~ The Voice ~
Alan Rickman 1946 – 2016

I feel as if I only had you
for a brief moment,
and now,
you
have
gone.

Somewhere out in
vast mystical wasteland,
there is vibration new ~
a chocolate velvet
clustered sound ~

floating ~
suspended ~
by
light ~

you belong to many
yet to no one at all…..
nothing could be
more right…..
Enjoy the Mystery.

Pushing

Tears come –
a leak in my
soft, weary eyes
paints the mural
of my life.
Salty stains fall
silently on my
worn out canvas.
Often we push
ourselves beyond
our Soul’s desire
and the body
screams for us to stop.
But I wonder what it takes
to ‘do’ nothing when the
world demands we ‘do’
it all………….

FC 18/9/2015white-poppy-close-up1-212x300

Helium Balloons do Land Eventually

450px-Un_niño_perdió_su_globo-412x550

I fly
swollen with tears,
like a helium latex balloon,
stretched and filled with air….
I had a large green one, once
when I was seven.
They were new…. nothing
like it had ever been seen in
our little, sober village
where neighbours gossiped
and stabbed each other in
the back with words.
I just wanted the helium balloon
to carry me away…..
way up, way out, way beyond….
where I didn’t have to be
squeezed in my heart, in my soul.
Now, I realise my balloon did come.
Music carried me away…
way up, way out, way beyond anything
I ever knew there in the little village
with their little tiny thoughts and heavy lives.
As swollen rivers burst their banks
so too do swollen, red-rubbed eyes ….
then water flows and the pressure drops.
Helium balloons do land, eventually.

Moist Eyes

Moist Eyes

Eyes moist,
no reason for tears to sit, sometimes leaking
down a face which doesn’t realise they are there,
let alone know why.
Very strange and mysterious is the interior life
which knows incalcuable depths,
yet keeps those same vaults hidden and locked away
from world ….. and smiling, survivor self.

Inheritance

Inheritance

The rolling of the rain
shattering the silence
on muddy windowpanes….
Fire embers glowing hot & red
while bare feet stamp
defiantely on their way to bed.
Once she knew, or thought she did,
of where the code on how to live,
was hid….
Yet now, mellow lines within
her ageing skin,
carry the stories of
of her kith and kin …..
Like rain on dirty glass
is never to be truly clean
so the tears which flow,
tumbling, quietly down between
the voices in her scrambled mind,
always, she would know,
her roots are never to be left behind.