Sometimes I think
that my sight is leaving me,
the common, quotidian comfort
of seeing the world that touches me
slowly slipping away, taking flight
but not yet gone; only a little less close
the next time morning rolls my way.
Maybe it is my mind forgetting
where the thin discs
of shimmering glass
that bring the light end,
and where my rods and cones
ravaged by time begin.
Maybe it is the world reminding me
to cherish the moments of sight
whilst as yet they still linger.
And I am learning
to forgive myself,
to not let the weight
of the worries of the world
hang heavy on my head,
to accept that sometimes
the broken things
around my feet
are the world being itself,
that sometimes beauty slips out
like light through a cracked down
from the riven parts of a fragile bowl,
that sometimes it is not you
or me or the distant things between
but life, and living
and being breaking,
and beginning the cycle
And still, I find myself reaching for the solidity of certain earth, my feet aching for the cold comfort of the morning sand, breaking my free fall. This is a fevered dream that returns each night in which i find that home though close, disappears in the dim distance.
Photo by Lea Böhm on Unsplash. For Day 2 of the November Poem A Day Challenge. A Poem for when the unexpected triggers memories of home.
It hangs heavy
on the heart, its heft
never ever far away it seems,
always lurking, always waiting
always ready to spring to life
to the lines of a song suddenly
borne on the wind, or the whiff
of mothballs, unlocking the memory
of the gathering, and of ritual.
Hers is a name that lingers
on your tongue, sometimes forgotten
but then remembered
in the things we least expect.
For the November Poem-A-Day challenge. A poem about Entering, but mainly about leaving…
On the days when I wake
to a haze hiding the lushness
of the valley below, its shadow
hanging heavy like a shroud
on limbs shrivelled by the ravages
of time, I ponder the bland bleakness
of air heavy with water, how it smothers
life, and the beauty of things.
Each day where the light yields
to the pressure of collapsing space,
and time seems stilled, when the
tenacity of hope is tested
by the roiling reality of the things
which seem certain, I reach
for the small light of the things
that I remember, a thin thread, a tether,
somehow holding out against
the testing threats of the present,
guiding me home.
Because we really need to #EndSARS#EndSWAT and end whatever silk purse is being made out of the sow’s ear that is that organization.I make no claims whatsoever to this image.
The shadow of a long, dire night has lingered over us, the weight of the might of the ones who swore to serve, and to protect, seared into the small of our backs by their whips and their boots, the air heavy with the stench of the dread which drenches everything in their wake.
We fight for the light, standing strong against the rowdy reality of reprisal, that the bloated earth, sated by the blood of the ones snatched before their time might gain respite. That the ones to come might fly free, dream and be. That home may become a place where their visions are not lost to the tyranny of the graveyard.
This is why we fight. For the light.
To banish the night.
When Neil and Buzz
reached the top of the world
their feet ensconced
in the very dust
from whence they came
they left in awe
at the fragility of things,
at how the pale blue dot
they left behind hung
as though by an invisible thread,
shimmering with the ethereal beauty
of the light lent it by the sun.
on their insides, their hearts
set free by the joy of seeing
in that place where gravity fades.
** Finally posted after hours of fiddling about with WordPress’ new block editor.. Fair to say I deeply resent being forced to use it… 😦