Flowers offered from swans

I woke to find the absence heavy in the air.
Ghosts murmuring while the birds still slept.
Fragipan moments speckling my soul.
The beekeepers and dream shapers always on spinning wheels..
Pulling and pushing at this world.
Coating our eyelids with ashes and honey.
My mother’s requiem now gathers the dust of days.
Marched over like a military parade.
All smiles and weeping.
All promised pain.
The fragile state of existence buckles.
Shattering and reforming the world, and each day, anew.
We pull at the ribbons, tightening to shut.
Closing the wound which spills out dragons and butterflies.
This heart cannot hurt forever.
It will not continue to beat infinitely.
Down to the riverbed, pollute the waters with regret.
Cough out the loss and the bones of pain.
Fill the void once more with flowers.
Go on again.

29/05/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, flowers, lossTags: art, death, flowers, future, ghosts, hurt, loss, magic, military, mother, pain, poem, Poetry, swans 7 Comments

Typhoid and swans

Summer days with rain.
A tearing at this side.
Spilling petals and ruin.
A Day with the night.
The moon, coming into view pocked and dusty.
Out in the ocean, cast into life.
Waiting for the smile to flow from a sentence.
Communication, then nothing.
Nothing, then communication.
A constant pulse of anxious disregard.
Release now, free of feelings.
Feathers dipped in oil.
Diseases and love that swallow like a lake.
To eat off of chipped china, filling stomachs swollen with greed.
And such need.
To scrub away the blood that stains.
The candy stuck in the tooth.
We are all but sticks floating down the river of life.
Passing through the weeping willows of the world.
Making our way to swamps, not seas.

18/05/202207/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: change, life, oceanTags: art, change, communication, day, food, life, meal, moon, ocean, poem, Poetry, seas, swans, water Leave a comment

Typhoid and many swans

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TYPHOID AND SWANS

Summer days with rain.
A tearing at this side.
Spilling petals and ruin.
A Day with the night.
The moon, coming into view pocked and dusty.
Out in the ocean, cast into life.
Waiting for the smile to flow from a sentence.
Communication, then nothing.
Nothing, then communication.
A constant pulse of anxious disregard.
Release now, free of feelings.
Feathers dipped in oil.
Diseases and love that swallow like a lake.
To eat off of chipped china, filling stomachs swollen with greed.
And such need.
To scrub away the blood that stains.
The candy stuck in the tooth.
We are all but sticks floating down the river of life.
Passing through the weeping willows of the world.
Making our way to swamps, not seas.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE

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13/11/202128/10/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: change, disease, lifeTags: art, change, communication, day, disease, food, life, meal, moon, ocean, poem, Poetry, seas, swans, water 4 Comments