I’m the bird playing outside the window,
I’m the one looking out from in.
I’m the singer caught in the song,
wondering what’s going on.
And then I’m the writer in the aftermath,
picking up the pieces.
It’s my words,
but not my tale to bail,
I take it in as my own,
giving it residence.
the tangible begins to feel intangible,
and my world paper thin.
With poked out holes of unevenness,
widening their edges,
tearing with disbelief,
What can’t be repaired,
never deserved to be there.
But what can be mended,
changes a world of despair,
into a world that was always meant to be.
that could mean many things.
When I don’t understand what I’m feeling,
I check in the mirror,
to see if it’s all in place.
All resting there,
in the crevices of my face.
Usually it’s present,
there in my features,
long before I can make out,
it’s meaning in logical sequence.
It’s painted there ever so clearly,
in my natural make-up,
for that day or evening.
No choice or warning,
of when this desired spurs a meeting,
it calls without greeting.
Draped over my features,
I see its face, contorting my own,
making a temporary home.
Massaging it out,
I smooth the creases,
willing myself out
of its suffocating reaches.
Broken into,finger-prints, someone else’s.
All over the fabric lining of your mind.
by hands, someone else’s.
Manipulating the senses,
moulding the clay beneath your skin.
leaving you reeling ,
in shock and exhaustion.
as you wake up every morning after:
Can I still call this home?
My place of rest?
Even though they stole every sense of security,
left inside of me?
Can I reclaim the home,
I’ve been building for years,
Your body is still yours.
Your mind is still yours.
Your heart has always been your own.
You have permission
and the power,
to let it all go.
Hello, I’m back!
I plan to post regularly from now on, once or twice a week with lots of poetry and rambling in mind. My posts will be in style of my old corner pictures, as well as the style of the above photo — my new poem ‘Human’.
After a confusing 2017 – mid 2018 I am back here again in my happy place of words and stories, ready to post more regularly. I have missed writing and posting regularly on Hay’s Corner, so I’m looking forward to putting my all back into this blog.
*warning – lots of rhyming ahead
Cold people, walking
their teddy-bear like dogs
up and down their chosen suburbia.
Eyes glued to the cement
And one ear blocked,
by the flat screen held in their hand.
All in total disconnect
up and away,
where tin can and string have met.
Dragging their canine companion,
they blindingly walk the full route
up and back.
With no feeling or sweet intent,
they make sure they complete their duty
to the beloved family pet.
We are all piecing it together,
here in this free fall.
But there’s no doubt the quarter-hourly bus is coming our way,
picking us up wherever our whims have wandered,
taking us to the next beginning or ending.
Knowing our destination,
clearer than we could possibly visualise,
and the outcomes more striking than we could manifest in our mere minds.
You know those day dreams that live in my head?
That take me to another place,
away from what could be in this life yet.
Their shelf life is only short term,
distracting me from the moment they’re born.
I have days where that’s all I want to be,
up there in the hazy gaze of my day dream.
Where the wrongs can be rights,
and the weak can be strong,
defying whatever law may be here on the ground,
where we certainly belong.
All for my self-absorbed wants and needs,
who take full charge of all my many day dreams.
Pulling me far away from where I should be,
deep in the voluminous waters,
encompassing my entire being.
Distracting me in their ever changeable bodies,
that warp and wind,
into whatever my selfish heart desires.
Protecting me in their comfortable hold,
that promises me pipe-dreams and love foretold.
But only for a bit.
Once it starts it ends,
then I’m afraid that’s it.
That’s all you’ll feel,
in that short lived victory.
It doesn’t carry on into the next day or week,
or give you any sense of security.
Once it lives it dies,
under no circumstance will it survive,
or manifest into this thing people call real life.