That sense of dread, that
pull in the depths of
my stomach that
absorbs my days and steals my nights, that
smothers my thoughts with a heavy
blanket of angst. That
happy life that eludes me, that
love that never truly feels
real, only that dread that idles and
festers is solid and true.
Anticipating glee, lights go down:
the curtain holds the clue
to what the fan beholds.
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 blocks pop up in colourful ways
sometimes when I least expect,
and often – when I’m pulled
by that crazy creative force,
that desire to put my words out there –
the opposite has to exist:
primed to put a stop to my course,
to cut me from my source.
the horizon may be dewy,
the breeze may be blowy
the potential stretching out
may be incredibly alluring,
and yet a part of me,
a stubborn and relentless saboteur
wants to stub out
the scary unknown.
what I’d like to do is
kick those blocks aside,
send them scattering
off the pier of fear,
and to open my future
to run wildly, wind in my hair,
trust at my feet, sun in my dreams,
and strength in my belief.
Me:
I really love you, I want to commit,
But life has me stressed
up to the armpits.
You:
You love your stress, can’t live without,
you create it all ways.
In you I doubt.
Them:
If only they knew the short time they had left
they’d spend less on the lack,
nor let fear be their theft.
Drops of rain ram down in droves,
pooling into cloudy clumps
on sticky, muddy terrain
that’s terrifically, terribly sodden.
Yet the sound of those drops
brings tremendous
comfort to my wounded heart
that is yearning, craving peace.
Soggy outside.
Smug inside.
inktuition 