FROM GRACE

My grace,

I lost you

Fallen from me

Through the winter

Of my discontent.

Cascading to the ground,

Amber autumn leaves,

Crunched beneath the feet

Of my tired soul.

My grace

You called for me

Through howling winds

And screaming gales

My name you called

‘I’m here’, you called,

But the screeching of this

Empty season deafened me.

My grace

I lost you

You tried to hold me

So gently,

Entangled in your silvery grip.

But I slipped,

And I fell…

From grace…

I fell

From grace

I

Fell from grace.

PREOCCUPATION

Lately I have noticed

A preoccupation with grey.

I’m wearing it on my fingernails

On my legs

On my feet

On my torso

But mostly,

I’m wearing is inside my head.

It’s a lack of colour obtained

By combining

Two polar opposites.

The black

The white

The absence of light

And the abundance of it.

Shady unclear thought

A process of complacency

Lost ferocity

Blurred lines that once

Formed a  boundary,

A definition of a whole person.

Now it’s just a white noise haze

Encroached upon by the dark.

Grey matters

Inside my grey brain matter.

IMPASSE

I am at an impasse

Between heart and mind

Body and soul

I am floundering

In the depths of my

Own murky waters.

Where is my solace?

Where is my giant bear hug?

My words of solidarity or comfort?

Where is my 5am voice

At the other end of a telephone?

Where is my everything?

I tried to declare a moratorium

On all things pertaining to my heart.

But it didn’t work.

It keeps beating

And feeling

And never letting go,

Never stopping its

Constant rhythm of

Thick, blood lined emotion.

A distant heavy tattoo

On fleshy drums.

It’s no wonder I can’t tell

What direction I'm going in.

Steps forward

Steps backward

Steps sideways.

It’s all just steps to nowhere.

I console myself with cheap coffee

Cheaper movies,

And even cheaper wine.

There are no arms of respite here.

Here alone with my death

My breath

My lingering heart beat.

I am at an impasse

I am at war

I am holding on

And I am letting go

Stripped bare

To the bone

To my core

Beating,

Pumping

Rising

Falling

Reviling myself

In a body that’s slowly ending.  

VICTORY OR VENDETTA

Where the godless fear to tread.

That’s where I keep my heart these days,

Or at least my head,

Where no light gets in.

Where tumble down is a stasis

And chaos gives way to a stillness of the mind,

Havoc comforts

Inside the arms of madness.

Quiet calamity

Breaking softly at the

Foot of a vacuum

The breast of heart ache

The mouth of hungry anguish.

It chomps at the bit,

Waiting for the sound of the starting gun,

Waiting

Like my anger

Hallow and fierce

Standing in line

Emotional cannon fodder.

Blast a gaping hole through my psyche

Let me crawl through myself.

To walk in a straight line

Towards victory,

Or vendetta,

Or simply peace.

WALK LIKE THUNDER, WRITE LIKE RAIN

I walk like thunder,

Write like rain,

Until  the world

Just falls away.

A fragile heart,

Broken skin,

Beneath the steel

I hide within.

Cascade on me,

Oh summer sun,

And let in light

Where I've begun

To die and fester

Mould and rot,

The husk of me

That time forgot.

I walk like thunder,

Write like rain,

I try to stop

Familiar pain

From taking hold

From getting in,

From overtaking

From within.

But I can’t win

This race in time

My heart a clock,

Its wings divine.

I tread upon

These angel wings,

I wake and stare

And still can’t sing.

For all I need

When I'm in doubt

The only thing to do,

But shout,

Is walk like thunder,

Write like rain,

Again

Again

Again

Again.

BEGIN AGAIN

I enjoy making lists

Sitting down with a cup of

My latest indiscretion in my hand,

And thinking

‘Wow, you’ve done it again’

I go back to the start.

To the beginning.

And try to map out

The order in which

This most recent city of dreams

Began to fall apart.

I rotely repeat this process

Each time.

Getting back to the bare bones

Of a catastrophe.

Examining it.

Carbon dating it to see

How far back it really goes.

How old is a scar?

So I make lists,

I number my failures

My ill conceived endeavours.

I try to give structure to something…

Chaotic,

With no crystal lattice to hold its form.

I try.

But we have to start somewhere.

And number one on a list

Is as viable a starting point as any.

And who knows,

Maybe next time

I’ll get beyond the first

Before I have to begin again. 

CHILDREN OF THE TIGER

Our nation,

Known for poetic words

And gifts of song.

For bards and storytellers,

Scholars and academics.

Silenced.

Hushed to mechanical monotony.

Creativity pushed from view.

I stroll past a scrubbing brush

Soapy water

Washing away the evidence of a killing field

From a Graff war.

Its value held only in the eyes of the beholders who

Find beauty in the truth of street.

Art all around us, waiting to be formed.

Visible through the smog.

Look, listen, take heed.

Absorb the stories the pavements tell us.

The histories hidden in the walls,

In the sound of a breathless republic.

We the children of the tiger

Fear not,

Take charge,

Time comes

Urban chaos transcends

Deconstruct, reconstruct, find a voice.

Our arts not dead.