poetry

The day my MUSic died

I was just one year old when JFK was cruelly

taken, from Camelot formed and doomed like

myth-

i-

cally missed companion.

The day my music died was quite an-

ot-

her: a uni-

man I found myself: an ironing-

board stalking easy day:

the news on terrifying radio as Lennon

lost his right to be the man he’d

grown to be.

The sentiment of loss hit my soul so deep

I never quite recovered from the seep-

ing sadness whenever I played his songs –

or the weary

badness of be-

moaning such loss.

And like famous French cup-cake, these

moments and feelings did mark

me so badly, that the badness and sadness

I feel when I re-

call all the hurtness and pained of one simple

event – a man I never met, a music I used to sing,

a family I so wanted to hug to me close

and bring to my soul

and reach out to my heart

and hold together in woeful silence … and this cup-

cake of emotions is now prec-

isely

what drives me to re-

member and en-

join the spirits of the past: a love lost to the con-

fusions of inexpert times … how I’d reach

out my hand and ex-

tend to your wrongs and in-

juries and judgments, and beg that for-

givingness: the present I should’ve made of the past

of the heart that even so still is capable of

re-

minding beautiful

art.

Standard
poetry

Sad / Bad / Mad / Glad

So was sad being bad?  Or was bad being sad?

Was she evil – or even mad – for thinking the bad ways she did?

Did she think the ways she thought

‘cos she was evil or more?

Or had she simply forgotten what goodness meant?

Or had goodness forgotten to stop at her door-

step – and touch her

fondly nose to nose, as they so used to

wangle breathless

for each other in those days

of curiously breathless wangling free-

doms?

 

Or maybe she’s thinking there’s an easy way out – and, in

truth, there’s no way but sin-

gling and tingling her way to adult idiocy.

Only, then again, she once used to believe so dearly

in love – and its ability to tri-

umph noisily over

everything t-

here was.

And nothing, in those days, would ever

stand in the ways

of a love that

was made in heave-

n-

ing

leave-

n-

ing

moments of exhila-

ration: nothing portioned nor shared

with wisdom or caution, but rather madcap pur-

suit of rose-attached beauty.

Curio-

us lives;

envi-

able letters;

jealo-

us sweets of adult joy sucked glorio-

usly

uncaged;

unwaged;

purely toys of childlike

games … these were days she clearly

treasured.

Days she’d used to measure the rest of the

days she treasured fleetingly

from then.

Standard
short short story

The RE:al thINg

Hope is what she reverted to every morning.  Every morning that the tears had dried from her face, and he’d left for his work, and the memories of better times would return to her being: the being she felt – even then – to be the human she so desired to return to, recall and remember her experiencing of; her sensing of; her touching of; her playing with; her laughing around.

All that daft stuff you read about, you know?  All that daft stuff you imagine one day could happen.

And hope was a curiously distant cousin of true love.  But in the absence of true love’s expression, hope – whilst never second best (instead, something different) – was neither a first-hand substitute.

And nothing had ever compared with the first-hand “then” she’d recalled, remembered, sensed, touched, played with and laughed around.  Nothing in her life had ever matched those moments.  That she had to admit.

Only admitting was so painful: admitting was so hard: the colour of her existence so modernly undefinedly pastel-ways soft.

So every morning, whilst living off love’s distant cousin, she hoped her tears into invisible acquiescence.  And it had got to the point where it felt as if love didn’t matter; or maybe didn’t care; almost, maybe, as if the universe’s quota of love for her had ended up quite complete, like some sold-by dated supermarketed loss leader of cheaply basic produce.

In the grand scheme of her life, a life of hardly grand things, the tears she cried were quite private and quite inside.

But if hope’s cousin were ever to return to her present, she knew that kind of love would never escape her again.

Standard