello my love don't worry I'm here
and smiling into your face so familiar
my kind gentle man who's still young to me.

time off

I'm looking at four days off
four days to fill with what
with waking in silence again
walking through each day alone
finding things to do without you.

Four days is enough time isn't it
enough to do something useful
must try to decide now though
before I'm totally overtaken
by all the gloom at home with you.

It's been a while since I played
well anything at all really
might try that beautiful Satie piece
fill the void with melodies
talk to myself through the notes.

I should be glad of the time off
all around me are happy people
anticipating their own festivities
I'll be coming home to silence
a slipping back again from you.

But not this afternoon at least
for I've eggs to dip in chocolate
boys who would happily dip in there too
smearing fingerprints everywhere
licking, laughing, kind of helping.

No not kind of, actually helping
really and truly keeping me sane
offering solace without even knowing it
accepting that I'm here again
so let's have some fun then auntie.

I have sources of joy in my life
it's just I keep on forgetting
getting caught up in the negative spiral
when all the turning I need to do
is just away from myself for a bit.

a call

And then like a bolt out of the blue you call me
as if everything wasn't finished that last time
I'm pretty sure I made myself abundantly clear
are there so many ways to understand a word
a word as simple as no, not in a million years.

Your voice on the phone betrays that you know
that this is not what we agreed, nothing like it
and yet you think you can persuade me now
that the passage of time will have softened me
how little you know, and how much you took.

You took someone I love better than own my life
then over years you belittled and betrayed her
took the shining optimism, the strength, the joy
and snuffed it out through your need to control
and giving her a daughter wasn't fair exchange.

Although by extension as I love the mother so too
do I love the daughter, she who holds the spirit
of the mother I once knew, and will once again
for the damage is not as deep as first it seemed
she has an unquenchable light, a fighters heart.

I listen to your voice as you attempt to find words
that will break down the wall of silence I put up
But I'm not my sister, I feel no compulsion to reply
to waste breath, to waste emotional energy on you
your threats have no impact, little meaning to me.

For I haven't been subject to many years of you
leaning on me, dragging me down, pulling me under
you have this insistence that you are the victim
that this is all a misinterpretation of your needs
don't you get it? Your needs mean nothing to me.

Let me make it plain. I have no time for you
I have no intention of ever meeting with you
the day you left our lives was a happy one for me
the only sadness was on the face of your girl
who is very much her own person now, not yours.

You throw her well-being at me like a weapon
knowing that my commitment to her lasts
remember when you failed her I stepped in
for love and stability are far more important
than any rights you demanded in exchange.

I'm not interested in helping you re-establish
a foothold in their lives, not despite you, no
but because the potential for harm is so real
so very present still, I can hear it in your voice
that edge of command, of violence, good-bye.

a work day episode

People are looking puzzled when speaking to me
and I know what it is, I sense my withdrawal
from my sense of then re-connecting with now
but I feel this crushing anxiety building up
awful shaking, images start gearing up so I leave
and rushing down the corridor I get to the Ladies.

I lock myself into a cubicle shaking, weeping
hoping that I am alone for I forget to check
in my rush for privacy how stupid that was of me
but he's here inside my head doing those things
I can feel it happening even whilst I wrestle
to get back to the present, back to right now.

I remember what I was taught so I try to breathe
I try to keep the breath coming in and out, and in
calming, quietening my panic, the shaking subsides
and as I quieten and listen I realise I'm alone
it's OK no-one is there, so few women here anyway
I wonder how to go back to the meeting after this.

As it's all men I could says it's ladies problems
a handy excuse I have never yet found a use for
but the teasing would be unbearable after that
it's the same for anything making them uncomfortable
bloody women I hear them mutter, silly, stupid cow
all lads together then, it's to be expected I suppose.

It's the least of my worries really but offers focus
a distraction from the aftermath of another episode
Breathing, must remember breathing, start that earlier
I can feel the tension lessening the fear receding
time to get a grip, to face the music once again
smiling is so hard to do some days don't you find?

hurt

Do you think one can really heal from deep hurt
in which case what form does true healing take
is it possible to make whole what was broken,
because when a person breaks it's on the inside
although there are sometimes outward signs too
if you know where to look ... or rather how to.

Talking to you about this some time ago now
I remember thinking that you would turn away
that such pain is too difficult to respond to
and yet you used such simple language
knew the word hurt would be easier to cope with
much gentler and yet still contains the core of it.

Hurt is exactly the word a child uses, I used it
and looking back I see that it was too gentle
"he hurt me" could be anything from a scratch
to what it was instead, which was so much more
and that hurt was planted deep into my soul
so deep that trying now to dig it out hurts too.

If I leave it instead, will it eventually heal over
is this digging perhaps the wrong thing to do
let sleeping dogs lie, forget, put it behind me
except I keep turning around and there it is
it doesn't go away through simply ignoring it
it roars back into my dreams day and night.

It robs me of a sense of myself here and now
drags me back there over and over again
and breathing can only do so much to help
it calms me, it gives me space to hold myself
reminding me that I am here and not there
which sounds stupid until you've been there.

Sleep, oh god elusive rest free from all this
but sleep brings tossing and thrashing about
upsetting my gentle man who doesn't understand
that nightmares are not only for children
but for people re-visiting long ago haunts
where monsters lurk and do such dark deeds.

This won't last of course, it will ease again
the intensity and frequency will gradually fade
it will once again form the background hum
like white noise machines found in some places
where normally you can just ignore them except
once you notice, the hum seems like a roar.

And mostly that has been what it's like
an ever present hum in the back of my mind
a knowledge that this isn't going away ever
so an accomodation must somehow be made
a way of living and knowing but still living
a way of knowing and yet it being OK to know.

You ask why I can't just forget about all this
why cling to the past with such determination
and it shocks me to think that you might be right
that this is my doing, or perhaps my undoing
that I am actually causing this hurt to myself
by not disciplining myself to focus elsewhere.

And you know, you may just have a point there
there may be an element of self inflicted harm
of failing to do more to heal myself and move on
yes that might indeed be true and I'll take time
to think about that, see if I can bear to believe it
see if it holds the key to some final resolution.

The dollhouse maker

I like what you said ... about peering into my soul
it brings us even closer in a way don't you think?
the fact that there are many things only we know
trust between us is absolute, a thing I depend upon.
I remember you saying about being a listening angel
and about wanting to be the same thing for me too.

Do you not still trust in the depth of that feeling
do you think the distance makes so much difference
was it not that very distance that helped us at first
to open our hearts, to take such incredible risks
and who could have ever foreseen the consequences
the discovery of such compassion, a kindred spirit.

Which brings me to your most recent letter my friend
and those first few lines, which spoke from your heart
well they tore at me, woke me up, made me think of you
and of our abiding trust, our willingness to say truths
that might be hard to do with anyone else, but not you
for you are brave enough to make yourself vulnerable.

You showed me how to do this, you pointed out the way
and I love you for it, as I do for so many other things
and I feel the same as I did all along, nothing's changed
you are still someone I'd trust with my deepest fears
you are still someone I escape to too, my dear friend
a friend in the midst of all this faceless internet age.

I read our early outpourings too. I see your heart there
I see the person you were and are and still yet will be
and I see how friendships based on such knowledge
can never fade, despite the lengthening intervals
between our letters. Never fear, should you need me
I'll always strive to be here. A listening angel again.

I don't know how set a value on what we share
I don't think there is a scale to which I can compare
and the beauty is that this carries on through life
I know you are there, know too that I am always here
and that one of these days, I might even be there
to have a good look at that new dollhouse of yours.

you know

The words you wrote are just perfect
they say as much as any gift, more
for you send your thoughts and wishes
and you put yourself inside my head
seeing the strange mixture of emotions
feeling the fleeting elation, the dark edge.

Your words are there when I wake up
right there when dark thoughts descend
reminding me of the value of friendship
of your kind thoughtfulness and care
filling myself with breath like you said
and out with the darkness, until it's gone.

And you know, I think there will be
a time coming when the dark thoughts
recede and are put back in that box
it will be just as you said, thank you
well for everything really, your time
your listening ear, your huge heart.

We laugh a lot we two and I love that
the freedom to giggle and to be silly
to lark about and still be comfortable
so sometimes I might forget to tell you
just how bloody marvelous you truly are
I'll shuffle, look at my feet, but you know.

making a start

April has just got to be my favourite month here in England

there is beauty everywhere you look, oh, and the colours

there's the freshest, the most delicate green of new leaves

just bursting from the buds of the willow tree by the river

and the quince, my word have you ever see the like of it

it's blossom petals are a colour I've no descriptive word for.

I went for a walk at lunchtime, time to get outside for a bit

time to breathe fresh air and walk thinking my thoughts

and looking, looking, there's so much to be seen by looking

and it helps when I'm trying to stay in the here and now

which besides anything else is a great way to spend a day

as spring time is when fresh starts abound all around me.

I look at colour swatches here at work as it's Friday afternoon

and skiving seems the only thing to do, a way to kick back

at the new Draconian regime of buzzers and clock watching

the colour nearest to it that I could find is called Carmine Red

so I take this colour and spread it about all over my memory

and it totally matches the beautiful flowers on the quince tree.

If I am not going to drown then I will have to learn to swim

I will have to learn to keep holding myself together regardless

well regardless of anything really, for drowning is no answer

and too many years have been wasted to that pursuit already

maybe if I keep acting whole it will make it happen some day

and I will look back and remember that I started in this way.

Well you never know do you I guess anything is worth a go
do you believe at all in the power of prayer, or is it chance
design, destiny, are deep truths contained in simple words
how simple is love, hope, faith ... as simple as fear, hurt, hate?
Somehow dark words resonate and that will have to change
If I have to choose one bright word, only one, it'll be HOPE.

stay here

Can I talk about this rage? Can I find some way?
can I speak with any kind of coherence on this?
that's where writing helps, you can't really shout
it's a safe way of emptying out, but it seems so slow
which is probably good for really what's the rush
it's not like we haven't been living with this forever.

I guess it might sound pretty stupid, well it does
but it is the unfairness which still really gets to me
the fact that someone without even a by your leave
can take something irreplaceable and just crush it
just stomp on it and tear up our precious innocence
which can't then be mended, can't be re-made whole.

I look over my brothers life and see destruction
I look over mine and see quite a lot of that too
and that's not right, that something that happened
so long ago should define much of the here and now
I can't let that be, well, I can't let it be for me
I'd like to help, but I must heal further first to see.

If I can heal further, start seeing a way through
then I can take steps by showing this way to you
and then maybe we'll both make some progress
both have a hope for the future without this stuff
it seems to me that we've spent time enough now
healing can start through acceptance I've heard.

Accepting the things you can't change is the key
letting it go, I mean really letting it just rest and be
turning your mind and staying here in the present
where there is life, love, such rich fullness to be had
and if we ever feel that dark sadness creeping back
we can turn away, we can look at what is right here.

These pictures and sensations they aren't even real
they're memories, so if we keep telling ourselves that
and reminding ourselves just how safe we are now
our little me's can be protected by our adult selves
little me's need never again feel that old pain and fear
our adult selves can keep them safe, keep them here.

The present is a guard, a protection against the past
learning to stay grounded here will help us heal
and that's what I wanted to say to you, forget rage
forget trying to change what cannot be in any way
if I go first will you follow, will you allow me to be
finally someone who can be part of both of us healing.

what was lost

It's something that's not supposed to ever be said isn't it
it's taboo but I am so glad that the bastard is finally dead
even so, so he is, and yet the finality of it hasn't really hit me
it's like I'm sitting here waiting for something more than it will be
I guess I'm still wishing, hoping for some way to truly break free
to leave behind what he did to us in the dust of old redundant memory.

There's something about living a life that's not quite complete
and I know there's loads and loads of people in the same boat as me
I'm forever coming across these souls in almost unbelievable pain
which sometimes makes me feel a bit like I've no right to feel this way
and yet the problem with pain is there's no measure of it and so anyway
even if my pain is really worse or not worse what difference does it make?

It makes a difference only if we compare, do we really want to go there
no me neither, I've been there already and it doesn't help either
it's tough to empty out this kind of thing, like bailing in a boat
to stop it from sinking and however frantic the effort, water rises
and feelings are so like that they wash over and they seep underneath
the guard we put up, the face we put on, the ready reply when we lie.

It's tiring too, it's exhausting to have this continual backdrop
this background movie running on through your mind, whirring whirring
waiting for your attention to swing in it's direction for when it does
the volume goes up the colours sharpen it's a smellivision feelathon
a trip down memory lane with full colour graphics, full on sensation
if you could sell this but without the experience, an instant fortune.

There's a shopping list of possible cures, some aren't that expensive
there's talking talking talking, there's shocks, there's drugs, time
there's always time isn't there? Except how much more will I need
for I'd like to have some left over, some left where I can just be me
whoever that might be, I wonder what sort of person I would be now
well I'll never find out, for the past is over with, it's gone anyhow.

I'm glad that he's dead, I wish it had been sooner, much much sooner
for now I can sense the wasted years in a way that I didn't before
too caught up in just getting by just trying to live some sort of life
not hoping for freedom, well that's not quite true for I was hoping
just never believing, never anticipating, which turns out to be good
because the person I turned out to be is fine, but I'd like to be free.

I'd like back what he took, and yet somehow I couldn't quite define it
until I read a story about a scary bad man who stole a boys childhood
and that's what happened, that's exactly how it was, what was taken
which can't now be given back, anyway what use is it now to an adult
or at least so I tell myself as there's really no point in wishing
for what can never be, I can't travel back and reclaim what was lost.

Gone

The monster man breathed his last and now he is gone
he had a nice long life, a mostly peaceful time in death
but he is still gone, he is no more, so, now am I free
can I find a way to break down what he did and rebuild
but without what he did, no of course I can't do that
nothing at all about the past can be changed as such
only the way I look at it, only in the way I look away.

It doesn't matter how bloody unfair any of this is really
it doesn't change the facts, nor any of the damage done
it doesn't alter the memories, the pain, the fear, the hurt
it changes nothing except he is no more now he's gone
so can I now laugh and sing that the monster man's dead
shall I twirl madly with exhuberant joy, howl at the moon
if I do will it make any difference, no, I don't think so.

See the monster man was already dead a long time ago
he just lived in my memory, and not even the monster I knew
because I am no longer the little girl I was way back then
my memory was faulty, although I didn't realise this was so
he seemed big because I was looking at him with her eyes
I was too little to feel anything but the hurt, fear and pain
and if I looked at the monster man right now what would I see?

I'd see a small dead man, shrivelled and grey. A tiny man
dressed in his sunday best surrounded by shiny blue satin
with cracked shoes, neck tie, would he still have his teeth in
and would they still hurt ... see that is the problem right there
thinking about the monster man brings pictures and flashes
of being there all over again, of feeling him and seeing him
of wanting to run away, but wanting too to stay for my brother.

Anger, rage and grief, how to explain these powerful emotions
it feels like inky black darkness, with strobe lightening strikes
like sinking into a nothingness, a faded separate foggy place
feeling weak, alone, helpless, frightened, yet muted, dull
and trying to forget doesn't work, these images, sensations
they ambush you and drag you off at barely a moments notice
to where the back catalogue of re-runs are continually looped.

I want to go and dance there on top of your monster man grave
I want to dig you up, to open the lid and spit on your familiar face
I want to show you what real men look like, they look like mine
real men do not take very small children for their own pleasure
only monster men do things like that, only inadequate men like you
but you're gone now aren't you, you've escaped through death
and on the other side is a darkness to match your own dark soul.

the deer, the spider and the robin

A deer was in the garden this morning, eating, browsing
completely unaware of me gazing out from the kitchen door
this isn't my garden but his .. hers ... his ... who knows
what I do know is that we don't own outdoor space at all
and even indoor space is shared much more than we imagine
as with the very large spider who lives behind my toilet
giving me the heebie jeebies when I get up nightly for a pee.

I have to stay very quiet on the subject of spiders round here
for if the existence were to be discovered death would follow
my secret spider is doing no harm at all, I quite like it there
except when I can't see it in the middle of the night
and sit there thinking it might creep up my leg any second
which just adds that frisson of tension to what is ordinary
and I thought about giving it a name but that's a step too far.

But I share my space willingly and happily for this is not mine
my castle remains on the inside where sharing is not required
but it adds to the richness of life if I do, so I do that too
but there remains the question of whose garden it truly is
and there I'd have to vote for the robin who lives on edge of it
and daily sometimes hourly makes the flight to perch by the door
to look at me standing there and to remind me that this is his.

thinking

I know it scares you this thinking bizzo
I know that you don't really want to know
and yet without thought only instinct prevails
are our guts so infallible do you think?

Do you think that we really don't need thought
that it's a pointless exercise in introspection
that we're better off not knowing the truth
which is what exactly, I feel your frustration

Which I share for I want to know too, I do
and yet even if you do suspect I somehow know
I won't let on in case I might be so very wrong
how disappointed will we both be should that be?

So I offer you yet more limpid platitudes
and wait here on the freezing sidelines to see
if you will take the plunge and let yourself be
a person who finally connects to their self within

Which I know is scary and not at all what you want
but healing takes so many forms that we don't expect
like learning we are who we are and yet we're still OK
and that we're lovable even though we're made that way

So although some resolution must yet still be made
we can take comfort in the knowledge that this will be
and even if it's not expected we can somehow yet find
a way to explore it and still arrive at peace of mind.

And isn't that really the point of all this wondering
to arrive at some conclusion however disconcerting
that we really are all right no matter how we appear
that we're OK as people despite how we aspire to be.

This journey we're on may have so many stages and yet
I don't feel so lonely and I'm hoping you feel it too
that however difficult these revelations might yet be
that it's not a foreign land, this is still just you and me.

a daydream

There must some way of truly drawing a picture with words
taking the person reading to a place they can actually see
and seeing, experiencing, almost finding themselves there
like how you get totally caught up in a movie sometimes
where you lose a part of yourself for just a short time
and take that part back at the end for it was only on loan.

It's the part of you that travels in daydreams perhaps
the wishing part, the whimsical, believing, searching part
the bit that wants things that can't be seen or touched
the piece of us that makes us more than who we seem to be
and that's the part of our heart we can take on this journey
so put aside your cynicism for a few moments if you can.

Sit with me in the gentle breeze and look out over the sea
the reef is close by to shore and so the breakers are clear
and near, and the sound is washing ebbing flowing crashing
overwhelmingly noisy and yet the power is in no way frightening
and there are no people here, just you and me, so there's no danger
and no risk of being over-run by our normal everyday concerns.

There is just breeze and sea, and you and me sitting on the shore
and all is calm to all intents ... but the clouds look ... see
the way they build and billow, bubbling up, storming the sky
the presence of the incoming storm need not alarm us though
you see we are here and not here all at the same time
this is the stuff of every day dreams and can take us any time.

angels can be tall tales

I was reading the most beautiful poem earlier on today
It was about how angels fall which sounds about right
it seems that even angels might have feet made from clay
now that is something we don't often think about isn't it?
it reminded me of an incident from my irresponsible teens.

I travelled to a city 3 hours away to visit a good friend
but somehow we got our wires crossed and so he wasn't there
and having nowhere to sleep I headed out to a nearby farm
as I had some stupid notion that haystacks might be warm
They are damn prickly too, but still I lay down and I slept.

Waking in the morning I saw a man, obviously a traveller
who had arrived whilst I slept but who kept his distance
and who on seeing I was awake asked me if I had ever seen
my guardian angel who stood over me as tall as you like
and who warded me against the dangers of the dark night.

Which made me shiver and thank the man before I ran off
for he was not a small person and I was too scared to trust
but I remembered what he said, and told my friend about it
which almost made him crash the car, we skidded to a halt
and he turned and looked at me with a very odd expression.

He told me that he too had seen this strange apparition
some kind of shape, some ghostly presence nearby to me
and had always thought that it was just his imagination
which made me shiver all the more for I can't sense this
I can't see or feel it, I would love to catch a glimpse.

I wonder if we all have an angel in our lives, it may be
but what is it that allows some stranger and some friend
to see what I would so love to see but can't really believe
therein lies the problem maybe you have to believe to see
for an angel must have better things to do than to ward me.

There are people who believe, is it true only they can see
well seeing is believing, but believing without seeing ...
well that is the stuff of faith. And faith just isn't easy
believing on scant evidence might indeed be a fools game
after all one person's hallucination is anothers vision.

take a look ...http://slcpoems.blogspot.com/2009/03/angels-fall.html