The Poetry Marathon

Hell- they knew how to torture!

Not dragging one down to the fiery pit,

But watching- observing,

Unable to speak, to shout- to warn.

Unable to guide her steps back to safety.

I screamed at her, but no sound was heard;

I ran to her but I did not move.

These nightmares, when, whilst alive we dream

Of straining for sound, striving for movement,

They are surely remembrances of this place from before we were born.

There is nothing to make one value their power more

Than to take it away.

Watching my beloved walk toward her certain death,

I repent.

At three a.m. I went above to stand on the deck, swaying beneath my feet, and beneath a new moon.

I had an instinctive sense of the vastness I was standing in- under me as well as over me and all around me. Oblivion for farther than I could contemplate.

Wind rushes through these limitless expanses; I know because I feel it dash past my cheeks, chilling the salt tears. I use my tongue to warm and taste.

But as if in spite of my humble efforts, the wind in my ears brings with it more salt dampness to make me shudder.

It is eerie to me to have a small part of the limitless waters touch my face.

My emotions are usually as deep as the ocean, but tonight they are just as void.

Wiccan lore is simple:

‘And harm ye none, do as ye will.’

Think of the reams of legal paper that would be saved,

If everyone just did that.

It would also engender common sense-

Something that is currently lost to carrot and stick mentality.

You embraced me when you knew I’d given all that I had- and triumphed.

You gave me your precious time, unequivocally, when you realized I didn’t expect it- but needed it.

You encouraged me when your friends shunned me as inadequate.

You understood that I needed a friend above all else, and offered me your friendship.

You confided in me, because you suspected you could.

You are so clever I am frequently awe-struck; in the next breath you are just my friend again- yet you claim to be lacking in humility.

You value the love others give to you freely- helplessly, and bother to show them that you do.

You care about the whole world- genuinely care!

You have inspired so many by having the courage to be you.

You are brave and honest about your emotions even when you know others might ridicule you on account of your sexuality.

I hope you know, I wouldn’t change a thing about you.

The Malvern Hills rise suddenly out of the stretching plains of the three counties,

Thirty miles long and humped like a prehistoric beast. They hold my eyes transfixed and bring imaginings to my mind:

One fancies the panoramic view from the back of a fire-breather, swifting over the land and alighting upon his destination.

A beacon burns on the Herefordshire summit to welcome him home with his quarry. But I have not been snatched for food or ransom.

I have been sought- a chosen one, graced with the skill to defend this part of the world from its would-be ruin.

For as long as I am held in the bastion, forged by the Earth’s great fault, the orchard apples will still be the sweetest in all the land.

A by-product of the spirit within me. An energy born of the love for my home- for my familial ties which I would perish to defend, even when, owing to my unnatural longevity, I’m only defending a memory.

This steamy beverage keeps me conscious.

It is a little cup of comfort

On a cold, early autumn English night-

Reminiscent of baristas in sunnier climes.

I see them now. It must be daylight there,

And they are outside the cafes taking orders from tables

of tourists, or of locals who enjoy a pace of life that permits them such luxuries.

I cradle it in my hands as though holding onto a dream;

I pluck a cocktail stick and craft my own heart in the frothy topping.

Dorothy was not in Kansas anymore.

A good witch with a twinkly wand, portly munchkins- trebles in their voices, a yellow brick road. A man made of straw, a man made of tin- both walking and talking but lacking vital organs! A scaredy lion, weeping aloud; A gleaming emerald city, a horse of many colours, a wizard-disillusionment! Wicked witch who melts in water, crystal ball, fainting spells, flying monkeys! Slippers made of rubies, and a spell for homecoming…

And she woke among the poppies- just not in Kansas! 😉

Dear Me,

Oh, dear- me.

Need I say more?

Yours irreverently,

Me x

P.S. If you want to get yourself out of this hole,

you should watch others;

most especially those who would write long,

gushing love letters to themselves-

those for whom humility is a byword for futility.

The modern artist forces us to look upon the truths of our world: the inanity of a baked bean tin, or the futility of trash.

In recent history, the artist sought to portray forever-truths: love, death, desire, nature, the innocence of childhood…

I wonder: What did our ancestors want us to know? When peering at structures aligned with the stars; when perceiving how they had made malleable the harshness of stone, when it was all they were given to sculpt; when peering down an avenue of arches toward the rising sun, we are sensible of crude drums or chanting druids; blinding, bursting solar light- or the glowing emissions of celestial orbs. We might feel the heat of a funeral pyre, or perceive the warmth of a campfire; hear the voices of humans akin to ourselves. What did you want us to know? I wonder.

Devoid of life: all in his wake.

Evolving us from living things,

Adorning us with angel wings? Or,

Turning the tide from life to death,

Heaving us- brutally, choking our breath?