They would always say look dear boy
Do not wish your life away, looking within
Themselves with a look of regret.
They are all just yellowing pictures now
Peering eternally from the top of the piano.
Occasionally I softly finger the dusty Ivory
coloured keys, It does not matter
That the sound is strained and out of tune
It’s the vibrations, deep and reverberating.
The centre picture holds my fathers face
Wind swept and happy, my mother loosely
Holding his hand, she had no reason to think
Otherwise. Looking at the photo, it’s hard
To hate him, at that moment, under a
Crumbling roman ruin he made my mother
Happy. He is saying something to the camera
And I am sure it’s not a drunken “fuck you”
Inocence
Wednesday 30 April 2008
Dressing for Death
White had always served me well:
Enhancing the parts that have now let me down.
Harold always said he loved my breasts
He died a happy man.
Parading in the bedroom, bones crack
Like rotten twigs,
Last years weekly squash sessions
Seem someone else’s memory.
This face that the mirror takes no pity on
Hangs, weak, and frail
A shadow of its once healthy self.
I married in white, making a pact with my man
Now death waits patiently to take my hand.
Everything has become a symbol of demise
The tube of toothpaste
Which lessens as it’s eaten away
The rotting apples on the table,
My hair which dams the plug hole.
And this dress, white with cherished memories
Now a sheet hanging.
Who to wear it for?
For those that will mourn my passing
To lessen the impact of my withered form
For Me? To ensure a little dignity.
Two weeks, Two Months
It’s hard to say,
Even for the nominated doctor.
Black seems too formal.
I first made love in black
A sleek silk dress,
I remember it drooped on the floor
Smirking back at me.
Yellow too bright for such an occasion
Green is too mocking
Red is blood, which will
Soon no longer flow.
The mirror softens
Is must sense my inability to decide
Sunlight falls upon the diamonds
Of the dress
And for a moment I resemble me.
Today I shall choose white,
Tomorrow should it come
Might see me in lavender
Harold would moan
half his life was spent
Waiting whilst I got dressed.
Will Death
Remain as patient.
Enhancing the parts that have now let me down.
Harold always said he loved my breasts
He died a happy man.
Parading in the bedroom, bones crack
Like rotten twigs,
Last years weekly squash sessions
Seem someone else’s memory.
This face that the mirror takes no pity on
Hangs, weak, and frail
A shadow of its once healthy self.
I married in white, making a pact with my man
Now death waits patiently to take my hand.
Everything has become a symbol of demise
The tube of toothpaste
Which lessens as it’s eaten away
The rotting apples on the table,
My hair which dams the plug hole.
And this dress, white with cherished memories
Now a sheet hanging.
Who to wear it for?
For those that will mourn my passing
To lessen the impact of my withered form
For Me? To ensure a little dignity.
Two weeks, Two Months
It’s hard to say,
Even for the nominated doctor.
Black seems too formal.
I first made love in black
A sleek silk dress,
I remember it drooped on the floor
Smirking back at me.
Yellow too bright for such an occasion
Green is too mocking
Red is blood, which will
Soon no longer flow.
The mirror softens
Is must sense my inability to decide
Sunlight falls upon the diamonds
Of the dress
And for a moment I resemble me.
Today I shall choose white,
Tomorrow should it come
Might see me in lavender
Harold would moan
half his life was spent
Waiting whilst I got dressed.
Will Death
Remain as patient.
Family Meal
He told us over dinner one evening
In between mouthfuls of pork chop
Said he had cancer, calm and distanced
Like it was our great uncles cousin.
Of course mother knew, the way she
Lowered her fork, heavy yet slow.
It was the first time I’d seen her elbows
Rest upon the table, hands together
Fingers entwined, like a nun in prayer.
Our Steve began to cry. His blue eyes
Lost behind great exaggerated sobs
It wasn’t the talk of cancer
He cried for the silence, for the unnatural
Mood that hung above us
Like smog over a country field.
.
Sounds unheard since mothers first borne
Seeped out from the silence
The thud of the clocks hand echoed
Hidden timber creaked with age
.The possibility of death
Whispering from within the walls
We left the table like strangers
Dispersing upon our own private grief.
All that we had taken for granted
Was scraped away with the remains of the meal.
Later that evening they washed up together;
Only when father dropped a plate
Did my mother, picking up the shattered pieces
Begin to cry.
In between mouthfuls of pork chop
Said he had cancer, calm and distanced
Like it was our great uncles cousin.
Of course mother knew, the way she
Lowered her fork, heavy yet slow.
It was the first time I’d seen her elbows
Rest upon the table, hands together
Fingers entwined, like a nun in prayer.
Our Steve began to cry. His blue eyes
Lost behind great exaggerated sobs
It wasn’t the talk of cancer
He cried for the silence, for the unnatural
Mood that hung above us
Like smog over a country field.
.
Sounds unheard since mothers first borne
Seeped out from the silence
The thud of the clocks hand echoed
Hidden timber creaked with age
.The possibility of death
Whispering from within the walls
We left the table like strangers
Dispersing upon our own private grief.
All that we had taken for granted
Was scraped away with the remains of the meal.
Later that evening they washed up together;
Only when father dropped a plate
Did my mother, picking up the shattered pieces
Begin to cry.
Old Man, Father, and You
I peel back your mask of wrinkled misfortune
Scanning your frailness, as though it were contagious.
I had so much to say, so much to throw at you,
Yet here you sit, crumpled like a discarded jumper
Silently murmuring to yourself
Unaware that an absence has returned.
I wanted to hit you with my life, how I had made it:
The wonderful wife, the perfect child,
The fulfilling job, the new car., fuck, even the semi
Rented bungalow four miles from the sea.
Words formed then were swallowed like glass,
Dried spittle glistened on cracked lips, misty eyes
Scanned white walls in startled confusion.
In your vulnerable incapacitated state
I saw moments of happiness. Before
The drink, and whores, lying and leaving
As a mother might discover the essence of love
In the sleeping sigh of her newborn
I see a once innocence in your struggled for breaths.
Father
Skimming stones into a dirty English sea
Being my dad, you’d always allow me
To win by a skim or two.
For you was the Atlas of my world
And I adored you.
Standing by the by-line hands buried
Deep inside your jeans, breathing
Deep the crisp February air
There you stood watching, waiting
For that second when leather and
Left foot met, to cheer, to challenge
Those whose faith fared elsewhere.
Out walking not much was said
Yet such silence reassured me,
Words mere fodder when settled in your presence
Every so often you squeeze my hand
A secret gesture of love.
A love for you father,
Superman, painkiller, joker, magician
Gather of tears, keeper of promises
The master, and then the slave.
3. You
Apart from the murmuring we sit in silence
I have no hate to give, the error of age robs even this.
On a piss stained seat sits a crumpled you.
You gaze at a splintered window,
Lost somewhere between then and now.
Your cardigan mocks your slender frame
I reshape it around your shoulders,
Kissing you gently I dissolve you from thought
Crying only when the road opens up and swallows me whole.
Scanning your frailness, as though it were contagious.
I had so much to say, so much to throw at you,
Yet here you sit, crumpled like a discarded jumper
Silently murmuring to yourself
Unaware that an absence has returned.
I wanted to hit you with my life, how I had made it:
The wonderful wife, the perfect child,
The fulfilling job, the new car., fuck, even the semi
Rented bungalow four miles from the sea.
Words formed then were swallowed like glass,
Dried spittle glistened on cracked lips, misty eyes
Scanned white walls in startled confusion.
In your vulnerable incapacitated state
I saw moments of happiness. Before
The drink, and whores, lying and leaving
As a mother might discover the essence of love
In the sleeping sigh of her newborn
I see a once innocence in your struggled for breaths.
Father
Skimming stones into a dirty English sea
Being my dad, you’d always allow me
To win by a skim or two.
For you was the Atlas of my world
And I adored you.
Standing by the by-line hands buried
Deep inside your jeans, breathing
Deep the crisp February air
There you stood watching, waiting
For that second when leather and
Left foot met, to cheer, to challenge
Those whose faith fared elsewhere.
Out walking not much was said
Yet such silence reassured me,
Words mere fodder when settled in your presence
Every so often you squeeze my hand
A secret gesture of love.
A love for you father,
Superman, painkiller, joker, magician
Gather of tears, keeper of promises
The master, and then the slave.
3. You
Apart from the murmuring we sit in silence
I have no hate to give, the error of age robs even this.
On a piss stained seat sits a crumpled you.
You gaze at a splintered window,
Lost somewhere between then and now.
Your cardigan mocks your slender frame
I reshape it around your shoulders,
Kissing you gently I dissolve you from thought
Crying only when the road opens up and swallows me whole.
Half Past Three
HALF PAST THREE
Like the last strand of soft down
You are never coming back.
The shift of whispering time
Leaving memories on the sandy
Banks of our days. Each droplet
Represents a tear, every time
It rains, you’ll remember her
Running into the garden snatching
Clothes from the line, cursing
The gods for their poor timing.
The sun refuses to settle today
It has no time for pity- yet all
That is thought, is the way you’d
Smile at weary mothers in parks,
Or how you gritted your teeth,
And broke into sweat, when grating
Cheese. The dog whimpers most nights
Belly up, beside the unlit fireplace
Aware of your lack of presence
Unsure of where you have gone
So my brother I say to you-
At least you have the memories.
Like the last strand of soft down
You are never coming back.
The shift of whispering time
Leaving memories on the sandy
Banks of our days. Each droplet
Represents a tear, every time
It rains, you’ll remember her
Running into the garden snatching
Clothes from the line, cursing
The gods for their poor timing.
The sun refuses to settle today
It has no time for pity- yet all
That is thought, is the way you’d
Smile at weary mothers in parks,
Or how you gritted your teeth,
And broke into sweat, when grating
Cheese. The dog whimpers most nights
Belly up, beside the unlit fireplace
Aware of your lack of presence
Unsure of where you have gone
So my brother I say to you-
At least you have the memories.
Death Whiskey and Morning
“It left its boot mark on me at an early age, an age
When only the lipstick of loving admirers should have
Spotted my face”
To signify his disdain for my moments of wandering mind,
With sergeants volume he’d bellow hello
Lingering on the O till its lasso hauled me back to the table.
From atop the daily paper determined eyes bear down,
Shrewd tools of silent power. Far from the look given
When my pale faced mother presented him
A fair haired, wrinkle skinned reason to stay.
Two days later she died, a rupture in the womb,
We never met with our skin, just with the haze in our eyes.
From first hold it was always going to be a struggle
Stern and unnatural I screamed till I slept-
Nine months of waiting, the crib overused for its purpose.
How else to raise a son but by the book
Dinner and maths, evenings of demanded silence
Breakfast and Biology. Love shimmers in the dullest of places?
Can the slap of a slipper translate as concern, all young
Minds are balloon full of hope, he never had nipples,
How could he ever compete? Whiskey for some is danger
I only have praise for the stuff. There is pleasure in
Pain, eight shots down, we became equals, comrades
Of a cruel blow. Watching cartoons, cuddling silently
Ruffling my hair. Till morning bullied its light through
Worn curtains, shattering the equality of suffering
Slamming it upon the breakfast table, spilling it upon my lap.
When only the lipstick of loving admirers should have
Spotted my face”
To signify his disdain for my moments of wandering mind,
With sergeants volume he’d bellow hello
Lingering on the O till its lasso hauled me back to the table.
From atop the daily paper determined eyes bear down,
Shrewd tools of silent power. Far from the look given
When my pale faced mother presented him
A fair haired, wrinkle skinned reason to stay.
Two days later she died, a rupture in the womb,
We never met with our skin, just with the haze in our eyes.
From first hold it was always going to be a struggle
Stern and unnatural I screamed till I slept-
Nine months of waiting, the crib overused for its purpose.
How else to raise a son but by the book
Dinner and maths, evenings of demanded silence
Breakfast and Biology. Love shimmers in the dullest of places?
Can the slap of a slipper translate as concern, all young
Minds are balloon full of hope, he never had nipples,
How could he ever compete? Whiskey for some is danger
I only have praise for the stuff. There is pleasure in
Pain, eight shots down, we became equals, comrades
Of a cruel blow. Watching cartoons, cuddling silently
Ruffling my hair. Till morning bullied its light through
Worn curtains, shattering the equality of suffering
Slamming it upon the breakfast table, spilling it upon my lap.
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