Piecemeal

How to explayne?
The lack of focus and payne?
The shimmer in black?
The promise to end up on a rack?
The pebbles in your shoes?
The nails in your skin?
The entry of birth as a noose?
The grinding of cogs in a deafening din?
The malarkey of deadening booze?
The flight of your thoughts all gone,
Look at your face, it’s wan

Where did it go?
The jitter in wee belly?
The speed in small legs?
The certainty of yes, never no?
The delights of an ocean smelly?
The diving for treasure and drinking to the dregs?

Harden your soles
Cradle your heart
Look at the holes
They’re off to a start
From now on
You speak to no one
From then on
You’re a shadow anon

Carol’s been creative

Yup. I’ve written and recorded a new poem, toghether with a short piece of music I’d somehow managed to forget I did only a month ago in MuseScore, in response to a number of things, including a walk among frosty red oak leaves and a passing feeling of futility.

What shall I call the poem, I wonder. ’Sightlines’, perhaps? Yes. That’ll do nicely.

So…

Sightlines

I’m leaving, my friend
The years aren’t on a mend
What they’ve gained is a loss
floating across
the shores that you see
aren’t the shores that I see
across the ocean, amidst the sea
Plundering wrecks
Counting the years, cups of tea
Heavy sigh
Looking at maps, asking warily why
Good morning, my sweetie,
don’t think once that I
will ask ’bout your plans
The goalkeeper’s nigh
wearing a cloak of black and confusion
My sense of injustice is merely contusion
I’ve finished the wine sooner than was desired
and rented a star that wasn’t for hire
We’ll meet up some day at some random spring fair
I’ll be at a place that is quite far from here

 

I’m incredibly satisfied with the result. Is that wrong of me? Complacent, somehow? In blatant contradiction of the poem itself? Not so. Not so at all. No. The feeling of deep satisfaction is gently patting my brain and telling it ’hush, it will be all right in the end’.

 

 

 

Transformation

Yesterday was a bleak day indeed. Walking home from a very important, but essentially very silly meeting with a treadmill and listening to everything revolving around itself in eternal circles I suddenly felt week at the knees.

I contemplated giving it all, as in all, the ill-famed finger. Instead a poem began taking shape in my head. And strangely enough, the words slowly turned things around. All of a sudden they gave purpose to the idea of proceeding home with haste, putting put pen to paper and whipping out my keyboard.

And after some tweaking of words and musical notes – and an excellent piece of advice from Emmett concerning the final touch – I’m all transformed.

Yup. This is the new, happy me: