Volcano

An island unto thyself.
In a sea of that swims and breaks with waves of discount.
You raise the flag on the mound.
That sword, you bring on down to me.
Yet I build a world around you.
Like a town on a volcano.
Climbing higher for a better view.
Yet a rumbling in the belly of the beast is heard.
Daily, I wait for black rain.
But hope for the sun to shine.
Yet the rumble can be assuaged.
As I climb to the lip and taste the lava.
Kissing your plume of red and dangerous fire.
On high, I can see the turrets of other kingdoms.
Their flags, bound and bright in the tropical sun.
Happy under the banner of the one.
Yet I remain, rooted to the hard cooled magma that is your soul.
Knowing the end, will have me buried like the people of Pompeii.
Frozen in time, in ecstatic pain and awe.

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In death, we shine

Your tombstone bares words that read your life.
Of sympathy, of love and strife.
But in the bones, that lie beneath.
A head of stars sits with golden teeth.
And holds a grand and saintly story.
Beyond the scope of daily glory.
For your own magic hums inside those bones.
Beyond what’s carved above in stone.
Your story is a vast and endless sea.
That goes beyond mortal humanity.

Shroud

Awaiting for the darkness to pass.
For a sting’s throb to relent.
Deep in this cave of uncertainty.
Where the buzz of doubt floods and overwhelms.
Yet there is a peek, a gentle stab at the white veiled sleep.
The sunshine finger of light that inquires into the bowels.
What beneath the shroud is alive or dead?
The smell of decay sits too absently now in the air.
You know what was buried there.
For you killed it with your departure.
Yet as the birds sing their larkening song.
That threatens a spring in winter.
So too the shroud is awakening.
Dropping its ghosts and mangled possessions.
To breathe and live once more.
And taste the April showers and life’s new blooms.

A Funeral of thoughts

An earthy taste in your mouth.
The soil that slips from your lunar lips.
Is a burying of the old.
Broken thoughts grown frail and forgotten.
They’d rambled in your mind like an aged pensioner.
One that no-one bothered to check on.
Whose milk bottles of intent built up on their doorstep.
These thoughts tried to slip away in the night.
Silently and painless in the light of a new day.
In the light you bring.
Those thoughts that are the shadows of self.
From the dark side of the moon of the mind.
Fearful of the sun, that shines from your eyes.
Dirt, on my pillow when I wake.
Burying the thoughts in dreams masked as nightmares.
Finally, dead and buried.

A Calling

This life is a blend of black and grey.
I’ve come here now to take you away.
And hold your hand, in the face of sorrow
You’re wrong to say that, please just go.
There are things here that you will never know.
I always have, the hope of tomorrow.
But tomorrow is now out of your hands.
The pain will come, you won’t understand.
When your heart and soul, will be nevermore.
That’s why I grasped her hand so tight.
We fled right there out into the night.
And she took me away, to unseen shores.

Sky burial

Make way for sad opportunity.
An internal march into time.
Who here has the energy, to battle any longer?
Only kings know when their time is done.
How to lay down forever, which position do we wear?
Tired and tested.
Joyful and sublime.
Making way for time’s sweet blanket.
We do not crawl to the end.
Or lie here waiting for the angels to carry us.
We hurry, back and forth between moments that mean nothing.
In the eyes of god, or the great beyond.

Years subside

Twilight and daybreak intertwine.
Casting shadows and dawn on these eyelids.
People come and talk to me of passion.
Then they linger, and talk to me of death.
I feel stuck inside a moral station.
Watching the trains as I in decide.
I feel a murmur of god, yet the call of the wild.
Battling against the push of gravity.
No longer feeling its pull.
How the years have folded like a napkin in my lap.
Dirty and used.
Yet I wonder. I wonder if I’m hungry still.

Epiphany in bloom

Dark. Night.
Always black when our eyes are open.
The glittering of stars on our eyelids, just moments already gone.
We forget the gates are never shut.
Just hard to see in the dark.
A charcoal covering that we forget is all but soil.
Covering us until we choke.
But we are far from death.
We have a need in the seed we clutch in our hands.
The soil, this space is here for us to grow.
To bury us deeper, like the root that draws up from beneath.
We choose the season, for heaven remains.
Never locked, but moving around the sun.
We look inside ourselves and see the seed we wish to grow.
The worms and the decay, you have the chance to sweep away;
and breathe new air above.
Begin at the beginning, and sow the seeds of hope.
Water them with happy tears, and sweat from being tested.
From a warmth, not from the sun, but from a love invested.
In changing. In growing.
For all the world a knowing; that we create the garden.
We grow what we wish to see.
And they can smell like death or destiny.

Calcination of a dying angel

A flicker in a flame that sets the beat.
Ticking over the tock of a time unravelling.
This flame that scotches the hands that hither.
Trying to love and caress, only to be burnt.
Those feeding fingers that crisp.
The smell of burnt skin and hurt.
Yet a call from within threatens mountainous shifts.
That this life of fire will burn to ash.
And a darkness will follow.
One where we can move without ever being noticed.
For in the dark, we can truly see ourselves.
And I will once again think of running away.

Flowers behind glass

The door to this heart hangs heavy.
Swinging on the ideals of the irrational.
Breathe on this skin, and watch the gold paper flutter.
Lick it down to keep it in place.
They once planted flowers above my head.
Placed little stones over me to mark this grave.
The place where lonely hearts came to die.
Decaying like the rotting buds of spring.
Within, they did not care to ignite.
You touch me but once, and electrify this process.
Kissing me with an electron blue.
Now, as the rains cover my earth, deep within I begin to bloom.
You never left, you stayed to watch the blossoming.
Feeling the florets in you rose petal hands.
And now they watch, behind glass and a stretch of time.
Only snapshots of a love divine.
Walled away and tempered.
While you pick these roses, without thorns.
And garden all through the night.

Short – Folkroot

The crows always gathered in the eastern part of the grounds, the ones that held the giant weeping willow trees that hung mournfully over the grey yawning ponds. The crows would roost and jabber in the trees, squawking up a storm as they watched the silent world of the estate coil around them.
Jeremiah watched them now as he sipped his tea from a chipped mug bearing the hotel’s motif on it, twin trees that sprawled out into veins along the bottom supporting a huge F and R nestled in-between. The pattern was faded on the mug, the royal purple dulled now to a weak lilac like a bloodied gum.

His tea steamed in the cold morning air, the vapour disappearing out of the cup like souls travelling up to heaven. He stood alone by the small utility shed, which itself, was hidden by a large horse chestnut tree. Though he was the groundskeeper for the hotel, Jeremiah had allowed it to grow wild, almost concealing his shed from view entirely. This was his little kingdom, his own place of refuge which he liked to keep hidden from prying eyes.

Not that many of the guests came to this area of the grounds. They were usually drawn to the large manicured lawns where they whiled away their leisurely days playing croquet, or down by the small maze that offered beauty and puzzlement. Still, he did his best to go unnoticed, a notion welcomed by the management who liked to keep the staff out of sight of the guests, yet always close by.

The crows took flight suddenly, a large sound off into the woods nearby traveling with magnitude over to where they were roosted in the bowels of the weeping willows. He watched them take flight, disappearing off into the grey sky above. Setting his now empty mug down, Jeremiah picked up the shearers that stood idly propped against the side of the door, and set off in direction of the ponds. He checked his watch, noticing it was nearly lunch time, and guessed it would take him around an hour to finish trimming the thicket by the fish pond that had exploded in growth in the last few weeks.

He was glad the crows had departed, he hated their cries and clucks that seemed to echo through the air like cries from another world. They were not the only creatures that dwelled in the grounds at FolkRoot, but they were the most annoying to him at least. He could deal with the rats and mice that found their way into the fruit cellars and the drains. They were easy to deal with. They had two cats on the property, one black one called Sabre and a ginger one called Sphinx which would roam around keeping many of the unwelcomed rodents away and the giving the more tenacious ones a new home.

Sabre was a bit of curiosity with the guests, finding his way into their rooms to surprise them in the middle of the night. They would usually find things missing the following day, small trinkets and shiny things that the magpies usually got the blame for. No-one would ever suspect a cat of spiriting things away to keep nestled under cat eyes and fur. But Jeremiah knew, and he knew where they were to be found; Sabre’s favourite hiding place. Both cats would patrol the hotel, getting into all kinds of nooks and crannies. But they would never come here, never down to the ponds. Which was probably why, he thought to himself, the crows had such domain over the trees that grew here. Weeping mournfully into the pools below, crying leafy tears perhaps to those who failed to float, and now resided at the bottom.

Jeremiah knew of these souls, the ones the crows guarded and longed to peck at. He had seen many go in over the years at the hotel, and he knew many more would join them. As he got closer to the edge of the pond, looking down into the watery waste beneath him, he twisted the wedding ring on his finger idly.

“Morning Sybil. How you doing today my love?”

More short stories here

Attending one’s own funeral

Everything in the air, but for a moment; you’re not there.
Dust into dust and the ashes to rust.
Dressed in black, with a wolf under your skin.
The only commitment you have, is the body into the ground.
No one weeps, for that was planned.
The space of you that we now turn to ghosts.
Cut off in the prime of its chaos.
Tried to hide, tried to bide, the time it took to change.
Like needles in veins, it maintained control.
And to the earth we shall return.
For the heavens poured into the mouth of mother earth.
The light broke, smashed and scattered.
Drenching the dark soul of you in fluorescents.
And the shadows slipped away.
And the horror turned to decay.
It all collapsed into now, this day; where you can start again.

Weighted

The only explanation, to the thoughts stuck in your mind.
Is that the fairy tales so familiar, are just lies on the end of sticks.
Princess you are not.
Cracked though, like a porcelain doll.
Washed up in the flood of life.
God didn’t want to throw you away.
So you stay.
Married and marred to another, while the butterflies escape.
And the eyes of others, circle like filthy black birds.
Keep your eyes open, and follow the stars in the sky.
For the earth will only replace yours with little lights.
Dull black candles.
While the stardust flutters away.

Funeral bliss

Though the day was cold, the hearts were warm.
Burning like a desert isle.
Gold teeth chattered, catching the light and chewing on well-worn stories.
They plundered the past like pirates.
Each memory a jewel.
Each story a fable.
Colour struck you in the face as the reds and yellows paraded the town.
And as they lowered the body down.
An empty coffin. The flesh had fled hours before.
The soul only lingered out of curiosity.
Enamoured by the tulip dance on the telephone wires.
Long distance.
A shuffling then of souls still breathing
Their own bones twitched to jazz beats and sweet treats.
The partying departure for a man long since dead.
What covering could convey how they felt?
A cotton candied coat to keep him warm in death.
The tiny pebbles they had collected, each one dipped in honey.
Sheltering the coffin in rocks and shells.
No one spoke of goodbyes.
No one’s eyes released a cry.
As the stars above collapsed into fireworks.
And they dyed the sky.

The Signal

A signal came, deep and low.
It really came aeons ago.
But only dinosaurs ever heard the sound.
As they fell and fossilised into the ground.
And in parts, turned to oil.
All beneath this earthen soil.
But that sound now comes, and harkens all.
A subtle warning, an eerie call.
And reverberates deep in your soul.
This brand new road sign, this totem pole.
Which climbs beyond what we think we know.
For as above, then so below.
And with its promise of great revelation.
Also threatens some devastation.
Now cherish each and every moment.
For tomorrow cannot promise more time bestowments.
So be scared, be happy; but please be smart.
For every end, always has a start.

Veiled

Maybe it was all too much.
This veil pulls me down.
This earth pushes me up.
Bones as thin as china.
Will as strong as Russia.
What religion should I wear?
Which god was I trying to please?
Watch me as this orthodox trips into sunlight.
Unbuckled and strewn about like papers on a desk.
Write my name on everything you see.
For I shall own it.
My signature, worth a thousand jewels.
But then maybe, I shall fade away.
Fall into the shadow of time like a sphinx in the sand.
Riddling into my demise and my own lunacy.
Special to only but myself.
A fading queen of the ancients.
A housewife dead beneath a carpet.
Speak well of me while you eat my bread.
Drink the milk I give and choke on the thoughts I offer.
And forgot me not.
For I was there at your beginning.
And will silently watch you dissolve.
A woman. A soul.
Veiled and precious.
Swirling poison in my mouth.