Chthonic Cycles

 

a calm has settled upon me

the tumultuous thoughts of this morning

have settled somewhere safely in a corner

a part of my mind where hurts go to heal

 

sometimes there is such loneliness in depression

a need for love so strong it manifests as pain

a huge lump in my centre cutting off air

and a blank in my brain where hope once was

 

this morning I walked with heavy steps in the sun

Churchill’s black dog strained at a tight leash

choking me with tales of nothingness and no need

outsider, no-hoper, social-misfit, crone

 

it is true, if you wait, another mood comes

hours, days, months later it ventures in

highlighting a flower, a photo, a word

and a small slither of hope enters the world

 

 

Copyright June 2017

 

 

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Ennui

I can take comfort in the knowledge of an end

when sometimes the walls scream in boredom

and the curtains hang in dusty despair

no wonder people change their soft furnishings

swapping all the blue for warm and cheery colours

and the thousands of eyes watching me from every room

there’s no privacy in a house full of non events

still in quiet times

the thought of death cheers my soul

as I plump up another cushion

and flip through books on colour coordinations

 

 

copyright april 2016

Idle Mind of Saturday Night: Three Poem Blues

sunday slketch

Sketch by Terry Whidborne


One

 

Powerless

She faces fear in feathered form

How small she feels

At the mercy of this so large foe

Must it end in tears

She writes her death in tears of woe

 

 

 

Two

 

It’s magic

Scientific trickery

Outside the moon

Yet here inside with me

The sun beams down majestically

Upon the streets of towns far west

Neither sun nor moon doth need a rest

This flattened world spins endlessly

With a touch of magic

And a dab of scientific trickery

 

 

 

Three

 

It’s lonely

Here on my old armchair

Sipping honeyed tea at midnight

The only one besides myself

My cat demands her share of milk

Then leaves me to myself

With three books all half read

I watch the Giro d’Italia instead

Discontent winds its way past

Buildings older than carven gods

Swaying leers over ravines

Swollen with snow melt streams

Gouging paths in historical season grooves

It could be worse

I whisper aloud to the night

When no one questions how

My inner voices retreat

No point in talking to myself

I’ll only answer full of scorn

It’s your own fault that you’re alone

 

 

 

 

Copyright May 2014