it is quiet in the place
move from room to room
like a ghost
who never realized he died
it is peaceful in this place
i can see the haze of the day
over my left shoulder
as the air conditioner hums
watching time slip slowly
hearing the creak of a house
aging beneath my feet
and even the cat is asleep
passing away the time

this small town
it was idyllic
but maybe unremarkable
quiet in spring/summer/fall/winter
a place of life
then in the night
tornado tore through
but if you stood at dawn
looking east to the sun
the rain drops on the grass
glistened like shattered diamond
and all seemed well
in the aftermath;
you just had to ignore
all the death and destruction
and pretend as if nothing
had ever happened

I saw light rolling in

Like clouds off the water

Soaking us as we walked

In the morning sun

And Lisbon shone

Like fresh washed brick

As we ate in the café

Drank our coffee

Watching the locals

Rushing past on their way to work

While every sight

While every sound

Was a new experience

And we sat together in silence

Just being

My dreams were of flying

Of jumping from high places

In the north of England

And gliding south

Heading towards London

Just me… no suit…

Sailing in the wind

Sailing in the sun

And then

I was at an airport

And i ran into Grimes

Scaring her in the process

She signed an autograph

She missed her flight

I missed my flight

While a boy got upset

Because they lost his food order

And I woke up

As he saw his friends get theirs

For a moment…I could fly

Who are we to believe

That we should endeavour

To sail upon the deep, blue sea

Leaving life to fully and chance

And such towering powers that be

Where successful crossing

Is but a crazed and fortunate thing

As much a stroke of luck

As it is our own choosing;

So this is how we learn

That planning,  a future we earn,

Is simply us, waiting our turn

To spin the wheel

And hope for the best,

A living of some universal jest

hate is a hole
shot through your self
a sudden absence
where once was life
where once was love and laughter
as if you were opened
like a jar in the ocean
filled with the briny, dark, deep
forcing out the oxygen
and you cannot remove it
how do you remove it?
as the salt seeps into your blood
as the salt infects your brain
leaving a dirge that drones
driving you to death
and the end of all things

none are lost,
not really
they leave imprints
in the world
in our selves
they leave a record
scratched into existance

“i was here!”

you carry them
in bits and pieces;
my mum’s eyes,
they look back at me
your mum’s heart
it beats within your chest
and your dad
those times alone with him
become a part of you
and all that meet you too
we carry them all
in recollected memory
in laugh and language
in stories and myths
legends of the home
we carry them
together and on our own
they are woven
into the fabric of this world
you will smell them
you will hear them
they will touch you
through the wind
we carry them
as they carried us
and those who came before;
i hear her voice
when i speak
so you hear her voice
when i speak
we carry them
in body and mind
in our laughter
that rings out
in our melody
that sings out
chorus and verse
we carry them
they are the flavour
of our lives
that cannot be removed
we carry them
and we pass them on
as we pass on too
we carry them
into the future
and in the end through,
we carry them
as we,
we shall be carried too.

what is light
if it comes out of the dark
but still light?
it still dispells the gloom
despite its source
must we discount it
solely because
of where it came from?
once it is sent forth
it’s no longer part
of that broken parent
it is it’s own thing
with its own value
untainted.

it’s a day
like other day
days past
days present
days future
there is sun
sky with blue
sky with clouds
cars go by
eat
there are berries
water the plants
walk
shop
fix some things
it’s a day

sometiumes i wonder
if the excessive writing
that i do in the day
is to fill a void in the world
an empty, soul sucking, space
that derives us of humanity;
or if i am too full
like a bucket after torrential rain
and all of my words spill out
to be soaked up by the dry earth
thirsty for something
other than gossip and gore…
then i wonder –
if these words of mine
are like water,
what will grow
in the places they have spread?
hopefully that which gives life
but perhaps just weeds
will spring from the ground
and that’s ok
some of the loveliest flowers
come from weeds.