We don’t have words

We don’t seem to have words for this
Kind of tearing, when the life
Is pulled out of your body
As you face another’s departure
And you’re turned inside out
With all your soft parts left
Hanging. And you’re just
Hanging on. But it feels like
You’re falling.

And we don’t have words for
This searing pain. That feels like
It will never end. This primal
Scream of loss as you face the
Terror you never thought possible.
When all your thoughts about
The future are cut off before
You get to see them in the
Flesh. As you peer, confused and
Inconsolable into the blackness
That is left. And you’re left.

And we don’t have words, only
Hope. For this touch of love that
Soothes all the raw places and holds us
Together when we fear we’ll
Split in two. Love that comforts us
In the deepest darkness and is Light,
However dim, as we face the
Brokenness. And yet we live.

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Time Travel

The places I've lived Live inside me Like so many Russian dolls. Their different faces Appear, with a certain scent, A particular quality of light And air. The smell of freshly cut grass Brings England out to greet me. Tennis on a hot afternoon; Cold beer beside a canal; School uniforms; the BBC news; Christmas carols with the smell of Hot cloves. Crashing waves on a wintry beach And Cape Town grabs my hand. The smell of ozone on damp air; A certain vibe, somewhere Between vintage and cool; Sundowners on the stoop, and I'm there. Fresh fish roasting on open coals, Mozambique makes an appearance. A drumbeat heard outdoors; The smell of candle wax Or kerosene; bumping over a pothole; Sleeping under a mosquito net; still Getting bitten. All these places are inside me. Not part of history but Part of my soul. Time is not a straight line of Consecutive events So much as a kaleidoscope, Concertinaed within. And I am all these...

Silence

I think of the poem I wrote, That I wanted to read to you. I think of the way I wanted To ask you to pray with me. And yet my words are stuck In my throat, I can't afford to need you this much. I can't risk the disappointment o f disinterest, The disillusionment of good intentions Fallen flat. They say hope disappointed makes The heart sick, and my heart is sick. And fragile, and full of shadows. But the risk of sharing that with you Is too great. I cannot be the needy one, Am tired of being one thing Instead of many things. I want to claim my strength and perseverance, My resilience and fortitude. But all you see is this sadness And so, I keep silent.

What is Beauty?

Wild, untended spaces, Enclosed. Or open. Brushwood and leaf litter, Thorny. Tree canopy overhead, Welcome shade. Not far away Well-tended villas, Manicured lawns behind High walls. Clean lines, lush green Bright and showy. Beauty is everywhere. We find it, We make it. The best kind of beauty Is the kind we share with others Easily, generously. Like sitting in sunlight Under a tree Content to be ourselves.

Gobble Funking Around With Words

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