Reflections

The truth about caring

The silence is the worst part.

I can deal with shouting, or abuse, even violence

– but it’s the silence that gets me.

That simple act of muteness,

cut off from the source, unable to decipher,

blinds drawn around the truth

 – this is the worst part

It cuts through ears and ideas,

slicing finely through facts and fiction,

tugging at heart cords and hope.

A Drivers Graveyard

There’s an anger residing in hospital car parks
A hive of resentment for all that reside there
Centrical drivers in neat little boxes
Filling with fury while waiting for spaces
The stationary lane of vehicle drop offs
Stuck in defiance, wavering conventions
Growling at patients for daring to enter
A system denying all logic or sense
With scandalous charges for family penance

Words behind the face

I wish I’d held you, back then
Paused your thoughts on the moment
And asked what I didn’t want to know.

If I could have the time over
I’d pounce – as you pulled that face,
The one you do.

The slightly aggrieved, silent pout
A look that falls across a puppy’s snout
When it’s squeaker gets confiscated.

A flicker of anger denied,
Followed by deduction – confusion,
And freckled with a whimper.

I wish I could have quashed that look,
Braved the tinged sadness,
Just asked what she’d said

You wouldn’t have told me
– of course
But I wish I’d have asked

Night Terror -Draft

It happened again – my words disappeared
Just like the night once before
I’m sure they were there
all typed and prepared
and left all alone in a drawer
Sometimes they stay
and sometimes they go
Sometimes they just fall apart
I’m left with some words
It just seems absurd
but sometimes they expand and grow

I really should take stock
of all words and phrases
poured onto paper at night
but sometimes i’m dreaming
and sometimes they’re screaming
and sometimes they’re there
– and i’m not.

Yet now i’m all confused
all twisted and tangled
i’m pondering where can it be
There now is a title
yet i’m so confangled
cos nothing is in the body
I remember I wrote verse
It was there in my WordPress
that’s now a glaring blank slate

What I have is ironic
I blame electronics
and hazily pressing a save
All I have is the title
and no clear recital
a vague memory of the night
With old faithful Biro
there was none of this error
just old fashioned words
and smudgy “Night Terror”

Waiting room blues

It’s the smell of it…
Bleach and anti tobacco air freshener
Wafting under unplucked nostrils
Encouraging sneezes to dole out lurghee

From the middle aged man in the black cotton suit
shuffling uncomfortably
To the crazy bag lady from number forty three
Still hollering at the receptionist for losing her forms

It takes all sorts

They wander in
and out of this hive of necessity
Swaddled in winter clothes to stave off the cold
Even though its twenty degrees outside
Yet little good it does them
When seated in the cramped sweat box of a room
Accidentally being coughed on by pensioners
And touched by sticky fingers
stretched out from ridiculously large pushchairs
Tiny lungs piercing ear drums
A generic wince shared by all.

A Weekly Ritual

One, two, three, four,
Don’t forget to lock the door
Five, six, seven, eight
Come on now we’re running late
One, two, three, four,
Change of shoes, her feet are sore
Five, six, seven, eight
I jangle keys, as though they’re bait
One, two, three, four
Clearing leaves from the floor
Five, six, seven, eight
Almost got her to the gate
One, two, three, four
Just go back and check once more
Five, six, seven, eight
Make a phone call while I wait
One, two, three, DOOR
Five, six, seven, LATE