Some days, this day, one day.

There are days when ideas are alive,
And your head is jumping, buzzing and
Overflowing with words and thoughts that
Scrap and fight for attention.
And on other days it is impossible to
Decide if you want a cup of tea or
A cup of coffee.
So the job of the poet is to set traps
That can catch the elusive thought
As it flies determinedly away from
The head it originated in.
And having set the traps, they then need to
Check the traps and see what has been
Trapped in the traps, and see if anything
Has actually been trapped in
The traps
At all.
And then they need to take a word
Photo of the words and ideas and
Set them back free to explore the
World and perhaps meet other ideas
And mate and produce new ideas that
Will grow and teem in some other poor
Soul's head, until they escape and get
Caught in the trap set by the other poor soul.
And so it goes on and on,
And on and on and on and on.

(c) 2ndwitch, 14/01/17

No going back.

Each step is treacle-bound, the effort of
Keeping open those eyes is almost
Greater than humanly feasible. Yet.
Still, forwards, forwards, and still
Forwards, there is no other route.
There is no other way, the roads
That used to be open are now shut,
And the turnings marked 'no entry'.
The white line never ceases, bending
Round corners and pausing. Yet.
Still forwards, the relentless hum of
The engine is mesmerising the driver.
And forwards, only forwards, there
Is no other way. Yet. Yet. Yet.

© 2ndwitch, 17/06/15

History repeats itself . . .

A slow sad song
Sung
By one person
And then another
And another.

A melody
Played alone
That another picks
Up and plays
A countermelody to.

A chorus,
Standing up against
The majority
That do not
Want
To listen.

Perhaps
Perhaps
One day perhaps
It will be heard
And the glory
That is love
Will prevail.

© 2ndwitch, 25/01/15

Time

Small things, a passing word, a smile, the way the sun
Catches on the raindrop'd leaf, small things
Are all it takes to bring the vagrant memory
To mind, and slowly, perhaps, some part of one
Of those memories creeps out from between
Closed eyelids, and slides quietly down
The weathered and aged skin, and pauses,
Suspended between the inward void and the
Infinite outside world, before being swept away
By an impatient hand.
And embarrassed, friends stand by, and
Utter bland and hopeless words, designed to
Comfort or suppress, which is not clear,
But always the words that are meaningless
Chatter and fight, the cacophony hiding the
Soft whisper of treasured remembrance.
That, my friend, is the truth of the rain that
Stands on the snowdrop.

© 2ndwitch, 26/11/14

Toothache

A few short words
seem to be called for today.
Mostly they are ouch and ow
and that hurts and I
am not a happy person.
Perhaps tomorrow I will
be able to write some
longer words instead,
like content and comfortable,
but I somehow doubt it.
Bleurgh.

© 2ndwitch, 23/10/14

small things can annoy

if the notes don't quite fit together, and the pauses
in between jar and fight for space, then
perhaps the time signature is
wrong, or maybe it is in the
wrong key?
if the words jostle each other because
they cannot breathe, and the reader
is left running to try and catch
up, then maybe it was written at the
wrong time?
or maybe the space and time that we inhabit
like aliens in dinner suits, is bending
and breaking, and one day we will wake
up and find we are no longer alive, and
that we have fallen through a gap in the
carpet and are stuck between
two floorboards?

© 2ndwitch, 17/10/14

Fact or fantasy?

The day is, from the beginning, detached.
It does not connect.
Life is imagined.
The day is detached and unreal.
The stroking finger writes a tale on the misted window.
The trees wave their denuded branches in an unfelt breeze.
The day is always detached.
Imagination peoples the hours with faces.
Imagination peoples the hours with voices.
Imagination peoples the hours with friends.
The day is always detached.
Food is eaten and drinks and drunk.
The day is always detached.
If the day stays detached pain will not be felt.
Tears will not be shed.
Memories will cease to exist.
The day is, until its end, detached.

© 2ndwitch, 13/10/14

When the clock strikes thirteen . . .

If the colour of your eyes is a mystery to me, then I
Can only ask the question, and expect no
Answer other than a smile.
If your hair swings across your eyes when you move
Your head, I can no longer ask the question
Because there is no answer to be given.
Allow me, allow me, holding out my hand, to
Walk with you for perhaps on mile.
Your words spin and drift into the sky, and
There they shatter and splinter, and break
Into one million fragments that slowly
Float back down to earth.
And all I do is question, and listen
And watch to see if there is an answer.
There is no answer left, they have all
Been used up and the remains swept into
A pile in the corner of the room that
Does not exist.
It used to exist but is there no longer,
This room has no door but it has four windows
That look out over the restless ocean and
Call the lonely man back to the mountain.

© 2ndwitch, 10/10/14