Rough poem (One year)

Dried tears flaking

on the skin,

mourning their loss

as they chip

away. The emotion

they carried remains,

heavy and painful

but invisible,

pressing and

pressing until

breath is short

and life becomes

suffocating.

Loss is heavy,

crushing,

crushing,

but all you see

is flaked away

tears and

a watery smile,

as life carries on.

Rough poem (Six weeks)

The first week was pain,

an agonishing sting to

the heart that struck

over and over.

Nothing eased it,

you could only be

consumed.

Distractions were the

key, later, to

functioning with a

normal life again.

Don’t think, don’t

react, just keep

going, with jobs

that don’t need doing.

The loneliness

will become bearable,

one day,

but it will never

be comfortable.

Time goes on,

you begin to feel

again, happy

with new relationships

in your life.

The pain is still

there, but distant at

times, giving you

guilt that you

enjoy life while

they no longer exist.

The whole day goes

by, life back to

normal, when the

sting suddenly

returns.

You’re dead, you’re dead.

You’re really dead.

Six weeks later

and you haven’t

come back.

You can never come back.

Gentle Avalanche

Frozen moments fall from the sky.

Their snowflake forms containing

tiny disasters.

They have settled,

and wait to melt.

Blinding light is the sun’s

entrance, rays cutting through the

dead land.

Braving the cold bites,

we pull on layers, suffocating

with a hat and tightly wound scarf.

Stepping out, we can only breathe.

Now only water remains,

colourless, see-through,

impossible to stop slipping

through our fingers.

Some seeps into the ground,

back into the world.

The sun claims the rest,

evaporated, invisible, but still

we’re watching it go,

knowing next time it may

return as hail.

Any droplets left behind

are wiped away by an

absent-minded sleeve. 

St. Nectan’s Glen

A small waterfall for all to see,

guiding the lost souls to where they must go.

A haven for memories, come to me,

allow me into the eternal flow.

Three come down the narrow path,

an item of memory in their hand,

from times I was happy, times I would laugh,

living with them, not resting in this land.

They choose a tree branch, a good sturdy one,

and dangle an angel from a long string.

I see they have missed me since I’ve been gone,

his finger still carries my wedding ring.

Too soon they turn back, leaving me here,

but with the water’s sound I feel no fear.

My voice

Hear my voice

trapped on this page.

My vibrations

making no sound.

Feel in this ink

my personality

and know how

I intended you to

know me.

Visualise with these

lines my lifted head

and fixed gaze,

showing you which

words should be emphasized.

Respond to my pauses

with silence…to grant

me control of the world

my words are in.

Can you hear

me from this page?

Or will you come and

find my voice?

My Muse

What form has my muse arrived in tonight?

Poking me awake, demanding attention.

Which character now demands me to write?

Is it Arwel, clever and always right,

his mask hiding a growing confession.

What form has my muse arrived in tonight?

His secrets he tried to keep from my sight,

but I lead him to his revelation.

Which character now demands me to write?

Nat is lazy and never comes at night,

a teenager wishing for a pension.

What form has my muse arrived in tonight?

Dimitri is stubborn, he hates to fight,

Finding his sister his one obsession.

Which character now demands me to write?

My plot grows with these visits in the night,

my head now a character convention.

What form has my muse arrived in tonight?

Which character now demands me to write?

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