Cold hands now feed the gilt-head bream
And a mind in sullen sunder.
“Eat up, my boys,” the food in streams
While the skies lit up with thunder.
It’s a hard pill to swallow knowing
In two months we’ve lost some of
The best actors
The best writers
The best musicians.
It seems the gravedigger never puts on the forceps
In between shovels of dirt and mud and misery,
But the gardener waters budding flowers for us
To garnish our tables and nurture our kin.
There’s life in those roots that are plucked from the ground
And even more so when they’re put beneath it.
The pecan blinds
Slow dancing light
Our kitchen boy
Keeping in time
With his dirty mop
The dancing mime.
If you’ve one foot in sea and one on shore
Or asking the question: to be or not to be?
Or at the mouth of two diverged roads in a yellow wood
Or if you stay or if you go?
Alter the wavelength.
When you can hear the sound of
Two black holes merging 1.3 billion light-years away
You’re back on the pale blue dot.
You hope to inhabit Byzantium.
It trumps the stone cottage, the green mossed walls,
Earl grey tea, cold biscuits, the morning news:
Your Scrabble friend just died shovelling snow.
You don’t know who to say goodbye to next.
Family is coupled with Christmas, they’ve
sat you down, had the talk, signed the papers.
“Who gets the cadillac? Who gets it, Dad?”
The soul would sing and clap and dance but the
Hands ache, holding onto the wooden cane
That supports the man ready to be earthed.
But I contest what the old poets taught.
This is a country for old men! They, the
Whiskey drinkers, hardened thinkers, who still
Share the load with Atlas, breaking their backs,
Shredding shoulder muscles, still weak and sore
From when they carried their kin to funfairs.
Pour gasoline onto the dying light!
You’ve got miles to go before you sleep!
There’s weight on those two trunkless legs of stone.
It’s a Darwinian body above,
Hardwired, ripe with age and character
And it breathes and it speaks and it’s writing.
Kidney beans, chickpeas and your novel companions: writing ingredients.
A fortnight of thought, alone with the mind your father nurtured and fed.
With a hand on your shoulder he said, “Brave the cold winters, its
crippling winds and icy persona, it won’t slow you down, boy!”
But that snow wiped your mind clean, cooled the engine
into a white, blank thought; a canvas you couldn’t grasp,
paper that rebelled every word. Nothing developed,
Words began and ended with a full stop for heat.
You wore the Tipitaka to you chest for strength,
food for thought. Your ink and ambition
frozen, your tongue dry and skin
raw, your humour collapsed.
You were never able
To finish a single
“Shantih – “
We’ve not been doing this long and we’re still very new to the community but we’d like to thank the kind 100 followers we have. Whether anyone of you (or anyone at all!) has liked, read or even glanced at some of the writing on our website, it’s a great pleasure to know others eyes have been set on the produce of our minds – and potentially enjoyed it!
More writing to come!
We’re so grateful and pleased,
Both donning a trilby,
Many thanks and God bless!
From Nesbit and Gibley.