Reflections

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

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

Homesick

Lost, within the confines of habitat
Claustrophobic walls of crumpled clothes
Piled precariously: a fanfare of muted colour
Silently judging with their discarded stares

A coliseum of boxes, wait impatiently
Until the fated time arrives
When their contents can feel secure
Enough to settle in one place

The room reeks with anticipation
Cellophane coats cling to linens
Pressed and tight,layered with dust
Suitcases stand guard,uncompromised

Plastic tubs under bags
Lined with wasted potential – regret
Unworn heels, gently mocking
Zipped sneers from suits

The muffled complaints
of vacuum packed petticoats
The faceless glare of ornaments
Buried under mounds

A whole life in storage
Awaiting a place to call home

A Poor Cure

If asked to jump
She would reply, how low?

When told to proceed
Her heels would delve into the mud
Held back by pride
A stubbornness really

It wasn’t until her first day at school
They realised that laughing at her

Wasn’t the best way to cure indignation

Better to remain silent

It’s a strange embrace, these salted leaks

That storm from undaunting eyes

Suffocated fears, gnawing inside

Of which naivety, implores me to share

Begs me to take the untrodden route

To finally confide with secure ideas

A false notion of safety- acceptance

This one will appreciate raw honesty

Emotion encourages the onslaught

Mistaken understanding

Fooled by hormones?

No, I am the fool

SoCS – Real

For anyone not already heard of the Stream of conciousness Saturday: which is a prompt put out every Friday, Β then check out Linda’s blog below

Linda G Hill

My stream this week was encouraged by a CampNaNoWriMo cabin sprint too, so double encouragement, thanks guys πŸ™‚

 

Real

Get real!

Think about everything that you need to get real with today. Perhaps you need to change something in your life or at least be real about it to yourself. Sometimes we get so set in our ways that we lie or at least cover up the truths, even to ourselves.

I get why, I do it too. Sometimes it’s hard to examine our real thoughts and feelings, hard to accept that change is necessary…is inevitable, yet when it needs to be done then it’s hard, it’s scary even. We put so much effort into living out each day with the idea that if we just keep our heads above water, if we just keep moving along no matter how slow, then at some point it will all make sense, it will somehow feel real.

But it doesn’t.

Sometimes the light of day is like pouring boiling water over dusty cracks that we suddenly realise are there. Upon viewing these blemishes we realise that everything we thought was real and honest is now nothing more than a facade: a strangers face tacked on to our hidden desires. A covering for thoughts or feelings that reside deep within, that we don’t simply feel we can show to the real world. so instead we slip on a mask and wear it well, so others can’t see the real you. We might feel alone in this fake life created, yet we tell ourselves over and over that somehow this is better than the alternative. That somehow the monotonous existence of our being is the real world, is our real life, and that wanting, hoping for anything else is too presumptuous, too extravagant.

Do we really want the real us to surface?

To swim free and vulnerable out into the open. To allow ourselves to open up and release the inner beings of our souls into the real world, to allow ourselves to soar and swoop amongst the others. Do we really feel ready to allow reality to test us? Are we prepared for the onslaught of real experience to taint our fledgling emotions, to cast aspersions on our real self, to crush what little fragility we have left inside.

Are we ready for real life and all its brutality?

Let me thing about this, whilst I hide under my rock a while longer.