Invented Voice – A Poem by Tandem
I had to invent
a voice, a new face
last night
Judge me if you please
There was no more
interest in full old
me, old friends
Leaving me by myself
to compose in empty rooms.
I had to invent
a voice, a new face
last night
Judge me if you please
There was no more
interest in full old
me, old friends
Leaving me by myself
to compose in empty rooms.
I loathe
the childish me
who pushes to get
his way,
who still hesitates
to share his toys,
who grins
when he gets what
he wants.
It’s a toss up,
my life in the air
I fly above the swollen earth
looking for a spot to land
I am a restless space
Traveler, uncertain
of true home,
distant stars call my family
name.
As the bubbles stream upwards
from my gasping mouth,
my arms picture frame
everything in thrashing thunder,
I see the bottom of them
twirling like Catherine Wheels,
sending me to Coventry
and embracing the sunshine
petal wide.
I can’t blame them.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Cursing under his steaming
breath, John Ramm is working
through piles of paperwork
None of it makes sense
to his animal mind
but the kindly little fleshy
animal on the other side
of the desk is smiling,
so maybe that is a good
sign
In the wild, when animals
draw back lips and show
teeth, it’s usually bad news,
a hard afternoon,
but here it seems to mean,
I’m doing the best I can
here, so go easy on me.
How many ways
are there to say
Goodbye?
Often, a period
is the best.
Together, they assault
the air
then fall into ashen bits
only to find themselves
blinking to life again,
soaring with heat.
If the heart wants to
live, it lives on; if it lies
peaceful in slumber,
it rests in the pebbles.
When grim old Mr. Sorrow
unsuspectingly comes to town,
his suitcase filled with pain and grief,
wearing his mournful, heavy frown,
rapping with his leaden stick
on the front door to come in,
then spilling all through house
his pain, sorrow and suffering,
there is no holding him back.
It is futile to bid him leave.
He must come in and the heart
must sorrow, lament or grieve.
Notice though how in thoughtless haste
he leaves the front door open wide
and Hope, Compassion and Empathy
silently and unnoticed come inside,
and sit in patience waiting
for old Sorrow to tire or depart,
so that they can begin to strengthen
the heavily laden, grieving heart,
and when Sorrow will not leave
they still remain quietly in the room,
growing the tender heart in the midst
of suffering’s pain and gloom
and though hearts can surely break
or darkly distort in bitterness,
from pain and loss the heart can develop
its sweet, empathic tenderness
and the heart that is too protected,
wrapped in too cloistered a cocoon,
is a heart denied the opportunity
for beautiful things to blossom and bloom.
What they give
is more than enough
to chew.
I have to spit some
out.
For fear of drowning.
That’s the way it works
sometimes.
There’s famine
then too much feast.
As if returning from Kings Cross or Grand Central Station
The surrealist event that had witnesses the comings and goings
Of the likes of you and the other people there.
not me not us – or so we thought.
We drove back in the car somehow occupied with elephants
and capsules of words, we had failed to think of,
or just had not said. The night, just an old billiard table
full of holes where the hopes had escaped.
The drive home from the hospice. With some personal effects
That had taken on a new dimension since the ‘ending’
Thoughts, exclamations, laughter
And all manner of paroxysm, strangely absent.
The terminus: was a double ending (we’d never return)
The paths would cross we’d go on and on for forever…?
for the likes of you and the life we had leave unlived.
Not me not us – or so we thought.