The dark has been so long
the cold has been so deep,
the new buds barely there
stretching in the springtime heat,
reflecting on the roots of change
time for fresh new thinking.
I tried to tend it, but nature overwhelmed my efforts
What’s the point of even trying
with all that withering around me.
Yes, take the leaves and petals, leave the ground free and clean
as I want to face life, not death.
All the flowers are gone, and I want them back
No, you can’t take their smell away from me
and I’m not sure about your odour of jasmine.
If it’s meant to be the call of my soul
then I’ll wait for the wind to blow it in.
This is an upside-down take on original poem The Wind, One Brilliant Day, by Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’
‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’
‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’
It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me
of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.
Like torchlight from an invisible source,
it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,
illuminating the darkest part of my garden.
The new-grown laurels have taken root,
wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.
They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench
with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:
a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.
The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth
amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,
their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial
of any future state of wither or decay.
An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.
my creative heart has been
beating but not seen,
patiently not known,
hoping, lying in wait
that one day, like this,
I would notice its pulse
and take heed of its sounds
listen to its beat,
see all its signs,
act on its guidance.
Create, at last,
what makes it sing.
A full-hearted swing
at life’s infinite joy.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)
You don’t get to blow out my flame
when you huff and you puff.
You don’t get to turn down my glow
when you’re feeling bored.
You don’t get to shame my spark
Into snuffing itself out.
You don’t get me to dim my light
so yours can shine brighter.
The agony of my indecision
had done my head right in.
The hurting of my inner child
had left my true self wilting.
The logic part had made up its mind.
The fragility, it was a fraying:
teetering in, about to give way
a lifetime battle drilling.
So, where could the courage come from,
to say a crucial ‘no’ some time?
Perhaps it stemmed from dark-down stuff
that finally said ‘enough’.
the one who gets under my skin
is needy, lays back,
waiting to be fed;
but what I put on the plate
will never be enough:
it’s too late, too meagre,
too tasteless, too wrong.
the most sumptuous feast
will never sate
the appetite that devours;
bones are sucked dry
teeth are picked
a sneer that reeks of menace
mocks my begging bowl
as I wait for a tiny morsel
I won’t stop cooking for good
but I have to stop buttering you up
with dishes I don’t even like,
puddings far too fancy
mains that betray their true meat,
and sides that sell their soul.
I have to accept, finally,
that even the finest recipe
made to your exacting order
will leave me tasting your bile.
Oh, when you’re meant to be there
you don’t bother turning up:
The whole world grinds to a halt
from two millimetres of you
You rock up when we don’t need you
and kids want to throw you around
(school run, 30 minutes late).
When you grow old and dark,
my heels and tyres slip warily on you
Yet the fragility of your freshest flakes
makes the air a magic twinkle
(trees and fresh snowprints).
And being snowed in for days
while annoying, is freeing
(sound of your silence).
I’ve been resisting for so long
a certain thing.
I’ve been denying for some years
the pain of grief.
But the universe kind of knows
what we really need.
Not what we think we want,
but a goose-bumpy feel.
Don’t play me or swathe me
or stretch my trust.
Don’t go for the kill
‘til you’ve proved enough.
You’ve got an agenda
that suits only you.
My naïve old heart
gets twisted and blue.
My soul will learn
what you leached from my life
with your grooming, your promise,
your complete lack of spine.