Observations on a Warm Day

As I lie among the overlong grass, I stare up into a vast expanse of open blue sky, pierced only by the fierce heat and light of the giant supernova, and a few listless streaks of cirrus.

Spring has sprung, and the leaves are regaining their colour and vigour. Winter's bare branches give way to quasi-autumnal hues of brown, red and green, punctuated by stark contrast to the rich azure above.

The park is busy with the whoops and cheers and hollas of children at play. The distant sound of a practicing steel band drifts across the plain. Bicycle bells ping and toll as men play with balls and women prepare picnics.

A married couple stroll by, as so many before, proudly pushing a pram before them.

Dogs of all breeds, shapes and sizes freely frollick to and fro, frantically chasing sticks, balls, birds, and any other object charged with the audacity of motion.

Bees float around, the zip of their flight providing an occasional burst of terror for those who hear it.

Boys and girls in fluorescent bibs show off their silky skills as the wind's gentle but relentless breeze adds a welcome coolness. Kites and planes soar overhead, speeding toward their unknown fates.

The red buses unload a steady stream of revelers, each looking to make the most of their days of rest. Hangovers are cured by illicit barbecues, and a few solitary individuals bury their heads in books, oblivious to the beauty of the world around them, or perhaps all too aware of it.

The bootcamp fitness session helps a middle-aged man's rehabilitation, while a young child takes its first tentative steps between the open arms of overjoyed parents, and another learns to ride her first bike.

Ducks flap their wings as their feet skim and paddle across the flat and filthy pond, watched by onlookers sat at benches commemorating so many of their bench-sitting forebears, now deceased. A rare spindly tree hangs yellow flowers in a conspiratorial contrast to the dull lifelessness of the water's surface.

The park, on this sunny afternoon, is at once alive with the vibrant urgency and motionless peace of the season, and each fragile moment holds a special significance for those involved.

She

She's the one who sits there, watching the world go by
She's the one who sits there, morosely asking why
She's the one who feels this way, stifled and striving for something to say.

He's a man who wanders, wilfully whispering words
He's a man who wonders what it is with the bees and the birds.
He's a man that spots her, soaring high above
He's a man that sees her, swooping like a dove

He's the one to notice that she's the one for him
She's the one who knows he'll be there through thick and thin.

He's a man emboldened, who tries to approach his dove
He's a man impassioned, who thanks the stars above,
Because when she smiles her wonderful smile

He's the one to know
That she's the one he loves.

Heartbleed

My heart bleeds,

But this is not a virus.

The aching wound drips

Pain on my papyrus.

She has brought a ram to our collective memory,

Like a wrecking ball, smashing apart shared moments

And exposing my vulnerabilities.

My passion’s open source

Shall no more remain exposed

Lest further piercing damage

Should destroy the mainframe.

The time has come to hibernate

To shut these feelings off.

If not a full reboot, then

A pause.

Some time to reflect, and

Avoid Romantic ideals.

To dodge further pain and a

Potentially fatal shut down.

I Have No Need

I have no need of poesy's arduous thees or thous.

Rather I write with urgency, of me, of you, of now.

A blind man in the gutter, can look a bad man in the eye,

And by each subtle stutter,

Tell honesty from a lie.

No need have I of novels,

Those ambient, well-worn books,

Filled with men who grovel

And baser, low-down crooks.

My energies are draining,

I feel my life blood sap,

‘til, waiting by the window,

I hear the curs’d tip-tap.

Hot rain reflects my feelings

As the tears run down my face

Her words, they sent me reeling

But life proceeds apace.

I miss her gentle touch, her soothing voice,

The tender curl of her gorgeous lips

As she smiles that warm and knowing smile.

I miss the bliss of knowing she’ll be there

To catch me when I fall, no matter where.

And now to learn she found it all a lie,

A blip, a time to cast off and forget,

Is painful, as I watch love wilt and die

And thank the Lord there’s nothing I regret.

I’m doing all I can to carry on,

To keep the pecker up and soldier through.

But life is not so easy once love’s gone

And all you thought you had is proved untrue.

Nonetheless I must march onwards,

Through emotional sleet and snows

And hope I emerge a better man

Who prospers, learns, and grows.

I have not the moral fortitude to take the noble route

And even if I had a gun, would not know how to shoot.

My thoughts, they are all jumbled as I paper over cracks

And pray against all hope that one day she’ll come back.

Haiku?

Containing one's thoughts
In seventeen syllables
Is not always easy.

Razor

Water, a sink, and a crude cutting implement.

As the lather goes on, the blade's moment is imminent.

Warm metal on wet skin.

One deft flick and it's over.

One small slip and it's over.

Fluid ribbons of bright crimson

Create a balm of smooth viscosity.

Hello once more, old friends.

First of all, an apology. I am sorry to say that I have neglected this blog for too long now.

I have been somewhat remiss over the past two years, scribbling away ideas, poems, short stories, and plans for longer works (and a novel), but not posting anything on here. The primary reason for this abject absence is probably that the last couple of years have been a time of immense change and turmoil, of sad ends and fresh beginnings, of love and of loss.

In fact, it is the latter that brings me here once more. I have recently suffered the most agonising heartbreak I hope ever to face, and my coping mechanism has been to turn to the blank page and release my most pressing and intimate feelings onto paper. For very obvious reasons, the majority of this rather personal material will remain in the pages of my notebook, but it has spurred me on to return to my all too neglected blog, as part of a concerted push to improve my creative output.

So, once again,  here goes, I'll dive in, pen in hand, dipping pink toes in that inky-blue sand.

J
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