Sat May 03, 2014 3:24 pm
I used to write alot about trying to reach/achieve something and falling short. It was never a conscious pattern, I never realised how often I ended poems in such a way until someone pointed out that the stories within my poems were becoming predictable.
I went through a phase of writing about the sea as well when I used to drink heavily - the despair/drinking/drowning kind of ideas.
Sun Jun 01, 2014 3:30 pm
I wrote this several years ago, when myself and family had the unhappy task of clearing out my Nan's old house after we had decided that she really needed to be in a nursing home for 24 hour care. Such a sad moment...
A diluted Saturday-light filled the porchway
The treasured geraniums well-overgrown.
A life and its remnants in hole-ridden binsacks
The echoes fell cold on her unfurnished home.
Where was the bear-hug, warm and back-breaking?
Where was the laughter. The head full of perm?
Above me the landing we swung from as children
The heaviest silence where music was heard.
The deeper the sorrow was in her unknowing,
As I looked on with sadness the two worn-out chairs.
She was eating again. She was having her hair set,
But the house of her memories was no longer hers.
She had flat-screen tv now, and music recitals,
And folk in attendance for qualified care;
But no more when lonely, in silence residing
The placing her hand on the arm of his chair;
And there in those two seats, my grandad and I,
Twenty five years ago, given a few;
The sounds of the radio poured from the front-room;
The smoke of a pipe, the smell of homebrew;
And turning, he told me the painting we looked on;
The dusk on a beach scene, a horse and a trap;
It was he at the reins as he followed the tide-line,
On through the gloaming with me at the back;
But standing here now, both chairs being empty;
The painting propped-up in the porch to depart;
I look on the last of the home they had made it,
And carry forever the love in my heart.