cunning copper creeping,
auburn shadows stalking leaves
like urban predators –
grasping and smothering
them with tentacles, tangling
emerald with marigold,
pine and pear with honey,
mustard with pumpkin,
meshing garnet with caramel
and dusky cinnamon
with avocado.
raw, rustic rainbow.
leaves flush from green to gold,
faces glistening as they are pulled
from summer’s artichoke-hold.
Author: writersamr (Page 30 of 45)
be selective with your thoughts
let only the helpful ones in,
let only the relevant ones in –
the now-thoughts,
the kind thoughts,
thoughts that you would
pluck out of your brain and place
inside the brain of your best friend.
Awaiting acutely,
aching and awake –
far too awake, alert,
I wait
for days.
Artificial acrobatics, an
armful of blood
gone
anxiety escalated,
awaiting alleviation.
After Thursday,
agitation quietened,
quickly quelled,
dispelled until next time,
assessments and appointments,
awaiting a verdict again –
not-so-merry-go-round.
Young teenagers
are deaf
to the caring, clumsy racket
terrorising me.
Listening upright
on the pillows
I dare hurt myself
more.
Out, out
our routine sparking art
Hugging,
enthused for Florence –
the flights,
the village.
You’ll stay glued,
but May,
the influx of boats,
the excitement,
the calm cathedral.
Hopeless, heaving, havoc-
wreaking, hateful, half-time
happenings, so harrowing, have you
any idea the hope that is lost,
the ways I have lost, so many ways
I was hoping to hop, to trot and
to heave my belongings, my half of
this world as it rots, the happiness
happening but not, the haste in
which my direction changes with the
wind, a hurricane forming in the
epicentre of hours of homecoming,
if only I could. If only home hadn’t
been lost. But hoping hasn’t made
anything happen, only the
actions of the whirlwind, the
heaviest of houses heaving
their bodies down, and I was
a house, I was a heart that had no
reason to hope, just a haze, a happy
helpful haze, now history, now
hungry, hurt, homeless, hopeless.
If only I could come home to my better
self, my halting, healthy, half-
baked, wisdomless self. If
only I could come home to all that is
lost, all that I lost.
I need to do something
to stop my hands from shaking
you could be the thing
that stops my hands from shaking
I had never experienced survivor’s guilt until very recently. Today at work we had a Macmillan Coffee Morning to raise money for cancer support, and I figured the day was going to be hard. For the first hour
I sat squeezing my stress ball trying to stop my hands from shaking. I don’t even know why they were shaking. My discomfort and reluctance to have anything to do with cancer charity related events seems somewhat illogical. I mean, the Macmillan charity has never tried to kill me. So I already started today having a difficult time trying to understand myself.
