poetry

The Last Remaining Grain

Death is easy for there is nothing to do while living is hard, for you live right up to the moment you cease to live.

Everyone has a story and sometimes fragments of these stories reach us like one did today. The following is a follow on from the post Reg At Sea. We often forget that although we grieve, we are not always the only ones.

The Departing

Crayons for Grandad
as beautiful as the first rainbow who caressed the sky
the weight of the starburst colours,
avid from a delicate hand
waters cries from an old man's eyes
as the last grains of sand
fall
to
cease
and leave him behind.

Safe Cracking

I am hoping to return to painting next week to finish one and to create new one for at the moment I am finding it difficult to write due to lack of inspiration and an old demon gnawing at my bones.

The following is an expression of trying to break the deadlock between expression and repression, to create something rather than repress lock the safe and spin the dial. It maybe this is the key or an indication to write a section of my biography I have been putting off entitled agony. We shall see.

The ------ is used to represent space since due to format problems spaces could not be used when publishing on the site.


Dislocation

A half sentence is strewn
-------- then buried under a biro ink patch.
Funeral pyres are fed abused words
---------until they grate into mountain ranges.
Dislocation pulls at the joints
----------breaks the pen
injects the devil with adrenaline.

Butterfly Collection

My nephews came to visit Sunday and is often the case they decided to turn the garden into their very own playground. I took the opportunity of getting some practice with my Nikon D3000 by taking a few photos and playing with settings along the way.

The following is inspired by the immortality photos give but also the mortality as well. Our images remain but often our names fade given time and the failure to record them.


Historian

A postage stamp collection
frozen like microscopic slides
they stretch decades
like stepping stones
each number,
a fragment of a second
labelled neatly as dead butterflies
immortality is given
but their names forgotten
in the failed electrics of memories.

Blood Aprons

I am following the blog I Break My Heart and there is a simple reason because something in the about box got my attention. "I am not a writer; I write because I am compelled to.". There is a contradiction in there but I understand it in the same way I am not a poet, a writer, a photographer or an artist because I am an expressionist. I do.

The following is inspired by the rawness of the human soul, which often now is constrained because we are taught we must conform; our work should tick off boxes and if it does not, we fail. Much like how Pablo Picasso said "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. ". Our children are free without restrictions and then as we transform them to adults we strip it slowly away.

Art is not a science it is a journey of the soul and with it, there is no failure.


Pie Makers

They bake their pies
set a table like an altar,
white wash their paper dollies with smiles like professors jumpers.
Their clean aprons scorn
when pens bleed, break bone and become
the living pie.

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