Kamakura, Japan, December, 2014
when the waves break
upon the shore
with not so much but a whimper
take to heed that
to the speck of sand
transported
from the depths of the ocean
up to the shore
the movement was
momentous and the water,
in its course,
god
This post is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday! Click here to see how you can join in: https://lindaghill.com/2016/05/20/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-may-2116/
however you burn
be it with the fierceness of conviction
or the warmth of compassion
the glow of inspiration
or the brilliance of determination,
do it completely, my child
for the world needs you as much
as you require freedom
your dark that should
be comforting
ends with a slap on
the cheek
or the ass
and you plunge into
thoughts disturbed
by demons of so
long ago
your dark that should
envelope you in a warmth at
the end of a screeching day
does nothing but make
you recall the
hope that
you lost
somewhere in
someplace within
that time when you felt
safe and whole
and now
and now when everything
lay to waste
in shades of emo
and silky
black
your thoughts decline
to the depths
of holy
nothing
You’re like a hangnail
Dangling by a nerve in-shoe
You make me lamer
as i climb the stairs
for the umpteenth time,
i wish just once
there was someone who
could carry me there,
to tuck me in
to kiss my brow
and turn off the light
and say, it’ll be all right
just sleep and i’ll
take care of all.
but when i awake
after a long night’s slumber
i open my eyes to find
everything is the same.
does it matter
that you don’t care?
should i reject you
for my self-esteem’s sake?
you’re so beautiful
i feel privileged
just to be noticed
by the likes of you
let alone to lie with you,
to hear your most private moans.
i think of all the girls
who would be so envious
should i have the freedom
to tell…
but your wife
can never find out
so i must keep silent
and it’s just as well
our private time
is just for us
is it not?
was that me you spoke of
to your friend?
i hope not
…
does it matter
that i don’t matter
or do i?
i daren’t ask
the handiwork of the devil
the condition which designed
textspeak
emojis
put off essays
and eternally drafted plots
and what of the characters
who appear just to die
like the big-boobed blond
in a horror show
without even the benefit
of the scream-and-jiggle eye-candy moment
the writer’s game
is housecleaning heaven
and plodding trips to the cupbaord
when all he needs
is a shower to bring them all to life
a clean start to throw away
beelzebub with the bath water
from musty halls with creak-loud benches
we kneel and pray
and watch through stained-
glass windows
the rain patter
as the voices rise
and weep and mourn
for days of rejoicing
not long past
but apparent is not so true…
the glass once stained with
steady hand and careful grace
no longer holds its colour
for the stain consists
of war-torn souls
and the rain
is the tears
of children orphaned
and the benches creak
under the weight
of ghosts
Stream of Consciousness Saturday: https://lindaghill.com/2016/05/06/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-may-716/
the page is snowy white
a surface of purity
of blankness
but what if the page was green?
lush and fertile
would it be easier to write?
or would I take off my shoes
and run through it
passing off future possibilities
for the moment?
the page on which I write
is marked
with satisfaction
bearing in mind
the bare facts
fuzzy-wuzzy
may have been
a threadbare
bear
Linda G. Hill 