Morning sounds and coffee smells line my lime room. Saturday morning: domestic voices like baby brother’s feet on ceramic tiles and my blanket ruffling on top of my chin. If I tuck myself under on my own, this is my experience of me, like whispering ‘me’ into a seashell.
Your voice, shrill like shards, falls down flights of stairs like chunks of broken glass, a disassembled vase you bought from a museum, half-assembled.
Come! Gather round and listen to my tale of innocence
About a little girl and her pony called Beauty
A long-lived love and a distinctive death
A well of dreams and a stable now empty
I journey through memories and unveil my mask
To put to you emotions raw and reality serene.
Scared and shy I would find solace in places serene
Believing this escapism – was it just naivety? Innocence?
The comfort of places and animal faces were the mask
When I struggled to face demons beyond the beauty
I learnt that I had a sense of power and control when my stomach was empty
And I became infatuated with visions of loss and of death.
In Autumn I chose Beauty, when leaves on the ground spelt a pretty death
It was on this day in the paddock I saw those big hazel eyes resting, serene.
I had to reach on tippy-toes to wrap my arms around her neck, I no longer felt empty
We trotted through daisies and cantered through cones feeling free, feeling our innocence.
It was a definite “yes please Daddy” and “will we be together soon- me and my Beauty?!”
Here began learning how to care, love and thus start to peel away my mask.
I remember Beauty and my brother dressed as roman soldiers, disguised by his mask
Bravely they marched through the crowds, beaming as if from battle haven beaten death.
We had a lot of fun primping, preening, expressing what I liked to see in the world: Beauty.
When I felt sad and struggled with things, she was there to settle the storm and turn it serene
She felt like my protector, my guardian, to shield my innocence.
But as my legs grew longer, hers grew tired – riding now over, saddle rack sitting empty.
The day Beauty died I felt such diverse emotions that when conjuring them up, my mind feels empty
She was very sick and seemed to have given up on life, sinking behind a mask.
I wanted to be there, say goodbye, comfort her, cherish her innocence.
I heard a whinny as I approached the door, now unsure if it is time for death
But feebly stumbling to greet me, I felt her need to be relieved to feel serene.
And as the morning light fell glowing on her hour, her name expressed this moment: pure beauty.
The sedative streamed through her body and I knelt beside her, stroking my Beauty
When I thought she was still there, the Vet said “No”, and my tears fell on her life now empty.
As this dawned on me, a peace dispersed and the misty air felt serene.
What was before me was within me, and Beauty’s exterior, a mask.
For a moment magnificence was felt in my beating heart up against the fragility of death
And as a chapter closed, I thanked my precious friend for being there in my youth and innocence.
We die serene, shedding fears and turning “what is” into beauty.
Fear reflects our innocence, believing that being alone causes lives to be empty.
To look beyond the mask of fear is to have compassion for oneself and cast a new light on death.
Careless
(after Christian Bok's "Vowels")
Seas arc, race, see.
Easels: less real.
Ace a rare sale?
Care less for a lass?
Alas, lease a lass.
Sales are rare.
Ease seals care.
Cease a race.
See real.
The heart and the lungs form a rhythm.
The stuff 'o life is squeezed out from within 'em.
The quick dithers out,
as from a dried up old spout,
and you end up under a shroud made 'o linen.
Competing interests wreak
havoc on union
of collective will.
You are leaning toward me
in a friendly, formal sort of a way,
for a hug.
It's just the end. The end of dinner. The end of the movie. I am on the couch. You were on the chair.
But now, it's the doorway
And my
hand is on your back as you say "Bye now". And I
tumble into Oblivion, my palm
buzzing with the imprint of the glorious muscled cords of
your
low back.
All that is man under my
hand
for a slice of time.
I can't speak. I stand dumb & empty, like a doll
motionless & placid even though her
hand is on fire.
I hope that you don't notice.
Once I am outside the door, the cool summer night air in my throat,
the blood rushes back into my face
& I am staring at my
hand.
It's as if it's stained,
my fabric soaked by your bravery, your wit, your remote will.
I want to shake it off, leave it at the wrist on the doorstep, stiff & twitching on the rough rug below:
Give you the color of my hand, & leave forever.
Have you ever wondered why
puppies squeak when hugged,
kittens purr when rubbed,
children dance and giggle
when they know that they are loved?
Have you ever met someone
and instantly you knew
that she had all the answers why
puppies, kids and kittens
do the things they do?
Have you ever wondered why
a person such as this
would hide this wisdom of herself
as though it didn't exist?
Wisdom is SO moving
when love is in the air.
All of us gravitate towards
someone who's so rare.
Hide no more, oh little one
for you have grown and you are strong.
Dance and giggle all you wish
and all of us will sing along!
The appeal of sports
is the sensation of flight
we get from our play.
Where are they tonight,
those friends of days gone by?
I raise a glass and toast their names
to recall those auld lang syne.
When I died, I died in the saddle,
among the corpses of man, horse, and cattle,
death rained from above,
I cried out for my love,
and not once saw a glimmer of battle.
The motorist, complacent, relaxes;
the trooper, alert, collects taxes;
they both speed along,
on a prayer and a song,
pinned under the thumb of the fascists.
I as a youth fantasized of abduction
oft eventuating in suction;
the object of their ploy,
I was used as a toy,
and there was never a need for seduction.
I stand athwart your path,
and bear your sudden wrath;
tho but for me, I fear it'd be,
inevitably math.
