A Shadow Behind The Mask

A connection in a time
when there is a mask
to be worn-decorated
as it is, it still hides
the eyes of the beholder.
These eyes, the windows to
the words that flow from
the pen, are mask
by day and guide
through the shadows
by night.

she sleeps,
guarded by
the very light that seeks
to blind her.
her soft breathing tells
me she is sleeping well,
while my own eyes, burned
by the night light, seek refuge
in my notebook and in the
tender touch of her right palm
against my thigh.
she sleeps unaware-
her role
both the guarded
and Guardian.

I still remember it-
You behind the
church building
sneaking a smoke and a kiss
trying to fondle my breast.

We kissed for hours
Your lips, so soft
but I taught you
how
to use them.

If the devil knew your name

would you court him, let him

in to all your secrets, caress

your breath and accept his lips or
would you grab his balls and give

him the kiss of death he deserves?

I imagine you in fifty years

imagining me and what I

would have been if I did

not become a space cowboy

The girl in the pink hat

Sometimes, when you pass someone in the street you can't help but wonder. I wonder about this girl...so here she is:

The girl in the pink hat did not see me.

Her long flowing hair, which was only slightly constricted

by the offending item, hung over her face,

restricting our views of each other. Yet, I saw her.

I saw her in the slouched jeans,which only enhanced

her round buttocks, in the army fatigue jacket,

that failed to hide her womanly curves,

in her hands, which lay delicately by her sides.

And then...

The wind, as I had wished, had its way with her,

and laid her bare for all to see. She looked up and saw me-

I caught a smile, and content, made my way home.

The dreaded writer's block

I seem to have a serious case of writer's block. So, I figured if I could write down what I was feeling, it would help. Here it goes...

A whirlwind, a hurricane, it comes all at once

and then just as quickly it all hits a wall and stops.

An emptyness, a nothingness, a great big black hole,

emotionless, withering, it all turns speechless

and I stand still, unsure.

My Murder Foretold

Hands pull at feet-a dark

passage has begun to unfold

before my eyes, a retreat

in the forest, tarnished, by

unflinching fists and eyes, as

yet unseen by mine, but there

none the less-earth removed,

then restored, the cover up complete.

Inside

She shouts "Rape!", quietly

to herself in her head, staring

in the mirror, seeing her face,

not a bleamish, not a mark, but

she can feel and she can taste

his lips upon her, forcing the

score, wanting her more and

never understanding she is some-

where else, she is gone, just a body

remains to play out his game.

He will hurt her once, no more.

If I look inside the can, will I see what I want to see or just another reflection of me. I climbed the stairs and landed firm, until I realised the banister was gone, my neck was in a noose and my slow death has yet to be confirmed.

As I wait my turn, I see your all your faces, laid out before me, coming at me, like a tsunami. I reach out and she catches me from my fall, softens the blow, feathers in tow. Death feels far far away, its not coming for me, not this day.

I feel inside out, with insides out. My heart and mind exposed, I still can't make sense of me. Call the cavalry, I might need rescuing, from myself. A true work of art, the picture of death, fit for austerity, yet my virtue profanity.

The noose is cut, I fall in to the dark. She follows and fixes my broken parts. Like a superhero she woes me, surprises me and stays. Who would have imagined me, all settled with a warm stare and a full tender heart.

The cracks they appear and I think I'll lose my mind. Give a shout, be brave, "call out", she says "if you need my help". But I've lost my voice, the music plays silently inside my damaged head and I've forsaken all beauty for laughs of the dead.

There's a path that leads from this place, an unwanted fate. I caress her thighs, erase all the lies and follow the river that flows between. The torrents carry me, her taste requires me to open my eyes and see her there upon our bed.

Breathing does not come easily, but her lips conquer me and all my fears. As white light descends I wear her name, etched upon my skin and I know I can not win this battle. So I form an arch and watch her pass beneath this crumbling edifice.

All this, yet the hands of another surround me. I am bound in flames of passion that were never destined to sustain, where rain pours as tears. There is a deep pit in which I stand, freedom is what I strive for in this make-shift grave.

Had I imagined all my mistakes, would I have taken all the steps? I'm not sure, yet life continues to follow me, a lost lover pining for the touch it once felt. Resignation is its gift, as it lingers now opposite, willing itself to hold me.

At dead of night it takes me back in to the fold, whispering our names with promises of everlasting love. I am not the keeper of my heart, but she takes the key, giving up any pretense of mutual dishonesty or ill will.

We awake every morning entangled in each other's breathing. Sleep encrusted eyes search out the oncoming tenderness beneath folded lids. Had all time stood silent I would be happy to confess my delight and my disdain at it still.

Time moves on, the seasons have changed and in the mirror I see a face I don't always recognise, tied to that of another. Unclear images of a past sometimes chase my eyes, but the waters wash them away and I am free to live.

A Force of Nature?

Growing up by the sea, I've always found it inspiritional. So, on my recent visit back home in the West of Ireland, I spent as much time as possible walking by the shore. I'm not quite sure why, perhaps its the force of nature, but for me its the closest thing to a spirtitual sensation I've ever experienced.
However, as I sat one day amongst wind swept, sandy dunes, I noticed a very large crow staring in my direction and a strange feeling came over me, actually within me. I began writing without hesitation. The words were from deep within and yet I'm not sure they were mine. It was not so much a peaceful spirituality, as something decidedly malevolent in the air. This is what I wrote:

The roar of the sea, as

the wind batters me,

is no concern of mine.

The whispering waves

that carry for days

the thoughts of those

left far far behind.

A single crow, all alone,

goes head to head with me.

I stare him down, the

war is won-he flees

for pastures green.

I see a woman walk my way,

she's wearing black today,

but as I nod knowingly-

she smiles and fades away.

Jacob (continued)

That is until, three minutes and twenty-two seconds later, when a large droplet of water landed squarely on his right jaw, causing Jacob to flinch. Why hadn’t he bought a different coat? The question assaulted his brain, leading him to almost miss the pedestrian subway- a necessary, if rather irksome, path on his daily journey. He cursed lightly under his breath, before regaining his composure, steadying his pace and making his way through, unscathed, for another day (that particular subway had been the focus of forty-one robberies, three rapes and two murders, to date). He was so focused on the numbers in his head, he wasn’t prepared for his own arrival.

The building accosted him as he turned the corner. Always the same feeling of bile rising to his mouth. Yet, as he walked through its doors, the customary relief of knowing filled his nostrils. Judy (a square-eyed girl who smelled of vanilla and had a brain the size of a pea) was at reception. Jacob passed by, ignoring her cheery good morning, putting his hand to his nose and mouth (her smell sickened him).

He made it to the elevator and stepped inside. He didn’t understand people’s fear of elevators. For him there was a sense of calm, a cool, steely solace that he greatly appreciated. Thirty-three seconds later, he stepped out in to the basement, looked left than right, before heading down the corridor to begin his day’s work.

The Art of Letting Go

There is something masochistic about every artist and the art they create.

They work to ignite passion, spirit, energy and to achieve something unattainable-perfection. Their work is personal, a baring of the soul which can only be viewed or heard through the artists own strokes, notes, words...and when they reach what they finally believe to be the closest they can get to the truth and perfection, they give it up to the highest bidder.

I wonder about this. I wonder about this because I recently witnessed such event. Each day for two weeks, I watched an elderly man in an instrument shop (he specialised in brass instruments) create, polish and perfect his art. In this tiny workshop that I passed each day, I was taken by the tenderness in both the man's face and the touch of his hands. It was truth and perfection. It haunted me.

Why? Because I knew and he knew that very soon he would hand that truth over. He would make the sale and move on. That work of art would become a number in a catalogue. But then it hit me, Art is just that- a memory for the artist, a moment in time recorded forever, but for the new observor, for the collector, for the musician and the reader it is an experience, a passion, an energy, an unmistakable truth which carries on through time. This give me a sense of peace.

So in honour of the man who started the whole thought process, I have written this poem:

The Music Maker

He ran his fingers up-

and then down the cold,

flat surface. His heart

sank-this would only be

his for a short time more-

then someone else's hands

would caress, someone else's

lips would be placed upon

the sweet taste of its

everlasting breath-

but for now he surpressed

a deep sigh and took pleasure

in the simple beauty which

it would eternally possess.

Thoughts as Words, Dear Poitiers

Recently, I spent some time in the French city of Poitiers. I went there with nine other teachers from the East London area. I had such a wonderful experience with the french family I stayed with, the people and streets of Poitiers and the wonderful children in the primary school in which I had my work experience.

However, best of all was the wonderful cafe-bar, where as a group we met every evening. It was a unique and wonderful experience. Here are my thoughts as words:

We meet at the same bar every evening now.

It has become a ritual-even the waitress brings

us our drinks before we ask. There's the exchange

of jovial tales, jokes, banter to the sound of parisian

turkish accordians-

Like us, it is foreign, but feels at home here. The

crowds walk by-shoppers on a humid, sticky

evening with insignificant missions to complete-

while the rest off us enjoy the cool interiors and shaded

seating of this brisk cafe-bar in Poitiers.

Pink-Just not my colour?

Seiously, who knew I'd never learn to drive.

Jacob

Jacob woke up. Somewhere in the distance he knew he could hear rolling thunder, but for now his immediate surroundings remained calm, almost serene, bathed as it was in the thin veil of propitious light.

Taking this as a good omen for the day ahead, Jacob got up. He stood momentarily, without moving, taking in the partially skewed image of his naked body in the mirror opposite and felt the instant need for self gratification. On doing so, the thrill brought him to his knees.

In the shower, he washed his hair, then his body, enjoying the immense heat of the steamy shower-his shrivelled up johnson the only reason he turned off the faucet five minutes and twenty-seven seconds later. He estimated that even three seconds more may have spelt the end of his jovial mornings. He was not to know that ten hours, thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds later, his very stiff johnson would be on display to the staff of the local coroner's office as a result of his unfortunate death. But for now, he simply got on with his day.

Making coffee was one of the smaller pleasures in life, Jacob surmised as he placed just the right amount of granules in the filter. He delighted in the loud puffs of steam, reminiscent of the trains his grandfather had worked on, and the unmistakable, unbeatable smell of fresh coffee in the morning. He poured the piping liquid in to his travel mug ( bought at a bargain store last winter) placed the lid tightly on top and moved in to the hallway.His coat hung on the rack inside the door. It was a rain mac, of sorts, navy and quite boring really. It had one of those strange draw string hoods that always look ridiculous, but somehow are a good selling point because of the fold away zip compartment.

Jacob carried the travel mug in one hand and his mac in the other, hoping he wouldn't have to use it, knowing that even if he did he wouldn't take out the hood, which made him wonder why he bought it in the first place. Walking at an even pace down the same, familiar street as always, the coat continued to bother him-Why had he bought it? Was it an impulse buy? He couldn't remember, but he knew what he was going to do about it. On passing the next dustbin (there were five in total on his route to work) he casually disposed of the horrid item and the thought of it finally vanished from his mind.


Should I continue this story? Someone let me know.