by Rochelle Del Borrello
There have been better days than now,
felt less lost and confused
not so sad or deflated
I wish for one of those
better days
instead of smack
bang in one of the worst ones.
Nothing going right
love went to waste
efforts all worthless
and so, so far away
from everyone I love.
The hurt comes in tears
that bastard blows up in
your face,
whether you like it or not
that emotion's going to come
knock you over and make you
wish for better days
they will come, just be patient.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
I want to put it all in one song
but it won't fit
So many things keep me awake at night
vivid memories of regret,
something I should be doing and don't
endless what if's and perhaps
never quite happy with what we have
we torture ourselves in our sleep
Do you remember when we talked our way
into the new millennium?
A 2,000 filled with promise, just needed
to take a step outside of ourselves,
we felt we could eat the world up
but now there is only hurt
I ran away too fast and fell over myself
I didn't realise I was still attached
Tore me into pieces.
Now I'm humming along to the music
pretending to know the words
and trying not to piss on myself.
Is it just me or is anyone else feeling kind of lost?
Do the super-rich disgust you
and the poor make you feel guilty
of your plenty?
Is there strange serendipity when you read the gossip
as if you live next door to Miley Schwarzenegger
and are complaining about her irritating trashy pop music
being played too loudly
have you heard it all before?
Do you have nightmares of having your head chopped off
because you don't follow the right religion
or of being gunned down when you are sunbathing
on a remote beach
Kalashnikovs are arriving on rubber dinghies.
Does online seem more real than every day?
We post, postmoderns, Xennials
With an analogue childhood and digital adulthood
and virtual Millenials
are all lost in our heads,
and it's making us all morose.
Was I ever so young?
I don't recall being so fresh and new
I feel so old these days
like I've lived a thousand lives.
I have an older partner
live in an ancient country
all of those decades, centuries and epochs
of delusion have become a part of me.
I've always been shy
but my eyes were once filled with possibilities
now there are no new tastes
and I've heard it all before.
I'm feeling so very weary of this world
even if I've still got time to live.
I wonder what Twain, Lawrence and Woolf
would make of these days?
Would the modernist wit, energy and wisdom
Give us any solutions?
Would they hold the paranoia in check?
Or would Virginia drown herself again
After witnessing the first beheading?
Are we reliving the Crusades
or is it the madness of history's
fanaticism spiralling out of control?
Will the Jehovah's witnesses rule over the world
after we all die from a new pestilence,
or finish killing one another.
Promise me you will remember me
when I disappear into the heavens
without ever coming down to earth
blown to smithereens …
at least I died going somewhere or
coming home, rather than lying in a coffin,
an octogenarian with a tube down my throat.
