there i go . . .

i'm reaching for all the things i cannot have
dreams in which i inhabit a parallel universe
one where . . . 
i stare out windows and search for that place
lost now in the cosmic dust that made us all
white noise with undertones of . . .
there in the distance my words yet unspoken
my thoughts untrammelled and unvisited
unexpected migrants . . . 
the clouds move like shoals of silver herring
blue and green bubble filled orchestrations
uplifting to where . . .
can i be expected to manage these landscapes?
i feel landlocked and desolate inhabiting them
there i go . . .
i'm reaching for all the things i cannot have
dreams in which i inhabit a parallel universe
one where . . . 
i stare out windows and search for seagulls
on the beach chalk rocks littered like skulls
through a child's eye . . .
his father's voice is but a long dead echo
walking backwards on the sand as the waves wash
footsteps away . . .
i know i know i know everything and nothing
such a long time ago when summer held my hand
tenses squabbling . . . 
waves washing through a child's eye 
seagulls pecking at the bleached empty sockets
landlocked landscapes clouded with herring skies
a migrant made of distant cosmic dust
backwards into summers a long time ago
when father's voice spoke to me
i know i know i know
i'm reaching for all the things i cannot have
dreams in which i inhabit a parallel universe
one where . . .
there i go . . .

appealing to the wrong audience

i don't know where i am anymore
anymore than i know where you are
this disconnect between writer and disseminator  
strikes through words with scalpel blade precision
surgical laughter turns into a litany of proclamations
an irregularly shaped pearly glow surrounds the darkened disc of the moon
and you have fled into the night with your tail between your legs
to drown as you always planned

i can't possibly help that can i?
it doesn't matter how many of your faces appear on my screen
each one is an unread book that i will never read
reality is a complex mycorrhizal network of incidents
propelled from where we came from
from where we cannot imagine travelling to in our dreams
when we have lost our grip on our racing pulses
when silence explodes in our dying skulls

can you see that day?

untitled lives

the boxes are full of dead people
they smile and wave at me without motion
frozen in time but lacking cryogenic hope
there are so many of them it becomes overwhelming
the past is a silent place filled with muted voices
only I can put the words into their mouths
only I can tell their stories in my own words
and if I dump the boxes in the trash?
who will know they ever lived and loved?

Thinking of you, dad

my father died when I was 7 and he was 37
I have virtually no memory of him
beyond photos and a few sketchy dreamlike scenes
that may or may not have occurred
but oddly his ‘spirit’
(for want of a better word)
seems to find me on occasions
when I am least expecting it
again, this is probably of my own making
or related to some trigger event
but nevertheless it keeps me tethered to him
in a way that makes me thankful
that not everything in life and death
can be fully explained

Thanks to Jon for his poem this morning
that triggered mine. You can find it on this link:

https://jonstainsby.wordpress.com/2020/03/02/thinking-of-you-mum/