The First Villanelle

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

I need to be in the right mood

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel

Would make my words seem rather swell

Or would it make them far too lewd?

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

Set up a template on Excel

And write until my flair renewed

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel

To help fill in each empty cell

Or is this method far too crude?

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

My head becomes an empty shell

This page is just some words accrued

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel

Ease my failure, not to dwell

Without the poem, then I’m screwed

Oh. how to write a villanelle?

Perhaps a glass of Zinfandel?

Ageless reflection

A faded flourish

Where the headboard should be

Papered cracks, widening with age

Years of flaked skin, line the floors

And still she sits, oblivious

She doesn’t mind the damp

Likes the cool air on her skin

Doesn’t worry about closed curtains

Sunlight is her enemy

It only highlights the wear

The chair complains, as she moves

Humming her lullaby, to the cat

Who cares not for her words

As long as fingertips can still

work a tin opener

Barely registering the presence

Of visiting family

She remembers small faces

Full of grubby smiles

Yet not these strangers

These faces are long

And tired

She cannot contemplate

How they could grow old

Yet she herself, has not.

Wasted my young years

I am wasting my life

I know it, yet I cannot seem to stop it. I sit and I feel it slipping away from me. My get up and go has got up and gone and I have no idea how to find it again, or know if indeed it is still out there waiting to be found.

In my thoughts I am a pioneer, I swoop and soar and plan all things which I could do, list all the things I should do, hide from the things I need to do – yet still I lie.
Curled up in a fortress of quilt whenever I can get the chance, if ever I need not to be at work and sometimes when I should be somewhere else – i lie. Hidden behind walls and I lie, in bed waiting, waiting for something unknown.

I am tired

My bones do not want to move today or ever. I do not want to drag my carcass out into the unfriendly world where it has no relevance, no meaning, no joy. I feel guilt for all of the things I am missing out on, feel bad for those I am letting down, constantly but still I cannot seem to force myself out. I dont know what I want but I know it isnt this – I am a waste of life in this state. Not living but simply existing.

The only thing that brings solace is sleep. I feel I could sleep forever and feel happier lost in dreams for life only brings cruelty and sadness.

Please just let me sleep.

 

Familiar territory

The sun skims the dust

My eyes accustomed to this

And the empty space

Opposing forces

How is it I can feel so much
yet also not at all.
How can you make me want so much
yet give so little.

Nothing lasts forever

 

It starts with a bang
An echoing boom
which hugs the air
Colours crackling uncontrollably
Thundering whips that shake foundations
Glittering lashings of silver and gold
Stars which cascade against the dark facade
The air thick with smog: no smoke without fire
And so the inferno rages on
We are without warning, untested
No instructions, no safety precautions
We are the unknown
A flame ready to be fuelled
or destroyed
Smothered by damp wood
or given freedom to burn
Neither way holds eternity
Either way –
Fireworks will not last forever
The choice is only to stay: enjoy
Or be left with only sticks and cinders
Forever imagining the unseen

 

A Birthday to remember

My sister, today, should be forty

There will be cake and jelly
And small floury rolls
Filled with tinned salmon
Or doorstops of cheese
The table is always lined
With her favourites
Without question
Without fear
Sausage rolls set like dominoes
Pork pie soldiers guarding
Pink pickled cabbage
Half a grapefruit smothered by foil
Disguised: an edible hedgehog
Salad will arrive naked, as usual
Cherry tomatoes piggybacking
Pickled onions on pogo sticks
The trifle taking centre stage
Alongside a neglected black forest gateau
In the background a fence of Lambrini
Hated by all except her
And so they watch defiantly – covered in dust
Until the sad charade is over
And leftover morsels are wrapped
And pressed
Into tubs, for another day

Today my sister should be forty
And yet she is here, but I am not