Endeavour

A funny thing about the heart

is that it keeps beating

even though it's broken.

Even if the pieces go missing

it still keeps you alive.

Unless it has something else wrong with it

the heartbreak won't kill you.

Even though you feel dead on the inside

it keeps ticking along.

Why? Because that's the way life is supposed to be lived

always shuffling forward.

Children are pushing the years onwards impatiently

willing the time to move more quickly,

youth makes us want to run

in a hurry to achieve something.

Other moments life make us stop

like smashing into a light pole at high speed.

We survive the car crashes life gives us,

 slowly re-habilitating ourselves,

because even though we are forced to stop at times

to catch our breath, we never can stop the moment.

It helps us this motion, keeps us putting one foot in front of the other

this gives us a future to look forward to, a past filled with memories,

a way to cope with loss, disappointment and grief.

We are humans who survive it all, growing through strength and love.

Passing on our intuition, drive and knowledge onto the universe

who takes us always onwards.

About grief

I know a little bit about grief.

It's the moment you realise

you cannot go back on your own steps

you can't make it better

or say I love you again

 see someone's face every day,

hear their laugh, trace the outline of their smile,

hold their hand or give them a hug.

When you learn what it feels like to run out of time.

No more silent pauses in conversations

seeing them across the table,

passing the salad bowl at dinner.

All of those moments you take for granted

stop in your mind,

they are gathered up in memories

and the grieving begins.

I've learnt grief isn't bad,

it's all we have, really,

for our tears are our love

which used to go out

towards those we love.

After they are gone it has nowhere to go,

so our unexpressed love

becomes our grief.

And as our passion is as undying,

as our mourning.

This will never leave

not until our dying days.

It may seem ironic

but I hope we never

stop grieving

because it keeps our

dearly departed near us.

Life doesn't stop

when someone dies,

it merely shifts

and changes into another

gear and somehow

we live with it.

Death's garden

The idea came to commemorate my dearest ancestors

by planting them a garden.

Lavander sprigs for stillborn Estella.

Delicate violets from Nonna’s garden.

An all-enveloping ivy that covers and embraces

everything for Nonno.

Daddy would be an aubergine flower as that's

what he left for us in his garden.

Mum will be an exotic caper flower after she is gone.

I will plant them on my skin,

they will slowly grow up my arm

and cover my body in death's garden.

Added to with every loss

I choose a new plant to sow

for my family and friends

and add to the artwork

with each ghost.

Death's love affair

Death loves us deeply

like a child gathering flowers

and leaving them to dry in the sun

He cannot resist the beauty

of our immortal souls

which shimmer and glow

before his eyes

He loves the warmth which comes

from our hearts, the energy

which emanates from our lives

he is infatuated.

What love death has for us

he cannot stop himself

from touching and caressing

with every touch

he takes a piece of us

slowly stealing our lives

His gentle embrace is a lover

trying to possess his love

he makes fear disappear

overcome by a passion

deeper than ourselves

we are helpless

despite life’s distractions

we surrender to

the love affair

of death.

This poem is from the poetry collection zine Trinacria Poems currently available on Amazon

Read more about what I’ve been creating and how to support me here on The Art of Asking page.

Autumn of my life

The tired gardens of Autumn are beginning to slumber, dry out and wither.

The smell of rotting fruit is somewhat enticing like burnt cake, pungent and warm

everything is left to rot, too late to ripen and even to be picked or eaten.

Rotten stink bugs rub themselves with us, our clothes buzzing in their attempts

to flee and fly away.

I grab one inside my fist and throw it making it fly even if it doesn’t want to,

 it leaves behind its perfume on my palm

a strange incense smell that many think is disgusting

The odour reminds me of these short gloomy days with intermittent bursts of sunshine

and the inevitable promise of the encroaching winter

that bring moments of deathly silence.

Strangely these are my favourite days

to reflect and create upon.

The Olive Tree

Bury me, there under the olive tree

where my ancestors sighed as they worked

where they whipped up dustbowls and thorns

where the songs and prayers were once sung

with tired voices and broken bodies

on whose branches some hung to harvest

and others to choke the very life out of themselves.

I want to rest under the ancient olives filled with endless spirits

and where the ghosts wait to possess innocent souls 

each tree growing around in knotted branches, tying themselves

into the ground, holding onto the magical fruit

which revives the weary and contains the flavour of life.

There where the work is done like a religious rite,

with honest hands stained in dark oil spots

together with families who warmed themselves

with the hot coal filled conca 

moved from tree to tree

during the once dark winter.

Where everything felt inevitable, everyone knew

their place, where the work was true and when done

you could rest.

The Bearded Lady

The bearded lady shaves off her beard

what a strange sensation

her skin tingles

the upper lip so smooth

she is almost cold

as erotic as a Brazilian wax

feeling naked she strangely misses

her fuzzy covering.

As strangers look at her

she realises no one knows

about her beard

only the subtle lines

of her pale face, dimpled chin

and a strong jawline.

Beneath her mask she is beautiful

but she never acknowledges it

or feels her power

she is always hiding, meekly behind

her overwhelming insecurities

she had left it too late

to be free from her plumage

past her prime, she rubs her

smooth cheeks and wonders who

she might have seduced

in her youth

if she had the courage

to shave before

then she suddenly desires her beard.

The trauma of broken things

I carry my fear like a heavyweight

many kilos of fat

pushing down on my bones

making my movements slow

and wearing down my momentum.

I'll never allow fear to make its

home in me

I hope it moves on

I push it away.

A violent act forced fear into my life

like so many random accidents,

which happen when no one expects

so much bigger than any one person

forcing us to live with

the trauma of broken things.