Hide and Seek

Tags

Communication, creative, Fear, Hjdecand Seek, loss, Love, Mask, poems, poetry, Self-preservation, verse, writing

Waiting for the day

Waiting for you

To reach out and touch me

And never to let go,

Waiting for the moment

The veil will fall

I’ll tear the curtain down

And show it all to you, 

Horizons fade away

The dying light

And cloaks drawn tight once more

To hide myself from you.

Small Provincial Station

Tags

Communication, Connection, creative, Crossroads, friendship, loss, Love, poems, poetry, Small Provincial Station, spirit, Strangers, Trains, verse, writing

We met when we were strangers

On platforms changing trains

Time would never be the same

No season spoke the dangers,

Our faces wore expressions

Of kindred spirit found

Our voices made no sound

No doubts and no transgressions,

We stood aside the crossroad

And looked along each way

Hoping for another day

To break the secret code,

We met when we were strangers

On platforms changing trains 

But I could feel the hurt and reins

Beneath my feet the dangers,

We met when we were strangers 

But I knew even then

That I was nothing more

Than a small

Provincial

Station.

Waiting

Tags

creative, inspiration, loss, poems, poetry, Promises, Signs, verse, Voices, Wiating, writing

Waiting.

Waiting, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for the reward,

The prize that lingers

Beyond the next corner,

Behind the door.

Waiting for the call,

The voice of the heart,

Calling from the darkness,

Promises of more.

Waiting for the movement,

The sign for us to go,

A motion from outside,

The silent, secret law.

Waiting for the floor,

To open up beneath,

To feel its welcome breath,

The silence of its roar.

Waiting for the angels,

To spread their wings around,

Reveal a their wonders,

And open up the door.

Waiting. 

Waiting, waiting.

Waiting. 

Letters of Love

Tags

creative, hope, Letters, Letters of Love, loss, Love, nostalgia, poems, poetry, Seasons, time, verse, winter, writing

He knew that Winter was coming,

Felt its ice-brushed roots

Wrap themselves around his thoughts

And choke the words

As they hung

Like swinging men

In his throat,

Remembered then

The invincible spring

That offered him

Letters of love 

Through the mail

Which fell at his feet like kisses

Pirouetted on their toes and wove

Themselves into words 

Which danced in his head

Then tumbled in passages that came

From who knew where,

The Summer when his passion

Turned thoughts like cartwheels

A windmill grinding

Gathered up things he’d never seen

And lay them like a lamb on the page

At his feet

Like a sacrifice 

Of sorts,

The surety of Autumn’s voice

As it echoed through the caverns

Emptied now

Not driven by desire or need,

The comfort of the leaves

And the colours that they spread

Beneath his feet

Within his heart

As the doors behind him slowly closed,

He knew that Winter was coming.

Time

Tags

age, creative, Innocence, loss, Love, Memory, poems, poetry, time, verse, Wisdom, writing

Time turns the page,

Its benign eyes watch

As hands stretch out,

Offering the wisdom of experience

In exchange for the innocence of youth,

And we grasp at it

As if it were the only way,

As if it somehow offered up

An answer to our lives,

And how so easily we part

With all that we once knew,

And concepts such as hope and faith

Now gather dust on shelves,

That lie beyond our sight

And so far from our reach.

No More

Tags

Awareness, Belief, Communication, creative, faith, hope, loss, Love, Mental health, No More, Prose, Realisation, Self-awareness, Short, Social, story, Understanding, Words, writing

I think that I have come, at last, to a crossroads; a point of uncomfortable realisation. A crossroads which leads, in every direction, to a dead end and a realisation that I have finally reached the last page of my own, personal dictionary. I have come to the point where I have used – and abused – every word that was ever known to me. I have twisted and contorted them into myriad sentences and phrases until all meaning that they might have once held has been lost, all connection to anything other than themselves distorted. As I sent each one on its way, safely wrapped as it was, like a child in a winter coat, cosseted by others to which it bore no relation, I watched it drift away. I watched as they gathered and then dispersed high, high above my head, dipping behind the clouds, never to reappear.

And, eventually, as I reached my hand deep into myself to take hold of another random collection of letters, I found nothing between my fingers, nothing within my grasp. My fist was filled with the emptiness of silence, the silence of a stilling heart.

And then the empty words within my head, the final ones that would leave me, spelled out their message: there was no more to say.

The Wrong Story

Tags

Acceptance, Communication, creative, Falling Sleet, inspiration, loss, Love, poems, poetry, The Wrong Story, Understanding, verse, writing

It was the wrong story that leapt up and out at me,

From the page that I saw behind your eyes –

Its tumbling words sang to me as if I were the one,

The only one to whom they spoke.

They wrapped themselves around me like a Winter’s evening shawl,

A warmth and comfort my insides craved,

A tale unpicked for me.

And as my mind began to weave and tangle a missive in which to grow,

My eyes closed blind to those I saw and

Nurtured futures fruitless.

I turned and spread each leaf before me reflecting as I did,

On every word that I planted there,

And every root that you pushed deep.

And only when the stems had grown and twisted every one,

About and through my aching frame,

Did my eyes, at last, loose their lustre –

And only then did I recognise that,

The story I had read was wrong.

Night Bus

Tags

AbeBooks, Amazon, Another Tease, Book, Book Depository, creative, Depression, hope, inspiration, loss, Love, Lulu, lyrics, music, nostalgia, Peace, poems, poetry, Prose, Publication, verse, war, writing

A short piece taken from the collection of poetry, prose and lyrics entitled ‘Another Tease’ (links at the end of the post. Enjoy!

I sat on the bus, watching the night-lit streets as they passed by like frozen, shrouded memories. The juddering, stop-start motion seemed to bring an uneasy comfort to my body, detached as it was from my consciousness. Other vehicles, heading in the opposite direction, appeared and then disappeared as if they were on some mythic quest, their headlights dull and dim below my position on the top deck of the bus, illuminating nothing but the first few steps on a journey without end. For a moment it seemed as if only they knew the direction in which to move in order to find some salvation, some respite from the pain, and yet I knew, contained within each metal box, was nothing more than one more lonely figure hoping beyond all hope that something, some miracle, would appear to snap them out of their coma.

Buildings rose up on either side of me now; giant monoliths, some pale and dark, devoid of life, tired and waiting for release, others still humming under the electric glow which gave them purpose. Their eyes stared out without seeing through the dark, and were gone again, lost to me as I moved steadily on. Their facades hung momentarily in my mind like all the faces of people I had met in my life, before fading into a sea of ashen memories. The night around me seemed to tighten its grip as, like an abandoned vessel, we sailed on.

To both the right and to the left of me roads sprouted off from the main artery down which I was travelling. They sparkled and twinkled with the hope of the newborn before even their lights were swallowed by the darkness into which, it seemed, the whole world had fallen. I shuddered as the bus lurched around a corner: not from the cold – I had long since become immune to that – but from the impending realisation that we were, at last, nearing my stop, my final destination.

And then everything was quiet, but for the pounding in my chest and the pulsing in my head. What if I were to remain on the bus? Would it eject me when it reached its destination, its point of termination, or would it show a glimmer of empathy, offer up a hand and cradle me to its heart? After all, my brain reminded me, what point was there to alighting, to leaving the bus to continue without me, if you were no longer there to welcome me home?

Another Tease – poetry, prose and lyrics

LULU

BOOK DEPOSITORY 

ABEBOOKS

ALBRIS

AMAZON

Behind

Tags

Aging, Behind, creative, death, loss, Love, poems, poetry, separation, verse, writing

And with each dying breath 

That settles on the breeze,

To dip its head beneath

The horizon that we see,

Our lives become a little fainter

A little thinner to the eye,

And all the things that meant so much

Fall to the ground

Like Autumn’s sigh,

To be replaced by a growth

Whose colours seem,

To weary eyes,

A little paler in their hue

A little less impactful,

And as we mourn

The loss of souls

Whose touch we feel as if it were our own,

We step ourselves,

A little closer,

To the hole they left

Behind.

Idol

Tags

Adoration, Adulation, creative, Fame, fiction, flash, Idol, Influence, inspiration, loss, Love, nostalgia, Prose, short story, story, writing

There was a time when I was your hero; your idol, your deity. It was a time when nothing could take my place – there had been nothing before me and even the thought of anything beyond me was unimaginable. I was the first thing that your eyes saw when they opened and the last picture that they held as they closed with the days end. It was a time when I filled your every waking thought and gave meaning to every moment of your life, no matter how small or fleeting. I was the star around which the planet of you revloved; I brought you light in the daytime and dreams which filled your nights with wonder, joy and promise. There was no sacrifice too small, no challenge that you would refuse with me by your side. Your blood ran with my words, my thoughts and my desires, and you took them all as your own. I was your hero, your idol, your everything.

But now, as the turning wheel has worn the threads thin, and the veil has begun to slip from your eyes, you see me with clearer sight. My face has lost its magic, its magnetic pull weaken by over-use. My words, the music that once plucked so easily at your heartstrings, has lost its tone, its melody merely a feeble imitation of what it had once appeared to be. The etched pane has cleared, as if a sea mist had lifted, and you see me now as I truly am. And you realise that I am nothing more than a man, and all that I had to say was nothing more than words; no more or no less than any other.

And the thought remains that I was once your hero, your idol, your everything.