Falling

 

My knock kneed legs buckle,

and I am falling 

at your feet.

Will you catch me, or

let me fall?

Love me, or

break my heart?

Oceans of blue 

swim behind your eyes,

twinkling and promising me 

the earth;

but can I afford your cost?

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Colour & Hope

 

Colour & Hope

 

Navy night  s t r e t c h i  n   g

as far as I can see,

my head resting on tuffets

of feathery grass,

warmth spirals from

head to toe,

and musty earth 

rocks

me to sleep.

Psychedelic butterflies

flit and

f    l   o    a    t

leaving trails of 

purple and blue,

flashes of beauty

sparking the sky with 

colour and hope.

Pearls of rain

d 

    r

       o

     p

onto my skin,

waking my senses to the world,

and with fresh eyes

I marvel as nature lives

all around me.

A smile tries to sit

comfortably

on my lips;

If only we didn’t take it for granted.

Moving On

 

Moving On

 

She sweeps an eye

over her room, and

butterflies 

dance inside.

 

Leaving is never

easy, but somehow

it always ends this way,

she has to move on.

 

Feeling suffocated, 

strangled by 

love,

its confines restricting her

flighty soul;

she knows life is flowing, and

while she plays at

happy marriage,

her heart thuds

to the rhythm of the

dull melody.

They say a restless body

can hide a peaceful soul,

but her spirit is at war,

and it will not rest

until she is 

far away

from this life, in which she’s

dying.

 

She steps outside, and

life is dawning,

morning sun warms her skin,

and doubts disappear

as she walks toward … 

who knows what …  

 

Finally, she is part of it,

life is hers;

not for the first time in her 

life,

she is 

moving on.

Letting Go

 

April 7th, 2018. Six years ago today, I lost my precious mum to pneumonia. She was the bravest, most selfless person I ever knew. Most of her life, she was ill and in pain, and yet she never complained. Like, not ever. She was my hero. She is my hero. If I could be a quarter of the person she was, I would be happy. She write poetry. Although our styles are very different, I inherited her love of all things literature. I thank her for that every day.

This is a poem I wrote about losing her …

Letting Go

I sit next to the 

sterile hospital bed and

wonder how she got this ill—

how I never noticed,

when I was supposed to look after her.

I watch as the angry mask

furiously forces air into her lungs,

her body slamming into the bed

with every blast.

Holding her lifeless hand,

I trace the misshapen 

fingers and thumbs.

Memories cascade before my eyes;

I am a grown-up child again,

five years old, taking care of my mum,

(my precious responsibility),

but I was selfish, 

all I wanted was a mum

who could play and run with me, lift me, 

hold me.

None of that matters now,

my sole desire is for a mum who can 

hear me, 

speak to me,

but I know she is lost forever,

so I turn to the doctor and

nod,

and the mask is removed;

the machines switched off.

I’m terrified as I watch her breaths—

almost imperceptible—

gradually fade to nothing.

She is still,

pain free, 

and I am broken.

I look to her face,

and in her very last breath 

she has smiled, 

and I know she has seen my dad,

the love of her life.

They are reunited in death,

and this comforts my shattered

heart.

 

Sterile

Soft, dark hair
falls across her face
as she sleeps.
I watch her chest rise
and fall,
committing every moment of
my daughter’s babyhood to
memory …
this second-born is the last child I shall
bear—
my Sitara;
beautiful, innocent,
but in whose birth
I lost that which makes me a
woman.
Stolen,
without choice,
they took my femininity,
and with it, the love of my
husband …
plans of a large family
abandoned,
half-a-woman
no longer attractive,
dreams shattered in
the work of a doctor
whose job should be to protect—
not mutilate—
at the bidding of a
government
who care not for the rights of
women.

Hobby Horse

 

 

Her baby face fills with
mischief;
dark blue eyes sparkling,
newly grown teeth
poking through her smile;
delicate, blonde tendrils
dancing around her ears
as she rides her horse
that was once upon a time
just a broom.

Salt water stings my
cracked lips;
memory so raw
it bites into my flesh
and holds me captive.

I can smell the coconut
in her hair
and hear her
little-girl-giggles
as she jumps imaginary fences …

Why can’t I touch her?

Life: the saga that
lasted too long;
trapping her in sorrow,
leaving scar tissue
so delicate it
burns
in the sunlight.

These, her final thoughts,
are all that remain
of my baby—
these words and the
photograph atop the mantel
of my daughter
riding her horse.

fragments

I’ve come to realise that free verse, dark poetry is my go-to place when things are tough. I’ve written a lot of poetry over the last couple of weeks, and it’s been dark. I first noticed myself retreating to this place of creativity when I was a teenager. It was the first time I really began writing. And I did it because I was desperately unhappy, and I needed an outlet.

Over the years, it’s always worked out this way. Free verse just seems to flow more—well—freely when I’m depressed.

So, with that said, here is today’s offering:

 

secrets transmitted through
silence,
morse code in static;

tap

tap

stomp

insanity seeds sprout shoots,
instil doubts, and
truth—
that toothless, old man
with brandy-breath—
morphs into eggshells and
glass

fragments of memories—
sharp, vicious—
shatter, then dissolve;
taking with them what’s left of my
m

i

n

d

there are moments within these
stills of life that
p  a  u  s  e
long enough
for me to catch their truth …

how do i change this cassette which
l o o p s
my brain’s membrane?
how do i
stop
the voice who torments me?

fatigue violates my bones;
tearing down walls of ligaments and muscles,
draining blood.

i’m barely here

my fingernails are
starting to ache and
letting go
would be
so

e

a

s

y

the ledge

at night, he crawls through the
crack in the curtains;
false teeth snarling,
rotten gravestones covered in scum,
. . . which one is for me?
i cocoon myself in the
puppy-dog covers
(all that’s left of my youth)
a tremor in my little finger
the only tell of my
f e a r
eyes scrunched up,
years of training bid me,
don’t look . . .
cognac and old spice,
which have no right to
linger on a young girl’s skin,
flip my stomach and
heat rushes my cheeks
as i swallow the bitter
in my throat.

when i wake,
frigid night air dimples my skin,
strong hands grip my arms
and the voice that speaks my name
has that
sexy American twang
i peek at my husband
whose animated eyebrows
dance on his
crimson face,
and like a far-off view
through someone else’s binoculars
the room comes into focus;
i’m an adult
i’m safe
except for the window ledge and
open window
over which i hover.

i step down,
into his arms
and weep.

help

I wrote this poem this morning, after a long conversation with my doctor. I don’t trust the mental health team. It’s not paranoia. It’s the experience of being let down by them more times than I can recall. But, my GP (who is the most wonderful lady) persuaded me I need extra help. I wrote this poem when I got home. It’s just the first draft, with no edits as yet. But I wanted to share it. It’s dark, and I should probably add there are TRIGGER WARNINGS.

 

i sometimes wonder if
at the end
we get some release,
or if it’s the most
a  l  o   n     e
we ever feel …
i imagine a warm
blanket;
darkness
settling over my
body,
swathing me in a soft, dark
comforter,
but will it bring the
relief i crave,
and will it cause
disappointment, or bliss?

never give in,
that’s what the
lady with almond eyes and
a mouth that cares
says;
this is all
transitory,
but what if it’s not?
what if the only words to make it out of my mind
tell me of another option?
well, maybe i have to listen
because those words are important,
that’s why they’re all that survived the
frying of my brain.

confused,    foggy,     bleak
all i really know
one last chance to
stop being me,
a less permanent solution—
help;
not my favourite concept
but one i have to accept
this one last time,
and if it doesn’t work,
well, who cares …

Unheard

 

 

Your words drip with
poison,
hypodermic insults
shot
inside my veins,
so small they
d

r

i

p,

feeding self-loathing tendencies;
killing me

Your words bruise,
each blow knocking the
fight clean out of me,
each strike
battering my bones,
s t o m p i n g  on my
self-respect;
breaking me

Your words slash
razor sharp blades
splitting me open,
slicing through
my dignity,
fresh cuts scarring;
haemorrhaging

My words
fail me,
unheard,
betraying me,
nothing left.

You win,
do what you will with me.