Before dying catches us and the banal, quotidian joys of a simpe life expire at the hoot of Charon’s ferry from across the styx, and the memory of the faces, and the names of the ones we once held dear fade away, lost in the eternal blackness of demise; before the grim reaper suprises us with the rude, ineclutable finality of death; we must not forget
For the beautiful ones who almost were… We may never ever again be the way we once were. We may no longer dance the cha-cha and sip palm wine in the shade of the coconut palms as Coltrane serenades and the sea breezes ripple through the flimsy thatch that breaks the fall of the gently falling rain. We may now never know the blessing of the Old Man’s Libation, or see his scrawny fingers split the kola nut or the unerring aim of the red spittle from his toothless gums ...
‘Inspired’ by an old man I spotted sitting on a bench at the corner of George and St John’s Street, soaking up an unexpected blast of sunshine whilst muttering to himself. Image (c) TrekEarth.com; Source: www.trekearth.com The old man sits cross legged in the rain. He bows his head, and wraps his hands around himself and begins to sway. He sings a song and mouths the words from a sombre lyric that only he still remembers. The tears - tiny rivulets of liquid; crystal clear flow down his face, and down his beard as he rocks to the rhythm of his sombre song. I imagine that he remembers and that the tears are tears of memory, of many yesterdays, of loss, of pain, and of nostalgia. I imagine that when his tears cease to fall, and the rivers on his face dry out he will arise in peace until the season of re-memory
I have died- Seven times but one; Crushed beneath the weight- Of pain’s unrelenting Hammer blows. Straight right. Left hook. Right uppercut. Left jab. Right hook. Left uppercut. Cheek bones splintered- Lip leaking blood, Teeth- Bludgeoned until loose. Head spinning. Time, space Distance blending- Into a confused blur. Then over-hand right - And sight mercifully fades- Into blissful blackness. I have died– Seven times but one; But like a rubber ball Squashed flat against a hard place, I rebound seven times, Reborn.
August 2010 to April 2011 Word for word, We beat the love Out of each other * Like hammer - Blows crack rock, And water- Wears granite Smooth- Day by day, Our rage poisons- Everything. Memory is - A wound kept raw; closure is An uncertain salve. The End. Sigh *Line shamelessly purloined from Yousef Komunyakaa’s Once the Dream Begins.
For the prompt Secret, at the Writer’s Island.. Better late than never. Words - More words. Hand motions - Quickening to a blur. Straight faces - Eyes fixed forward - Pretending there is calm; While like a seething, shifting mess Pain hides; Behind bitter sweet memories - Filed away, locked deep - In the dank, dark recesses Of a shattered hope. The lord giveth, The lord taketh We like homing pigeons return; To the same shattered places.
For Gracie, who the genes took… You never saw the thirteenth summer through- before the genes claimed you. You always were - the sallow one, knuckle- kneed, paper thin, but - the lights in your jaundiced eyes shone: through pain and fear, and hope and tears. The strength in your voice never dimmed, never waned, until the genes - like a belligerent marabout’s curse - turned you, to a mound of red- dead earth ...
Source Written in response to the prompt of the week at Writer’s Island…. Gin poured on earth - Salt water, five lobed kola nuts With palm wine. White loincloth over Bare skin, white cockerel held Over head spun- Seven times, Till faint. Water, waist high Dirty brown infused with oil – Coloured sheen. Orange plumes belch- ing black smoke; *Yemanja, the fish have fled; The mangrove swamps have become A deathbed. There is no fresh fish - Pepper soup, no cassava plants Left unshrivelled; No respite From the stench of putrefying life. ...
Do misty eyes mean Pain festering deep Lean souls starved - Hope blithely crushed And purloined? Do memories mean Wounds left raw, rubbed sore, Chafed red - careless promises Blown away like ripples on a lake by a belligerent hurricane? Do clasped hands hide scars And wry smiles hide gloom
Source Shed Tears; Let pain like a malevolent fiend- Draw blood. Let go; Let the waves of a melancholic nostalgia- Break you. Pressure makes you whole again. Blame Fear; Blame Pain, blame sorrow deep within- Still Sing.