A bit of grief

I know a bit of grief.

 It's the moment you realise

you cannot go back on your steps

to 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 hug them.

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 strange sadness will never leave

not until our dying days.

It comes over us in the most unlikely moments

in the tiny flickers of memories

the flutter of butterflies

a microscopic movement is enough the overcome us.

Sometimes it's like a tap that

we need to open to let the pressure out.

But mostly, grief is a dark veil that wraps around

our hope, our happiness and faith

and covers our organs which 

find they have an extra weight to carry

the resistance makes it harder to breathe

love and move forward when we don't

want to.

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.

Nothing to know about grief

The thing about losing something

is that there is nothing to know.

It's an emotion that takes hold of you

pushes you around like a bully that doesn't let up.

You put up with it, let it bleed you dry,

cry yourself to sleep until it loses its strength.

And then you can push it under you, into your heart

Occasionally it will bubble up, making you vomit emotions.

Eventually, it will become a part of you

reminding you how capable you are of love

and how love never really leaves you.

The stuff of cemeteries

When life becomes a thing of cold hard marble.

When your touch feels the chill

of placing your hand on a tomb.

Searching for warmth and another's touch

when nothing is left but the emptiness of absence.

That is when grief is in your heart.

The chill remains with you every day

I was lucky to have you,

hold you.

Be in your company because this moment is

ever so brief and precious.

You can never hold onto anything

just the love in our hearts

which echoes and reverberates through

bereaved souls.

When things become the stuff of cemeteries and funerals

when the touch of cold marble tombstones

are little consolation against the heat of fresh grief.

When death falls all around you

then that is the time to stop and breathe

hold onto the ones you love

it is impossible to say goodbye

so make memories

search out happiness and

follow what gives you the spark

which is life itself.

Don’t box me in

Except the unexpected

because I'm bursting with ideas

and I'm going to do it all.

So insanely talented,

yet terrified to do anything,

destined to be nothing

but a frustrated artist

too busy watching Youtube

scrolling Instagram and playing

Candy Crush,

brainwashed into wasting time.

Soul crushed by comparison.

Why bother trying when

is it all taken away from you in the end?

The same blood

You can be red raw and still sing your song.

You can have tears in your eyes and still tell your story.

The truth is where the tale lies.

You cannot or should not wait to share it.

The emotion will help you to connect to others.

Because everyone can see you

understand and communicate

with feelings.

So don’t be afraid to bleed onto the page

we all have the same blood in our veins.

Blew you a kiss

I blew you a kiss even though I wanted to give you a real one.

I turned around and walked away.

Heartbroken.

I wish you’d followed me.

I never wanted to hurt you, but I think I did.

I was so stupid and naive, I never saw you.

Actually I thought you didn’t like me.

It is frightening to bare your heart,

declare your feelings.

 Most people are afraid

when it comes to big feelings.

Was I really that intimidating?

Couldn’t you have said something.

Why was I so blind?

Why did I have to fuck up my life so much? 

Now we are so far from one another.

I don’t know if I can pull myself out of the hole I’ve dug.

I need to get out of this pit because no one is coming to rescue me.

And you don’t even know how much I ache for you.

I’m surely damned.

Deceptively Delicate

Poetry is deceptively delicate

it's a whisper which gradually becomes a scream

a dream turning into a nightmare

which stays with you all-day

a compliment transformed into an insult

subtle niceties and manners on the

surface while being sarcastic and real below.

It is the truth, leaking out

of the heart despite itself.

The beat of a constant drum

below the flourishes of what we

create for ourselves.

Subversive, not submissive

honest razor-sharp observation

its words are strength,

they can be deadly.

Thank the muse for bringing the light

of poetry, into a tenebrous world.

I see

I see right through you

and into your wild madness

like a transparent teardrop

a bubble that bursts and dissipates

trickling down my leg

and into the ground

drying up in the sun

an anticlimax, all but forgotten.

Nightmare

I dreamt of two thick red devils

with grotesque heads

who were at the edge of hell

one was eating a baby

the others throbbing penis

dragging on the ground

they were babbling to one another

I knew I was in hell

I was so sad

I did not know what to do

I was being tortured for my sins.

Still here

Love is still here for you

as I light a candle

in front

of your photo

I remember how your grandson and I

smothered you with hugs and kisses

the last time we said goodbye

Our love for you remains

here suspended in the air

you are intertwined in these

three words.

Nobility

Vagrant dressed in dark rags

he walks with his dead limbs against his side,

his face shrouded by unexpressed suffering.

What woes has he seen?

To make him become this sketch of a man.

He takes off his crown and kisses the ground

no one sees him but me

no one to call him mad,

his boots heavy, shuffle upon his holy land

he walks towards the infinite sea his dark face glaring blankly

acting out a pagan salute to the gods of the earth

his rite of passage before departure.

Confession

I confess I am lost

without hope

free falling through life

doing enough to barely

keep breathing

is that enough?

To live with each breathe

holding onto this existence

through inhaling and exhaling

in the most basic of actions,

hoping death doesn’t come

filling the lungs with air and

expelling carbon dioxide.

It seems so little a thing to do

when a new plague

robs people of this

simple action

taking their lives

by taking away

the abililty to breathe.

Can't be silent

(for George Floyd and others)

Well I can’t keep silent anymore

I’ve got to say my peace

else it’s just going to make me sick

I have to say I love you

and I can’t see you being hurt anymore

Stop hurting my friend, can’t you see

he’s innocent.

Why do you stomp him down

with your fear?

He’s just trying to breathe,

needing to live like the rest of us

we need to live together,

why can’t you let him live?

Why do you choose to choke the life out of him?

Stop, don’t shoot, don’t hate, just breathe and think.

Choose love, choose peace and choose kindness

don’t be silent, stop this madness.

Ghosts

My home is filled with ghosts

it is a haunted house.

Like those eerie places

where holocausts have occurred

covered in a thick layer of genocidal misery

from violent acts that have torn souls 

away from this world.

The spirits and bad energy linger in the air

making me uneasy

giving me goosebumps

and the strange sensation

someone is trying to whisper something to me

but I cannot make out the words.

Memories flash in my mind as I am where my childhood was played out.

Each step brings me back to the memories and people who will never return.

For one moment and I am a child.

I wish I had been kinder, taken more time to appreciate them.

I turn to look for those beautiful souls, and they are gone 

like that sinking feeling when a once vibrant house is now still

the soul is abscent.

I'm always more and more alone as family and friends disappear.

One moment they are here, I can touch them, I feel them,

talk to them, bask in their company, have their advice

and support.

Their laughter and tears are my music.

Then there is silence, and the memories haunt me reminding me they are gone,

my home is filled with ghosts.

I've had better days

 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.

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.

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.