Observations on Life (and Other Natural Disasters)

A blog for my poetry and short narratives, visit my other blog for random thoughts and also some weird poetry.     Avatar image credits: "Burgundy Background" by Mike Rohde is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/2.0/jp/?ref=openverse.     Header image credits: "Acrylic San Francisco Sunrise" by Bold Frontiers is licensed under CC BY 2.0. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/?ref=openverse. 

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Shall I Shed a Tear

Shall I shed a tear

flick a penny in a wishing well

say a short prayer

dream of ever afters 

sew together a piece of mind

Shall I shed a tear

for fallen brethren in foreign lands

turning in graves of foreign soil

shirts torn, muttering curses

lost truths, unheard

their fates calling, unbidden

Shall I shed a tear

in restless agony

hopeless purgatory

a perjury of sorts

I sin for no one

yet repent I shall

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Bitter Aftertaste

Don’t show me a wine glass, don’t

fill the pregnant

round bowl with Merlot

or Chardonnay, don’t

make me inhale the heady scent

of long nights under duvets,

waiting to wake up to a sea of shattered crystal

and a dustpan.

Don’t hand me a beer bottle, don’t expect me

to raise the strangled neck to my lips, or take

a swig

of piss-yellow fizz,

pricking my tongue as if the lip had not been

smoothed down, shaped to a seam,

but instead left as a crown of thorns,

envy green splinters sewing my mouth shut

with every sip.

Don’t gift me a box of champagne flutes, don’t ask me to

admire the slender stems, weaving patterns

of translucent ivy up to the rim, clouded

opaque with craftsmanship, but resigned

to a cabinet shelf, high,

well out of reach, out of sight, so

my daughter will never see me frozen

numb, drunk on the memories and mistakes they made

and left me with.

We drink our water out of mugs.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Words on a Page

No one is listening.  Your voice is silent, drowned out by the radio, television, newspapers and their screaming headlines, and yet your words are the truth.  They are you, but no one cares.  Or do they?  You take up a pencil, graphite scratching at paper, and the blood seeps out, congealing into syntax and strokes of genius as your mind marches forward, steadily rising from the dangerous downwards spiral of thought.  This is a deadly game, this thinking business.  Why even bother, when the prize for the winners is just as empty and mirthless as any consolation medal; the scythe is bearing down on us all, so why give any more thought to that?  If we let ourselves live, then we will.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

I Miss You

I miss you.

I want to be like them

I want to hold your hand

I’m sure it’s just a trend

Me throwing up like that

And when the new year starts

In boots we meet again

We’ll trace patterns out of stars

As more than just good friends

Anxiety is lost

As is our innocence

Curled up on the rocks

Palms in our holy kiss

I miss you.

Curled up on the bathroom floor

Thought I saw your face in the mirror

I will be happy

For you

I know

You want me to

Smile, love myself

Then maybe I can let myself love you too

I miss you.

You’re right here

Can’t I see that I’m no good at being good

For you or me

I’m the problem and don’t you take the blame for what I did

It’s not like me - that’s a lie -

To take the ones I love and hurt them in disguise

Of someone new

Not true to me

I can’t believe you said you like me

What’s to like

You know I’d like

To follow you home.

I miss you.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Dreams, pt II

It felt like a dream;

when I took the plunge,

fearing not

the consequences,

the ifs, buts, and

whys?

My action was enough.

It felt like a dream;

as I exposed myself to you,

letting you trace my scars

with your touch, fingers

pressing against flesh,

unafraid and unabashed.

And though I know now I was wrong,

perhaps,

I regret nothing.  I took a stand,

myself,

and the universe dealt out my hand.

So I bluffed,

and I lost,

perhaps,

but tomorrow I will learn.

Let me learn from my dreams,

so I must not dream to live.

Instead I quake,

wavering, unsure, uncertain;

Instead I worry and predict and

tangle the threads into a tattered,

broken cloth, tied into a tourniquet,

cutting off all feeling,

meaning.

As I breathe, live, I tremble

to survive.

Only in dreams

is there release.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

A Future

Wake me up

with your kisses, stroke

my forehead, bathed in the morning glow.

Bitter coffee

and heady tea, mingle with dusty oak

and pine

wood flooring, wood beams

criss-crossing over our heads.

Our dungarees and dresses and

denim jackets swap places in the wardrobe;

our wellies, splashed in mud, residue

of yesterday’s dust, sit

side-by-side, my sky blue leaning against your pretty

pastel pink.

We fill our days with life, fruitful,

crooning from every nook,

from the stream that gleams and glimmers

to fields, marked by fences, designated shelters,

where cows drowse and sheep flock

and chickens - well,

the chickens own their coop, paying rent

in soft-boiled breakfasts.

But in the autumn, everything

slows

as leaves drop yellow and faded

and the orchid tangs tart in damp air.

Evenings cool, so we retire sooner

curled up in socks,

a living room filled with cocoa and smoke

from dancing orange flames

making life before our eyes.

I’ll tell you goodnight

with my kisses, breathe

and settle, again,

into gentle slumber.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

When Our Paths May Cross (Part 2)

The street was empty.  With a wary glance behind him, he hurried down the pavement, the streetlights casting ominous shadows where the warm orange glow was too weak to reach, yet also managing to become blinding spotlights whenever he passed under one.  He flipped up his hood, the frigid November night numbing the tips of his ears.  His senses were all on high alert; the bulge in his coat pocket was as good as a beacon, a neon sign above his head.  At least, that’s what he felt it was like, despite his apparent lack of any audience.  But he could sense someone watching, a pair of eyes on his back.  Paranoia?  Perhaps, he admitted to himself, but then again, it’s always wise to be cautious in the dead of night.

And so the man continued walking.

The street was empty.  Her driver was late again, for the third time this month.  She’d have to speak to her manager about that.  For now, she waited by the red-painted iron door that had introduced her to this frosty night, the twitching bulb in the streetlight a mere irritation that hardly registered through her hungover ecstasy.  The performance had been a success, as it always was, despite her constant niggling anxiety that she wasn’t really that good, and that one day she would wake up to find that this was all a dream, and she was late to meet a client at her parents’ law firm, and the chances of sleeping long enough the next night to relive the fantasy were close to zero.  At least the dream was fun while it lasted.

And so the woman continued waiting.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Too Far Gone

I wonder, what do you think of me?

Do you see me as your equal?

Another tormented soul,

hiding,

using words

as weapons,

as shields,

as a noose,

to end the suffering

of existence… 

Am I enough for you?

Or am I merely a mirror

reflecting you.

A negative

to your image,

filling the space in-between 

in grey… 

Even when it’s hard to,

when your black becomes white overnight,

and our inconsistencies match consistently,

like an underused cliché

for the endless day that awaits…

I wear a t-shirt that they won’t like

for them to dislike

like you

do,

do you?

What do you like?

Who

do you like?

Do you like me as 

a person,

a human,

a friend,

a partner

in crime? 

Am I too far gone

in this fantasy

world

to perceive the truth 

in reality, to see 

that we’re just 

who we are, there’s 

no greater meaning, greater 

poetry 

than this?

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Them

And so

It’s over

Before

It began

They don’t know

They don’t care

You’re a ghost

To Them

Their fingers

Lock tightly around another

Hand

Not yours

And so

It’s over.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

The Monster Under Your Bed (Part 2)

“Hello,” you call softly, after almost an hour of restless tossing and turning.  I keep quiet, like I always do, maintaining my pretence of non-existence.  “I know you’re there,” you say with feigned confidence.  I know you too well to be fooled by any act, any lie.  I have lived your life with you, if only as an observer.  I know your stories, your history, as well as my own.  How else would I be able to describe your every action tonight like it was me, like I was the one woken by nightmares, forehead clammy in a cold sweat?  

Maybe I am you.  

Maybe I am part of your soul, the part that returns when you close your eyes, my arms cradling you when your eyelids twitch unconsciously.  I am the part of you that remains wherever you rest your head, the part that calls for you during long, cold nights, when you can sense an absence inside you, that understated sensation of longing, that something is missing, not quite whole.  And when it all becomes too much, when you can taste the bitter brink, I am the part of you that nails your feet to the floor in perpetual indecision.  For I am your saviour, your guardian angel, and I am the one they all fear.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

"It Just Does"

As you get older, things seem to suddenly start happening just because they do.

You need to give money to the government for existing just because you do.

Numbers can be manipulated in ungodly ways just because they can.

Every month, blood leaks out of my body just because it does.

What were once prohibited words now become the basis for all human conversation just because they do.

A happy life somehow gets twisted to mean a successful life, which in turn gets twisted to mean a life with a lot of money, just because it does.

When figuring out who you are, you must begin to identify yourself by a set list of labels with innate connotations attached to them just because you do.

What if I don’t want to?

What then?

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

When Our Paths May Cross (Part 1)

It was time.  Time for what, he didn’t know.  No one knew.  He could just sense a change, intangible; a shift in perception.  A step forward.  He picked up the handgun, the metal cold and heavy, as cumbersome as it was lethal.  It felt unnatural in his hand, a sensation he remarked upon every time he felt its weight.  He went so far as voicing this discovery to the man behind the counter at the shop, his salt-and-pepper beard, cowboy hat and plaid shirt overtly stereotypical as to make the entire situation seem somewhat ridiculous, like a scene in a movie.  The shopkeeper’s noncommittal grunt in response reminded the man of his place in the scenario: simply a customer.  “Take it or leave it,” the shopkeeper had muttered, his voice low.  At the end of the day, it was all about money.  Money, and power.

And so the man bought the gun.

It was time.  The house lights dimmed, the familiar rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins an addictive reminder of the life she chose for herself.  A lone clarinet pierced through the silence, steadily rising in volume as the rolling patter of the snare drum acted as an invitation for the rest of the orchestra.  The velvet curtains sweeped open, a grand gesture as theatrical as one could imagine.  With a deep breath, she opened her mouth, her enchanting voice harmonising perfectly with the music, the aria pouring out of her very veins, her soul once again free to soar, awakened, invigorated under the glorious rose-tinted spotlights.  Every performance felt like her first, every standing ovation as meaningful as if it were the last.

And so the woman sang.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

A Sign of the Times

Is this how they wish to be remembered?

A blind eye

A dismissive wave

An iron gavel

Do they not fear for the consequences?

A dying breed

A damaged sea

A fractured society

When will they learn?

A rising tide

A suffocating population

A barren wasteland

Do actions speak louder than words,

when the words are from their mouths,

but the actions by our hands?

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

The Monster Under Your Bed (Part 1)

You scream.  The bed frame rattles as you jolt yourself awake, your heavy breaths catching in your throat.  You shift your weight slowly, the springs in the mattress creaking in protest as you rock back and forth, quietly muttering to yourself.  I wonder what causes you to wake like this.  What is it that you see?  Is it the depth of sleep that causes the demons in the darkest corners of your mind to come out and play?  You’ve been plagued by troubled dreams for weeks now; perhaps the cause is as simple as an overactive imagination, a horror movie that hit a little too close to home.  Your life appears to be moving forwards comfortably otherwise, and perhaps this is the thought that runs through your mind as you step out of bed and gently pick up the cherished picture propped up on your bookshelf.  

The moonlight seeping through the curtains glints off of the corners of the chrome frame that houses a year-old photo your mother took of you, surrounded by your two younger siblings and a handful of close friends.  You appear to be calmed by this familiar image, your breathing slower and more controlled, your shoulders relaxed.  With a sigh, you curl up back under your duvet, and I imagine your eyes fluttering shut, your friends’ smiles soothing your racing mind.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

A Message, Undelivered

Perhaps one day you’ll be remembered.

How you did nothing wrong

but it was all your fault anyway.

Maybe it’s too late now

or maybe your name might slip

into the acknowledgements somewhere.

I wonder where you’re going

on this path that has ambled on

for so long.

I hope you’ll amend any regrets

so your soul can drift freely

when the time eventually comes.

I’m sorry.

That wasn’t meant to get so morbid.

I swear I’m trying.

But this isn’t meant to be about me either.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

The Weight of the World

Remember being a child?

When you could say whatever,

do whatever,

be whatever,

and no one would care?

When sharing a new hobby 

was exciting,

met with applause,

not judged,

picked at,

a carcass cleaned bare.

Every word,

every thought,

filtered until no longer confrontational,

contradictory.

An opinion expressed,

that doesn’t conform with pre-ordained assumptions,

is only met with a raised brow and bemused lips

like a pet cat that started barking.

I want a punching bag, not a delicate glass ornament.

The predatory lynx inspires me more than a docile puppy.

I’ve written a song… do you like it?

If I screamed, would they hear?

Explanations, alibis;

Every action must be reasoned;

Every reason clearly constructed,

as to avoid any questions from being raised.

Lies are like bridges.

They can get you places,

but beware those

that burn.

[observationsonnaturaldisasters]

Waiting

Killing time,

like it’s the enemy;

a battle to be fought,

and won.

Waiting for the answer,

an impulse,

a sign,

a message from above.

Expecting a resolution,

a meaningful moment,

a feeling

that isn’t numb.

But what do we have

when all emotions

are fleeting,

come and gone?