Poetry
holidays
I like the feeling of being hot
Of sizzling under the Etruscan sun on a rickety old park bench, cushioned by hopes and mattress, swaying slightly
on the gravel
Treading across the sea of to the safe haven of the freshly chlorinated water of the fountain and the shade of a forest green umbrella
I like the feel of traipsing over the stone, through wooden archways and up worn stairs, listening for the click of the fifth step from
the top
I like to feel claustrophobic under the bookcases
with material ranging from travel guides to the existence of God, classics and magazines piled high and organised
The crisp bedsheets that feel like I’m floating while the morning sun welcomes me and pushes through the window at the foot of my bed
rousing me to wake and start the day
The feel of soft cotton on dry skin and worn cork sandals, a barrage of emotion and melancholy at the thought of leaving such a place
I miss the feeling of that Italian summer and the house that I will remember
for my summers to come
messages
It’s funny how one message
Opened. Seen. Read.
Then left discarded in the library of other messages on the phone of someone you once knew.
Can piss you off to no end.
thoughts on love
Under a damask coverlet in mid-flight, they gave unto each other that which makes the stars fall from their celestial rotation and the clouds weep upon the barren lands of broken dreams and ruined promises. They promised love.
A love that knows no conditions and requires no manuscript to be revised or contract signed. Dreams and thoughts about the future have crept between this sweet space and sparked electrons which summon the winged words of promises
that fall upon the deaf ears of their ignorance.
Love is blind and makes those who partake in it blind too. The love those lovers had promised secretly to each other under that damask coverlet as the stars kept their celestial rotation and the clouds did not weep
for the love they promised was not a love that was true nor changing. Just love. Plain and brittle in the snatching hands of selfish want.
come oh fair daughter of Zeus
Come oh fair daughter of Zeus. She who descends on wings of yoked swallows
Come to your sacred isle of Cyprus and bless me here as I weep at the foot of your altar Come to my mind and cast sweet nothingness away from my mind. Fill me with the untamed madness that overcomes those wild women of the wine god in their merry abandonment on the slopes of Parnassus
Let my mind not rest by the calm lakeside and cool water
Scatter my thoughts, reasons and memories for they have already been scorned by that enemy. unrequited love;
who seeks to pierce the tender flesh of the autumnal quince in its youth of freedom
and poison the delicate seed within
Oh immortal goddess, I have given freely unto one whom cares not for such winged words of love, only for fleeting amorous adventure and stag-like chase of advances
My demise could not have been prophesied those trackers of the ever fixed tours of
twinkling stars, the fates my broken heart or gentle wings of that childish archer that lead the arrow to escape from his quiver
and perforate my loves delicate pool of dark blood
On those soft wings of feather down, soar with my memories of that such lover and allow them to wander lonely
as our mother of the bounty wandered for her stolen daughter
hidden in the crevices of the earth by that cruel king of life’s final journey
Come oh virgin huntress, queen of the hunt and fair twin flower of Delos. She who favours the silver bow and silent stars
Let me join your band of virgins, maidens of the moon and carers of the hunt, let us keep the sacred laws of those who hunt and are hunted. Let us decree and live by our own laws
Hear my prayer you immortal gods, end my suffering and allow me a new life for rebirth That is all I can ask before I ask these, my own fair hands, for their resolve.
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