Things That Make My Throat Close Over
The radio: Sibelius. Finlandia: the cello dread and brass intent of poems written afterwards, to tumble back before she left, for me to hold the hand and turn the cogs of my salty dog, bereft. I cannot listen without echoes.
The unexpected note my lover leaves me on the table, which I only see when he is far away.
The Grapes of Wrath, especially the final paragraph.
Little kids being little kids.
Children being diminished, twisting into ruined seeds in turn to reap rewards of a festering sore. How no one seems to want to halt the entropy.
Babies made invisible, buried, hand-dug from hot rubble
and displayed to a weeping world; how rarely breaks the circle.
The Cliffs of Moher, where I became a stolen child, held breath, and on my death, take my dust, dash me down. Let me join the drowned, and we’ll roar within Atlantic storms forever.
How Leonard Cohen wrote about his brother.
Things That Gnaw The Silence
That the fire in my belly grows cold. Mellow’s well and good, balance can be happiness, tolerance, acceptance and serenity I practise, but anger’s been an energy since infancy. It’s impotent without the poisoned water. When she left, gloves were down, seconds out, no more rounds, the battle ended. Left empty on a ledge without a word or deadly weapon, looking down into the void. I miss the venom. I understood the venom.
Things That Make A Difference To A Stranger
A smile given freely at the bus stop. A chat about the rain, snow, sleet, wind, sunshine; daffodils, daisies, how long lived, congratulations. Offering a helping hand with bag, pram, jump leads. Apologies. To take responsibility for wrongs that I committed in the car park, motorway, one-way system. Sorry, that was me. Kindness. Simple acts of altruism, valueless and valuable, the oil to the wheels of the world. Cheery Hi’s, Hello’s and How’s Your Days, passing time, giving time to those with the brittle flint of lonely in their eye.
How Leonard Cohen wrote about the cracks in everything.