2ndwitch

A love song

2012-01-22T23:41:00.000Z

The clock goes tick, tick, tick, and in counterpoint the evening traffic

Splashes and mumbles its way along the road outside.

And I sit, in the dim glow of a late January afternoon,

Thinking, my thoughts dripping through my mind

In time with the ticking of the clock.

In your youth, you shouted and cried with impetuous glee,

And everything shone, it glittered, and sparkled with promise.

And you loved. How you loved, totally, passionately, completely.

But time passed, and first love faded into a few remembered moments.

And then you were less rushed, less hasty.

Again you loved, but this time with intensity,

With pain, and with obsession, and with grim determination

Not to let a moment of this important and life changing

Relationship escape your fingers.

And, inexorably, love slipped away, ephemeral and fading,

Until one day you looked and saw only the grey embers

Of the fire of love that had consumed your passing years.

And now, now, sat, with the ticking clock and

The counterpointing traffic, you fear to love again.

Now you like, are fond of, want to be with, but know,

Know that you should hold back, and take things

Temperately this time, one step at a time.

And in the end, it will all turn to dust, my love, that passion,

The embers, the obsession, the glitter and the sparkle.

And all that will be left will be two people, grey with age,

Sitting, in silence, bar the ticking of the clock, and

The splashing and mumbling traffic.

Armistice Day

2012-01-22T23:40:00.000Z

At the going down of the sun, we will remember.

And then, when the sun has set and the neon lights

Are flashing the gospel of discontent, we forget.

The night comes alive as the bars spill out

And the drunken girls sprawl, inelegantly, in the gutter.

The flashing blue lights sweep the streets

And clash and fight with the neon of the clubs.

And then comes the silent night, as dawn strokes

Pink-gold tendrils over the discarded bottles,

And the pools of vomit. But when the sun went down,

Well, then, for a moment, we remembered them.

Bruising need not be visible

2012-01-22T23:38:00.002Z

Slowly and quietly she turns over in bed, and moves just a little further away.

His arm, like a whip, reaches out and moves her back to the middle

Of the bed, and holds her there.

“Stay still, my dear, stay still.”

And so she lies, motionless, praying he will fall asleep

Soon. His hold tightens.

And then he is turning her, and once again the nightly torture begins.

His hands, his tongue, his very self is probed and forced upon her,

And his weight presses her to the bed, she utters a silent

Scream, and closes her eyes.

And when he is done, the talking begins.

Again. As before. And before. And before.

She is ugly, no one likes her, she has no friends, no one cares,

Her children hate her, he hates her, he has to fuck her as she is all that

Is available to him. She is stupid. She is fat. She is putrid.

She is useless. She should be dead. She is mad. She is a failure.

No man could ever want her, she has let herself go, she cannot cope.

And then, in years to come, when the court case is over,

No-one seems to understand why she cannot see herself as

Attractive or of value.

I bite the hand

2012-01-22T23:36:00.000Z

At last, to you, I am not worthless.

But, but, but - - - you measure me by means of

The bottom line.

My value is in pounds and pennies.

My worth is judged by the impact I have on the money

You have

To enjoy yourself.

The cost of things is what matters

To you.

But at long last, someone thinks I am not worthless.

After so many years, to you, I have value.

You see me as a person.

But as a person who is limited by what I deserve;

I deserve so much to be spent on me,

You will buy me such a treat, or such a different treat.

You will be nice to me, and take me out,

And feel good because you are giving to the needy on your terms.

Things, buying, paying, yes, in that way

To you

I have a value, after all this time.

But I am not to be measured by what I can afford.

I am not the sum of the labels I wear.

I am not of less or more value because I do or do not have money.

I do not feel loved or cherished by coffee or food.

I do not feel grateful when someone gives me the dregs

Of what they do not need for themselves.

I am not a charity case, to be patronised and to say thank you

For every little crumb you fancy passing on to me.

I am a person, I have value for myself, money has nothing to do with it.

So really, to you, I am worthless indeed.

One nail

2012-01-22T23:33:00.000Z

And in the tree, one nail

One blood, one drop that falls

And in the tree, one nail.

One blood, one drop that falls

And raindrops, clouded tears

One blood, one drop that falls.

And raindrops, clouded tears

One voice, a cry, raised with pain

And raindrops, clouded tears.

One voice, a cry, raised with pain

And the sky, rent by a falling star

One voice, a cry, raised with pain.

And the sky, rent by a falling star

And in the tree, one nail

And the sky, rent by a falling star.

But in one tree, one nail.

December

2012-01-22T23:31:00.000Z

The iridescent rainbow swirls and eddies

In the water that runs across my path.

Sparkling and shifting under the metallic

Gleam of the steel grey sky.

The gaudy painted van drives

Along rain sodden streets, it’s jingling call

Echoing between raindrops and promising

A taste of summer.

The flashing lights suspended over bustling

People, reflect in shop windows, and offer

A promise that is ephemeral, tantalising,

And demanding consumption.

Spend, spend, and think not of the cost of tomorrow.

Live for today, for tomorrow will never arrive.

And then when today becomes yesterday,

And the credit card statement arrives.

The grey skies weep crocodile tears on the

Queue for the money lender, and the loan shark

Circles and circles in the polluted pool

Of poverty.

She dared

2012-01-22T23:27:00.000Z

She walked through the shopping centre, head down, hands clenched

In her pockets, not hearing, not seeing.

Around her swirled the ebb and flow of trivia and soap and life and love,

Blurred into a constant spiral of colour and monochrome.

The plastic warmth, threaded through with the scents of a working town,

Wrapped itself round her aching head, but did not soothe, and did not calm,

Instead it aggravated the sense of sickness and despair.

She felt the invisible ropes that wrenched and tore, pulling her first one way,

Then another, until she did not know which way was forwards and which back.

And like a trap, the ropes pulled her on, slowly and relentlessly, until

The net of lies and deceit were tied round her legs and arms,

And until they covered her eyes and ears and left her blind and deaf.

She sank to her knees, in silent supplication and appeal,

But there was no-one there to rescue her. No-one noticed, they simply,

Carefully and deliberately, walked round her.

The journey

2012-01-22T23:24:00.000Z

In the darkening of the year lies mystery, and hope

Is buried, brooding and lurking beneath the earth

Till spring. But, like the snowdrops that grow

Under their November blanket, there comes a time

When the cold of snow and bitter cut of driving rain

Are parted. And then, and only then, the green shoots of

Hope thrust through the matted grass, and the pale

White flower blooms again.

The wild of winter winds, and steely slash of sleet,

Are but echoes of the storm that rages

In the heart of man.

The driving snow that blizzards across the

Windscreen of the slowly moving car is but a

Physical manifestation of the storm of words that

Are hurled and flung with acrid hurt from one

Person to another.

And when the blizzard has settled, and the snow lies calm

Upon the frozen ground, the words will settle too.

Life is no tourist trip or pleasure cruise. There are

No guarantees of a calm crossing, no

Certainty of a smooth itinerary. Trains will be missed,

And breakdowns will occur, and buses will not run.

But at the end, when the destination is reached, there

Will be time to stand and stare.

There will be time to rest and be still.

There will be time.

The sound of silence

2012-01-22T23:22:00.000Z

Silence is a powerful thing.

It is the calm after the storm, before the mending of fences.

It is pause in the eye of the hurricane before hostilities start again.

It is the confidence of understanding between old friends.

It is the pain of misunderstanding between new friends.

It is the wall behind which a thousand million tears can be hidden.

It is the acceptance of that for which there are no words.

It is a weapon, brandished and wielded to hurt and destroy.

Silence is golden.

Silence is silver.

Silence glistens with fool’s gold.

Silence is blue and purple and pink and red.

Silence is black.

It is laughter.

It is pain.

It is sorrow.

It is loneliness.

It is love.

It is hate.

It can hurt,

Caress,

Love,

Wound,

Betray.

Silence.

The train

2012-01-22T23:20:00.000Z

The train of life is passing through the station.

Stand well back from the platform’s edge.

Be careful not to leave your baggage behind,

Unattended.

Perhaps the next train will stop you can alight.

Perhaps the next train will stop and

From it will emerge a friend.

The train of life is due on platform three.

Please do not board the train if you do not intend to travel.

And at each station as the train is paused,

The passengers gaze through the windows and glimpse

In passing a scene from another life.

The train of life is delayed, please listen for further announcements.

And as the last goodbyes are called through closing doors,

Another scene has passed, and is complete.

The time together is now gone, and cannot be recaptured.

The train of life will be fifteen minutes late, we apologise for the delay.

Winter's Song

2012-01-22T23:17:00.001Z

When the cold of winter strikes deep into your bones,

And the wind winds its tendrils between your fingers

And clings, tenaciously, to the down up on your cheek,

Tis then you cast your thoughts back upon summer.

The days when the sun just shone, and shone, and you

Thought that you would never be cold again;

The days when the white clouds scudded and frolicked

In a blue sky pool of liquid sapphire;

The nights when you sat beneath the stars whilst

Candles flickered and danced.

And when you creep out from beneath the heated sheets,

And through the window see the snowflakes dance;

When the frost has etched a pattern on the glass,

Tis then you think back to those long gone sun-kissed days.

The days when the rain was soft upon your downy skin,

And washed you clean with gossamer fronds of silken thread;

The days when the breeze blew away the cobwebs of

The winter days long gone, and caressed your cheeks;

The days when the infinite seemed a mere heartbeat away,

And yesterday was a herald for tomorrow.

And in the dark days of the year, the fire burns and crackles

With an echoed capture of sunshine’s rays;

And the silver, blue, red and gold of Yule flash sparks

To give the promise that one day, one day, summer will come once more.

Dublin, with Joan.

2011-04-20T13:03:00.000Z

My great grandmother was a Murphy . .

I viewed the men and women who stood on the waterside.

I gazed at their ravaged faces and the skeletal frames

That were frozen there in time,

Fossilized by the art of the sculptor, and wondered.

Did I, descendant of an emigrant pst, returned as though in homage,

Have the right to gaze on this, this most personal

Of memorials? Was I an intruder on a moment

Of personal and intimate grief?

The Bog People.

In silent hush, but amongst the milling people who were there to gaze,

To look long and long and to marvel,

I stared in awe at the people from so long ago.

Skin leathered by time and peat,

Face preserved in death’s anguish and the

Scream of death preserved deep and dark,

So many years had passed, and yet they lay

As if they fell to sleeping only yesterday.

Death is amongst us all, and will not pass away.

1916.

As though the clock had melted and melded time

Into a swirl of Guinness in a glass,

I stood and stared at the towering walls, the place

That had stood the test of melting time,

Punctuated only by the bullet marks of despair.

Bullet marks; echoed by the round remains of the coins

That were minted before, today, tomorrow,

Currency of time that melts and swirls

Like Guinness in a glass.

The road goes . . .

2011-04-20T13:00:00.001Z

One foot, then one foot, then one foot, then one foot - -

So the journey begins.

Continues, and continues.

Hand held out by a small child, ignored.

Footsteps falter and stumble, but do not fall.

Hand held out by a small child, still ignored.

And the journey, begun, continues,

And continues, and continues.

A hopeful face as the hesitant teen glances round

And waits for someone to smile.

And waits, and waits, and waits.

The journey carries on, and on,

As, one step at a time, the young woman

Ventures to hold her head up high.

Pride, hard bought, ill fought, and fragile,

Vies for supremacy.

Sometimes it wins, and sometimes

It loses.

And still the journey carries on, the road

Now travelled winds and bends and twists,

Climbs the hill, then, when the top is reached,

Plunges down and down, but on, ever on.

And now she slows her steps to the pace of another

Who has joined her journey.

Together, perhaps, or apart, perhaps,

One day the journey will come to an end.

A walk in the park.

2011-04-14T14:18:00.001Z

The heart of the city pulses with sonorous beat,
Whilst at its centre there is a stillness.
A stillness where a man sits
And contemplates the soft, grey day,
And the play of gentle light on newborn trees.

But do you ever listen to me?
Do you ever actually take any notice of me?

The ducks splash and quack their way
Round the lake, dodging boats being pedalled
By indulgent dads for holidaying sons.
And on the bench a man sits,
Eats lunch, then mounts his bike and rides off.

We have had this conversation so many times before,
And it makes no difference.
You agree with me, then nothing changes.

A toddler runs down the slope of the path
And is drawn to the gap in the wall,
Held back by kindly hands from passing through
And joining the ducks in the water.
In princess pink, she holds her mummy's hand tightly
And they walk around the lake.

Do you want to make this work, do you
Even care about me?
Is it worth trying again, and again, is
There anything left between us to save?

Lights flash, pastelled by the grey feathered spring
Fronds of cloud filtered sun, as the fair
Prepares
For another night of loud music and public
Enjoyment, and of candy floss and toffee apples.

It is easier to stay the same, to tolerate
From day to day to day to day the tedium
Of no-man's land that has grown between us.
To live our lives in monochrome.

Standing proud and foursquare over the trees,
Above the lake, watching the fair, and
Glinting a benevolent window-paned cornucopia
Of eyes on the people and boats that play
Around her skirts, stands the hall.

And I am not prepared to live my life in greys
And browns and mists and shadows.
I want to walk in the sunlight, and taste again
The ice cream sharpness of excitement, and love,
And to hold your hand in mine, because
You want me to.
If we can't do that again, then I think
That this day in this urban park,
In the still centre of the city's
Hurricane,
Will be our last together.

(c) 2ndwitch, April 14th, 2011

Waltz Time

2011-01-18T20:25:00.000Z

(A poem for Ruth Tudor)

In the slow waltz that is the end of life, the steps falter and fail,
But the music that guides us all continues apace, no break
In the rhythm, no pause, no endings.
What we knew, the person who lived in the skin we saw,
Whether wrinkled or smooth, old or young, whoever
Or however, lives on in those who know then, and dances
Still to the slow waltz tune.
The words they spoke, the smiles that lit their face,
The wisdom that remains, the folly, the anger,
The pain, the laughter, all remain, all remain.
And our hearts hold the memories that still dance
To the slow waltz at the end of life.
Love does not die, it only changes, grows softer,
Grows moire blurred, less no longer cuts like
A knife. It does not stir the soul, but instead
Calms and smooths the scars within.
Love dances still to the slow waltz that
Is at the end of life.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
Turn, turn, and back, we all dance the
Steps that measure the waltz that is at the
End of life.
It is no ending though, just one more beginning,
One more new dawn, one more new day.
Take it in your arms, and fit your steps,
To the slow waltz that is at the end of life.
And at the beginning.

(c) 2ndwitch 18/01/11

The Morning After

2011-01-16T17:38:00.000Z

Slowly and carefully the day crawls into existence,

Reaching out first a hand to test the feel of the light,

And then one foot, then the other, experimentally pacing

The ground. Last night.

Oh.

Did? Was? Should?

Eyes, shadowed and bloodshot, half shut against the pale

Grey light that seeps past the curtains, slowly sweep the room

And come to rest on the pillow.

The neighbouring pillow in this all-encompassing and vastly

Spacious double bed. So lonely.

Or not.

The clothes, on the chair, the bottle on the floor, on its side

And with the contents now half on the floor.

And the sleep tousled head on the pillow. A stranger.

Even if she has been known for a lifetime

A lifetime has passed since last night.

Memories and regrets, recollections and shared stories,

All jostling for recognition just under the surface of

A thumping head and grumbling guts.

Not again. Please. No.

Yes.

Again.

Evening Star

2011-01-14T12:21:00.000Z

The headlines are there in black and white,

On the billboard, by the kiosk,

Death, doubt and widespread despair.

Less jobs, no hope, car crash, house fire,

And more and more and more, all there

In black and white, whilst he just stands

And calls “Evening Star” to the passing world.

Now and then someone stops and buys

A newspaper from him, avoiding his eyes,

Not looking at him whilst fumbling with the change.

He is not a person to them, to anyone, except

Sometimes to himself. No, not a person,

Just an extension of the black and white

Proclamations

Of gloom, doom and despair.

For forty years he has stood each day,

Six days a week, but not Christmas Day,

And sold the paper to those who want to read

The headlines of doubts, dark days and

Widespread despair.

And at the end of the day he wanders home alone,

And sits before a single bar of electric fire

Watches the news on the television, with

The headlines of death, doom and

Widespread despair. And later,

Walks slowly up the stairs to his lonely, cold bed.

And dreams dream after dream of

Death, doom, doubt, and dark despair.

For everything else . . .

2011-01-12T23:50:00.000Z

I watched them fight, and push, and push, and fight

To try and get that advantage, get to that grail first of all,

To get their hands on the latest, the smartest, the most desirable.

And I simply wondered why.

Why?

Does the possession of silver, of gold, of technology,

Of clothes with a label, or a bag of a certain colour,

Or a car of a certain make,

Mean that life is better, more enjoyable, in some definable way

More satisfying?

I don’t think so.

I cannot feel the wind of gold weaving through my hair,

It does not mingle with the silver sunlight, nor with

The gentle caress of the moon in a star studded sky.

The make of shoes is of no account when walking

Barefoot

On the beach at dusk, kicking the sand and the sea.

The colour of the bag does not add anything to the

Scent of the pines that I walk beneath.

No earthly purchase can bring the scent of the heather

And the peated flowing water to that

Centrally heated designer flat in that centrally heated

Designer city.

For me, I would rather ride the wind

And surf the sun that casts a golden eye

Upon the earth below, and smiles, for sometimes,

Just sometimes, it is good.

There are things that money cannot buy, and

They are the things that measure the success and pace

Of real life.

The Window Shopper

2011-01-12T19:48:00.000Z

Prowling, prowling, slow and steady steps,
As round and round the shops she walks,
Always looking, looking, never buying.
One thousand and one ways to spend a day,
But never, not once, does she open her purse.
Indeed, it remains in the depths of her
Capacious bag, that ubiquitous holdall
Slung over her years-worn shoulder.
They see her coming, of course they do,
And watch, amused, through steamed up windows,
Windows that gaze upon the world outside,
A world cold, and rain-speckled, where the icy fingers
Of wind reach tenderly beneath her collar.
And still she prowls, prowls, on and on,
Ignoring, or perhaps not seeing, the smiles
That are on their faces as they watch.
Each day passing, passing, slowly,
Like her steps, prowling, prowling,
Round and round, days become weeks become
Months become years become a lifetime.
A lifetime of looking and never stopping to buy.

(c) 2nd witch (12/01/11)

The Apology

2010-12-22T18:50:00.000Z

I want to tell you I am sorry, but will you listen to what I say?

I want to say I got it wrong, that my words got sent astray.

I want to mend the things that broke

To make the parts back whole

But when I try, I cannot find a way.

It is all too easy to descend into cliche and the commonplace,

To make the heartfelt words march to an age old tune

That riles and rankles in a modern age.

But even so, it can be the hardest thing anyone can ever say,

Simply - I am sorry.

Trite? It quite possibly is, and yet, and yet

The meaning is surely not obscured by the poorly drawn

And cheap imitation kitten that graces the card

That carries the message that an apology

Is being offered?

Can we draw a line under all that went wrong?

Merry Christmas

2010-12-17T18:42:00.000Z

And now it is the dying of the year,

And the light is brief, and barely begun

Before it has gone.

The streets are shining dull and silver

Grey, old snow and rain mingle

Into one icy sheen.

The lights are on the fake trees,

And the tinsel and baubles,

In shop windows.

The adverts play each night

Telling us that we need to buy more

And more for happiness.

There is so much to do before the big day

Before that pinnacle of cheer

And celebration.

Celebration? For everyone, everywhere?

I think not, not for me, or for you,

Or for them.

The streets are still cold, the cardboard

Is not warming to lost souls,

The rain still falls.

The ones with no home are not happy,

The ones with no family do not celebrate,

They cry alone.

Christmas is one myth, one elusive fairy tale

That each year more and more people

Fail to reach.

Money cannot buy the perfect Christmas.

Because.

There is no perfect Christmas.

There is still hunger, sadness, loneliness,

Cold, damp and pain.

Like two thousand years ago.

Sometimes time.

2010-11-26T00:19:00.005Z

There are times, my friend, times when I simply need,
Need hugs, kind words, perhaps some understanding,
Perhaps not.
Sometimes understanding does not matter to me,
Nor should it to you.
Sometimes it is simply enough that I am accepted.
Cold thoughts linger as the first snows fall,
And on my mind is the turning of the year.
A time when goodwill is urged to all men, and yet,
And yet.
It pains me to lose that regard that at the time
It was given meant so little to the giver
Or to me.
But lose it I have, more than once and more than one.
Is this the time to draw that proverbial line,
And move on, offering to others the hand of peace,
The words of peace, and the begging of forgiveness?
But still, there are times when however much that road
Appeals and draws me on,
I cannot forget what went before, the pains, the laughter,
The words of life, of love, of hope, of hurt and harm,
Too much, too many, the water of life flows fast
And swiftly moves the present to the past.
Yet, there are times, sometime, times
When I need, and crave, to find again the times
That went before.
Time is like a river, fast-flowing and cold,
Carrying me onwards, as I grow old.

(c) 2ndwitch 26/11/10

Late nights and lullabies

2010-11-03T00:03:00.000Z

The radio plays its lazy laid back songs as the night moves onwards

And onwards, heading for the midnight hour, and then down to the dawn.

The soft voice drawls the links between the tracks, and reminds us

Of the times we used to dream of romance and love and life.

The dreams we used to talk of when we sat and drank till dawn,

Are long gone memories, faint ghosts that hover to remind us

How young we used to be. How young, our youth would bring to life

The plans and plots we hatched and hoped would take us onwards.

The rain beats on the windows whilst the wind howls all around us,

And the fire falls in a shower of sparks, and some wood brings it to life.

Nostalgic tunes are playing, and we sing the songs that used to pull us onwards

Whilst thinking with regret of what might have been, and hopeful of one more dawn

The times that passed then, pass before us now, a flick’ring reel of life,

Played back to the soundtrack of the old tunes, and the DJ that sends us onwards

Towards the tomorrow that we once swore we would never let reach the dawn.

Those times are here now, gone now, still to come, and are ever a part of all that is us.

November

2010-11-02T14:31:00.000Z

Slowly, slowly, the daylight grows and lays its dove grey feathers of light across the room.

The window becomes a frame for the world outside.

And within, the house starts to move, to come to life, as lights go on and doors open and close,

And within my heart the sadness, long born, turns over to face a new day.

The November sky is grey with rain, and the sun is hidden behind the space vacated by the moon.

The last remaining leaves that cling to twigs are shaken free, and glide,

Back and forwards, to settle on the sodden ground below.

And still within me sits the grief that will not go away.

The wind is growling, howling through the trees, and round my roof.

It carries raindrops, icy, cold and cruel.

The promise of a winter storm is looming, its omen sobs a warning on the wind,

And still within my soul the damning cries of hell are screaming.

The day grows older, darker, shorter, colder, the tears of rain are proof

That nothing of the warmth of summer can endure.

A longing for the fire, for candles, light to warm the hands and mind,

Grows bright, and then fades dull again, just dreaming.

Regret

2010-11-01T23:31:00.000Z

I used those words to mean what I wanted them to mean.

I failed to make myself clear.

The words flew out into the ether, and spun their web,

And caught in themselves a prey I did not mean.

I spoke my mind, and spoke it harsh and free.

And I was not understood.

The words I spoke dug traps upon the path,

And I did not see in time to set you free.

The pain and hurt of words that pierce and cut with fine-edged blade

Cannot be underestimated.

They slashed and hacked at the web of pain I’d made

And I did not see that you were cut with careless blade.

Words, once spoken, cannot be recalled.

Words can wound and hurt without intent.

Words can build a friendship, or

Destroy it without a care.

I would that my words could be remade.

Ting - ‘bus stopping’

2010-10-05T19:13:00.000Z

There are times when however much I try, I cannot see where to go,

Or what to do. Times when life hits out and hits out and hits out.

When all I want to do is shout.

Stop! Stop! Please let me off this merry-go-round that calls itself life,

And let me have time to catch my breath, and get my bearings,

And to try and see where I have come from.

Is it possible that there could be an end of the nightmare

That I am living in? An end to the bad dream from which I cannot waken?

Stop! Stop! Please can we stop this bus at the next corner,

And can I alight and stand my feet four square on solid ground

For just a few minutes?

Could the days that are darker than night be sunlit once again?

Could I turn back time, repel the tide, and relive the times that have long gone?

Could I go back to when I could see life laid out in front of me,

A map, all routes and roads of promise, infinite choice of ways to go?

Could I go back to when I had hope?

Stop! Stop! Please will someone pull the cord and stop this train?

Please leave me at the next station, to sit and contemplate the words

That Betjeman wrote?

There are times when however much I try, I cannot see where to go,

Or what to do. And the only answer seems to be to ask life to let me go.

Old Woman

2010-10-04T23:11:00.000Z

Alone, the music playing on the radio.
The radio, a voice in the dark hours.
The hours, long and cold and drear.
The dreary tomorrow that relentlessly comes near.
Tomorrow, a day to be again alone.

She shivers, and huddles closer to one desolate bar of heat.
The glowing bar struggles against the damp.
The damp of the rain that falls and falls and falls.
The falling rain that is cried from steel grey sky.
Grey sky, no sun, and still she sits and shivers.

Her purse, empty the day the money came in.
The day she collected her pension and shopped.
The shopping, barely enough to keep her alive.
The life she remembers, and the pictures from long ago.
Pictures, of family now moved on, in her purse.

Day to day, she plods along, with the radio.
The radio that is her sole companion.
The voice that makes her mourn the lost people.
The people who should care that she is old
And alone.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/10/10

With banners unfurled - -

2010-09-12T22:25:00.000Z

With banners unfurled I approached the fortress before me,

And contemplated the locked gate that barred my way.

I stood proud and serene, confident of my victory,

No thoughts of defeat could sully my one perfect day.

I knew I was right, my soul could not brook defeat,

I knew that my foe would soon crumble and fall.

My head held high, I moved to the moment I’d meet

With the one who defied me, who rejected my all.

Instead of success, my words simply splintered, and shattered,

They fell to the ground and vanished like fragments of ice.

My arguments died, I was rejected, my reasoning battered,

And my march turned to shambles, my pride to mere vice.

No listening ear was attuned to the pain of my going,

No kind-looking eye was concerned with my stumbling steps.

No last-minute mercy was offered, no tenderness growing,

And no vestige of hope was preserved ere I left.

Again and again this pattern has set down before me,

Again and again this map has been how I am sent.

No replay of loving, no kindness has oft reassured me,

But the harshness of hatred is the truth that is meant.

With banners unfurled, but drooping with sadness and heartbreak,

I stumble away from the scene of another mistake.

Chance encounter

2010-09-11T11:54:00.001Z

I was wandering, not quite so lonely as a cloud,

But aimlessly round some parts of the online world,

That I visit only now and then.

And saw you.

Cold water.

Shock.

I was shaking, and again

The pain inside my heart reared its head.

A simple chance encounter to reinforce

The knowledge of what has been lost.

Why should I care?

I do not know, but care I do.

About you.

That idle walk along familiar lanes

Long visited, safe and secure,

Suddenly the ground shook beneath my virtual feet,

And the safety was smashed around me

Like a cast off bottle of wine

From a passing drunk.

The act of being reminded of something painful

Has a number of interesting consequences;

Not the least of which is a maudlin

Tendency to descend

Into cliche and hackneyed phrase!

At daylight's gate

2010-09-10T23:53:00.002Z

Each day there comes a time when night is nigh,

When thoughts turn melancholic and subdued,

For then the pains of day will soon pass by,

And slumbers mask the hurts that would intrude.

The evening hours are purple, blue and grey,

The shades of night turn silver by the moon.

The painful thoughts that razor’d sharp the day,

Will hide, short hours, that fleeting, pass too soon.

However hard we seek the night’s cool gaze,

We cannot hide our worries from our sight,

For time, relentless, marches on and on.

No stars can cast adrift the sun’s bright rays,

The sins we seek to hide are bathed in light,

And any hope of sympathy is gone.

Found and Lost

2010-09-10T22:01:00.001Z

These things I have found: the joy of a smile,

The challenge of an opposing point of view,

The humour in strong drink,

The pathos in food,

The chance to wander far without taking a step,

The challenge to get up and walk to somewhere new,

The pleasure of long nights,

The torture of long nights,

The knowledge that however long the night

Comes eventually the day.

And these things I have lost: the joy of your smile,

The challenge of fighting you for the argument’s sake,

The knowledge of the pain of strong drink,

The pleasure of retreat into food,

The wandering of the active mind,

The desire to explore new pastures,

The longer the night the less the pleasure,

The longer the night the greater the pain,

And the hope that, however long the night, there will

Come eventually the day.

Ghosts

2010-09-10T19:54:00.003Z

The ghost of what we were walks before me

On the path from where I am towards somewhere.

The ghost of all you said is running circles