Survivors

Clepsydra 12 & 13 – Pilgrim in this barren land …

Clepsydra 12 & 13 –
Pilgrim in this barren land …

12

… pilgrim in this barren land
     lost in my wanderings
          the wander-lust still tugging at me

in my back-pack
               dusty with memories
                    photos that only I have seen
                         sepia
                              spotted in places

only I know names and faces
     recall relationships
          a mystery to me, an outsider,
               such images haunt me
                    move me in ways
                         I do not understand

the irregular heart-beat
     of my life walks inside me
          down new corridors of time
               fresh music
                    strums my heart-strings

a heart
     a bridge a time too far
          lost I wander the woods
               searching for things
                    I know I must find
                         my lost self among them …


13

… but to find myself
     I must first lose myself,
          not in a barren land
               nor in the inner depths
                    of my suffering mind
                         nor the deeper depths
                              of another’s body

am I nothing more
     than an offering on the altar
          where nothing alters more
               than this interchange
                    eye to eye
                         mind to mind
                              body to body

will the I ever transform
     into the power of us
          together
               both of us

and are we much more
     than one plus one
          with three or four or more
               conjured from the word
                    that was from the beginning

or is all of this
     nothing more than
          the woven magic of pillow-talk …

Clepsydra 9 & 10

9

… what lies behind this attic door
     ready to spring out
           at the slow push of my hands

cobwebbed
     this world revealed
          a universe of memories
               waiting to be called
                    back into life

what life
     the flickering half-life
          of shadows on a wall     

or the alternate reality
     of planets that lost their way
          and forgot how to dance
               around their sun

do they still move
     in rhythm to an unsung song
          an unstrung guitar
               music no one else can hear
                    played by a wandering star

lost the glimmer
     of life’s candle
          adrift on distant waters,
               but never forgotten …

10

… nor seen
     nor heard
          I am amazed by the maze
               wandering
                    among cluttered objects,

my world takes shape
     in a mad hatter’s workshop
          where things grow legs
               walk this way that way
                    constantly getting lost

I can hear them
     chittering chattering
          but I can neither
               see nor hold them

like so many bats
     they roost upside-down
          little children lost
               in memory’s attic
                    where everything ages
                         slowly gathering dust …

Clepsydra 8

8

… those other faces fading
     drifting away
          their smiles their frowns
               melting away into the dark
                    where no star glows

they cannot return
     nothing walks the woods
          save a silence
               where once they strode

empty the hand
     once held out to help them

silent the prayer
     emerging from pale lips
          and unanswered

where are they now
     those who walked
          this way before us
               glum ghosts
                    hushed their chorus

I promised
     to remember them
          but I forgot them
               as one by one
                    they slipped away …

Clepsydra 6 & 7

Clepsydra 6 & 7

6

… I say I walked alone
     along a long lonely road

nobody could cross that threshold
     nor enter that inner sanctum
          where hungry metal monsters
               lay in silent ambush waiting

nobody could share that sacrificial altar
     the single bed with its iron frame
          on which I lay on my own waiting

uniformed attendants
     locked themselves
          behind their concrete defences
               away from the radiation
                    so dangerous

while I waited
     for those circling stars
          that would burn
               and scar me
                    to descend …

7

… and single beds
     were only meant for one
         
just me
     strapped in
          tied so tight
               lying motionless
                    as I waited for
                         the bed to rise …

upwards
     into that dark night of the soul
          and I the sole sufferer
               under a claustrophobic sky

behold my body
     a mass of red and green striations
          burned by pin-pricks of light
               walking across my body
                    follow the red map
                          painted on my body

burns and blisters
     body and mind scarred
          scared by knowing
               all this suffering
                    might be in vain

others walked this road before me
     some never returned
          empty places at breakfast
               hushed whispers
                    faces turned away

when the tide turns
     it brings with it
          the joy of life
               a spark of hope
                    life’s waters
                         resuming their flow …

Comment:
All that happened to me ten years ago – but the memories are still fresh in my mind. At night, I often watch those planets circling, closing in, those star ships, guns blazing, burning my skin. So many of us have walked that lonely path, lain on that bed, faced those demons. Holst’s Planets – it amazes me that the music still plays in my mind, the celestial dance still goes on in the ballroom of my head, and the memories refuse to fade, though the burns on the skin have vanished and are long gone.

Clepsydra 4 & 5

Clepsydra 4 & 5

4

… candles and the clepsydra
     marking time
          witnessing
               the transition
                    from day to night

drip-by-drop
     falling water
          flickering candle flames

less certain
     than the monotonous
          tick-tock
               of a pendulum clock
 
time and tide
     wait not
          for ship nor man

though time is marked
     on calendars
          and prison walls

days passing into weeks
     spring into summer into autumn

daylight lengthening
     shortening
          until bleak mid-winter
               comes again …

5

… black midnight
     all is lost
          who now can count the cost

stiff upper lips
     forget how to pray
          fingers clasping
               unclasping
                    never grasping
                         life’s simple flow

with silent steps
     planets and stars
          slowly turning
               writing out our lives

sun by day
     moon by night
               the sky alight
                    with shimmering fires

midnight curtains
     burning lights
          crazy curtains
               drawn in night’s sky

a lost dog hurls
     his coyote cry
          who on high
               now listens to his call

not the planets
     nor the Archer
          nor the dog star
               who never barks
                     anything
                          but summer’s flames

pity the poor dogs below
     bitches in heat
          waiting alone
               for their lover’s paws
                    their welcome snuffles

locked and bolted
    the door
          heightened
               the canicular heat …

What’s your favorite recipe?

What’s my favorite recipe?

I find it hard to talk about my favorite recipe at a time when so many people in this world of ours are desperately short of food. I get regular messages from the local food bank – can I help them out? And I try to do my best. Alas, my pittance is a drop in the ocean of want and need.
Our local supermarkets have food baskets that you can add to your food bill. These will then be handed over to those who distribute food to the needy. Then there are the checkouts where I am regularly asked if I will add $2 to my bill for the food bank. I usually give $5 or $10.
I see old men sitting at the entrances to stores, a coffee cup before them with some petty cash in it. I also see homeless, workless people at traffic lights with signs held up, asking for cash.
I don’t want to start on war zones, on the accidental-on-purpose starvation of people, on the targeted destruction of homes, animals, and crops. Nor do I want to contemplate the rising prices of what used to be staple groceries and are now becoming luxury items – olive oil, meat, coffee.
While I can still afford some, but not all, luxuries, far too many people can’t. And yet you ask me what is my favorite recipe? Well, here goes –

Take one pound of charity, stir in a pound of love, add a spoon full of humanity, mix with half a pint of the milk of human kindness, sprinkle the mix with a half cup of sugar – to take away some of life’s bitterness, pepper it with ground Good Samaritanism – to add some neighborly love, and complete it with essence of humanity – to remind us that we are still human. Then distribute it, free of charge, everywhere you possibly can but, above all, not just to the needy, but to those who are capable of changing the situation, but for some reason or other, refuse to do so.
Pax amorque.

Solitary 1 & 2

Solitary 1 & 2

1

They drove me there,
passed through the gates,
unpacked my trunk,
chatted with the head,
shook my hand,
then drove away.

The metallic clang
of the closing gates
still lives with me.

How old was I?
Six? Seven?
I no longer know
and there’s nobody
left alive to tell me.

I remember so well
the woodgrain on the desk,
the carved initials,
the loneliness that bit,
the barred windows
of that empty classroom.

2

An only child,
taken away,
left among strangers?

Why, why, why?
Doubt’s pinball
bounces round
my empty skull.

What am I?
Who am I?
Why am I?

How did I become
whatever it is
that I became? 

mea culpa
mea culpa
mea maxima culpa

Was I the one to blame?

Comment:
I prefer it as two poems, rather than a poem and a commentary. It may even be better written in the third person. I’ll have to think about that! It’s always a good way to work. Thank you to all who commented, by email or otherwise! Your comments always help me think, and re-think.

Solitary

Solitary

They drove me there,
passed through the gates,
unpacked my trunk,
chatted with the head,
shook my hand,
then drove away.

The metallic clang
of the closing gates
still lives with me.

How old was I?
Six? Seven?
I no longer know
and there’s nobody
left alive to tell me.

I remember so well
the woodgrain on the desk,
the carved initials,
the loneliness that bit,
the barred windows
of that empty classroom.

Comment:
Looking back, I wonder just how and why I ended up in a series of boarding schools, starting when I was only six years old. What does that abandonment do to an only child, taken away, and left among strangers? I still have nightmares and wake up screaming, from time to time.

Why, why, why? The pinball of doubt bounces round the interior of my head as I struggle to plot different paths, different ways, how life could have, might have, been so different.

I guess that schooling, force fed, made me what I am. But then the pin ball starts again – what am I? Who am I? Why am I? And how did I become whatever it is that I became? Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa – was I then the one to blame?

And then there’s the nights – KTJ

Then There’s The Nights … KTJ                

As a child my days were good.
Full of wonder and being misunderstood.
Growing and learning without knowing love.
But always guided by the Lord up above.
The days were filled with hope in my sights.

Then there’s the nights.

Trying to make sense of my life in a bed I did not own.
Fighting demons no child should ever fight alone.
Dreams of monsters under the bed.
Thoughts of not belonging filling my head.
Longing for a normal Mom and Dad.
Crying myself to sleep and feeling sad.

At 14, I thought I was grown.
Stealing my food and living alone.
Leaving behind a brief life with my dad.
Street life was hard, but it was all that I had.
The days seemed to pass by all right.

Then there’s the nights.

Fear of passing by where the dead lay to rest.
I’d stand with my thumb out and hope for the best.
I was told it was the living I should fear.
But my mind was confused
and my thoughts were unclear.
Sleeping in ditches and dreaming of a home.
No one to care for me, I was alone.

Years passed by as if in slow motion.
People came and went, playing on my emotions.
More than one marriage, with hopes of a happy home.
Each time I was sure I was done being alone.
I kept telling myself life was sunny and bright.

Then there’s the nights.

Sleeping once again in a bed I didn’t own.
Waiting for a husband who does not come home.
Anger and confusion running through my head
Wondering if he was sleeping in another woman’s bed.
I wanted to scream and demand he be true.
But you don’t have that option if someone’s abusing you.

I’ve finally made it to the last quarter of my life.
I no longer desire to be anyone’s wife.
I have my independence and a loving heart.
I want love, but I also need time apart.
To grow and learn and miss the ones I love.
I have been truly blessed by God above.

Then there’s the nights

Sometimes sleeping in a bed, I don’t care if I own.
Nights full of contentment for me and me alone.
I’ve let go of the dream of two hearts and souls
intertwined as one.
Finally, my worries and grief are done.
The rest of my journey will be full of peace and love.

Once again, I thank the good Lord above.

Comments
Yesterday, I posted a painting that KTJ associated with one of her poems, Addiction. Last night, my friend, Moo, painted this painting which accords with one of KTJ’s poems entitled And then there’s the nights. This is the lead poem in her first poetry collection, I am my tattoos. This linking of the verbal (poetry) with the visual (a painting) has been a technique I have used before. The movement between visual and verbal often generating a shifting pattern of colors and images in the reader’s / viewer’s mind. These collaborations between artists are very productive. Long may they continue.

NB If you, dear reader, would be interested in writing for one of Moo’s paintings, just drop me a line, or leave a note in the comments section.

What notable things happened today?

Daily writing prompt
What notable things happened today?
View all responses

What notable things happened today?

One of my best friends passed away today at approximately 2:30 pm. She had been rushed into the Hospice and perished within days of being admitted. Such things are never easy, especially when the deceased person is younger than you.

My friend was a wonderful cook. To mark her passing, I made a traditional Welsh leek and onion dish for my beloved, who pronounced it good. Concentrating on the cooking enabled me to come to terms with a loss that is not only mine, but belongs to her family and the larger writing community as well.

My friend wrote prose, but was a poet at heart. Her creativity went beyond the written page and entered into her life, her relationships, and her cooking. A ray of sunshine in the kitchen, she brought the sunshine of her life to her guests when she presented the gifted poems of her food.

The title of the prompt includes the word “things”. A mutual friend contacted me with news of her passing. I contacted two more mutual friends and we shared happy memories – horas non numero nisi serenas – I count only the happy hours.

Covid came between so many of us, especially the older generation. It drove a wedge between friends, shut out mutual meeting places, destroyed regular reunions and contact. This passing of a loved one, beloved to many of us, helped us reconstruct the spider webs of friendship, allowed us to share our grief, and enabled us to see the world in a slightly different light – one of joy and happiness – joy in the love we all shared, happiness in recalling the best of those moments.

Vis brevis, ars longa.
Requiescat in pacem.
Pax amorque.

And no, Latin is not a dead language.