At Home

 

Ohhh, you haven't touched your Video or the cassette mama !

the visitor kneels beside the elderly lady.

She's looking at the trees' tops beginning to turn faintly yellow, orange, brown, in the distance. 

Hmmmm ? She wakes from her reverie as the tape whirs into action. The colours, the sounds begin to stir her mind, faces flicker before her, but it's the sound of their voices that get through

that, and the warmth of the hand on hers, so gentle, so kind. Deep, visceral memories of love and laughter bring a smile to her mouth, a fleeting recognition to her eyes.

We are memory.

We are only memory.

All the leaves fallen

Red, orange, brown

Each step their sound

My feet touching

 Summer passed lightly

Now we feel the change

Gathering all around us

We walk towards some

Bright light filtered

Makes a cathedral

A shower 

A warm bower. 

Resting awhile, 

We wait. 

 

Small, I'd put my hand up to my head,

Look at the houses down the road,

See from where I stood,

That they were no more tall than me. 

Running to the gate,

I'd swing, its spring was not the thing

that kept me in, 

And time would bring

A marching band 

Along our street, orange they were,

And in my orange shorts, I

Snook out to join them

In the throng,

I marched along, surely this was where I belonged, 

Until the crossroads stopped me short. 

Going over felt so wrong

Turning sadly I saw my mother

Running, crying, tripping after

Choking out my name,

Her fear for me escaping

You might get lost,

You might get grabbed,

You might get hurt,

You stay with us.

Suddenly I realised that I was bound,

Within the love of family,

I didn't want to hurt my mummy,

Didn't want to leave the sanctuary,

Snared inside this net of safety,

Surrounded by the bounds

Of familiarity, I was

Locked within the garden

Of my memory.

Devil Rhyme

 

Once upon a time

That devil rhyme

Took some thoughts

And made them mine.

I used to worry about identity,

Saw its links to authenticity,

I am white and I'm a woman,

Those things about me

Thought they had dominion

over the way I'll always see,

Curbed my dreams of ever being free,

Stopped me thinking about

other ways to be.

The Thrum

 

I listen to the thrumming of the wind

These trees tell stories of a time,

not so different for some,

The climb is still as steep,

Though the hum less rhythmic.

Electricity lays its lines out flat

for us to keep. 

Memory

 

This shouldn't hurt they say,

the scope going in,

Something remembered,

Like some small sin

Putting a thing

in the wrong bin

Realisation blooms

on the rotting pile within.

It shouldn't,

But it does,

Couldn't .....

All done ! they reply.

Yet the thorned thing

Grows

And we cry.

Deep Winter - second draft

The water breaks;

A bird's wing,

Shafts and quills intact

along the shards of ice.

Too heavy to lift, I tip

the basin up

and water drains from underneath

the broken thing. 

I want to keep it intact,

Safe from warm,

Hold it in Winter aspic,

One small, fragile memory

of peace.

 

Today, a new day, a film, a song.

Hidden,

Eyes protected,

Razor sharp brim

foreclosing our reach.

I

Only an air kiss 

for your First Lady.

The wind tries to take it. 

Another moment in which  

regret might rise up too,

Or maybe bubbles of laughter,

throwing caution to that wind,

That hat, becoming

 a frisbee

And you shaking your long hair free. 

                *

God bless those who've been granted power.

May they use it for the greatest good. 

II

Today, a new day,

Sans hat,

but your suit's making a suggestion:

Take Frank's fedora and 

Make your own way,

Tip your world

into a caramel confection,

Cock a snook in their direction 

and

Take us to the pictures

in Your lexicon of clothes.

Let us live twice,

Do it all again,

But different.

Put on some style 

Not your way

My way. 

Looking in the mirror,

Your shoes say

Where's that hat ?

        *

Half Way Up - Second Draft

 

                      About Half way up 

the mountain they sat down to rest because, as he said, this is far enough and the sun's going down. 

She can't remember the ground now, but only the sky as they looked out across the vast landscape, rolling clouds chasing each other alive with colours an ever-changing light show smearing a geranium lake into some fading red ochre then searing chrome yellow following some softening ochre and all the time the depth of blue lakes shining from the wells of a dark blue Prussian horizon. 

Here on the magenta hillside she sighs and smiles " I can get to this through painting especially with pastels it's all there, always there, you don't need drugs you just need to keep looking "  her heart sang out to him

but even before she looked for his eyes she knew he couldn't hear her and that it wasn't the same for him. Perhaps drawing and painting were superficial in his eyes. Later she would remember these shades of indigo and violet defining his cheek too and think about the dark shadow that defined him; an-ever deepening light which placed him in a separate place from this moment, from her. 

Chiaroscuro defining the contrast she felt between all things. 

The arrogance of her youthful exuberance and yearning for mutual spiritual understanding, to be connected with another soul formed a barrier between her self and the beloved dream. 

And some things you don't discuss, like the fade into the muted dullness of a nineteenth century landscape painting where everything has slowed to the drudgery of the diurnal rhythm of life's inevitable graft and the sunlit uplands of our days lie muted by the deep grey cloud that hangs for months above our heads. 

They returned to the area but not the mountain, exploring and discovering a myriad of inspiring things together.  A vault of shared experience and enjoyment gradually filled.

She began to realise that it was history that concerned her most. How places and people evolve, that and the nature of time and she could see that these things were intrinsically linked to perception and experience and separateness began to trouble her less and difference and distance to fascinate her more. 

                                                                 * 

 

Opening

 

Beautiful on the lips

The way a shutter might stick

Pause

Take the picture

Long exposures

Can be very interesting

Yesterday. A Prayer

 

Hidden,

Your eyes protected,

Its razor sharp brim

foreclosing our reach.

Only an air kiss 

for your First Lady.

The wind tries to take it. 

Another moment in which  

regret might rise up too,

Or maybe bubbles of laughter,

Throwing caution to that wind,

That hat, becoming

 a frisbee

And you shaking your long hair free. 

God bless those who've been granted power.

May they use it for the greatest good.