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.

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.

Connection

We only have these moments

tiny connections

to hold onto

as life slips through our fingers.

My poetry

My poetry is a constant whisper in my ear

a dark, haunting and persistent dream

my inner voice leaking out of my head

a constant weeping emotion

which is eerie, untamed and real

it is always uncomfortable

to share as the words come from an awkward place

yet they feel beautiful just the same

They are like little deformities

which express a deep insecurity

unpleasing to the eye

yet satisfying for the soul.

I coax them out of me like untamed wild animals

I watch as they slowly show me their savage power

I am always in awe of the epicness of human emotion

And how it can consume itself.

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.

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.

Inspiration

You can reinvent yourself

endless times in life

so don’t be so precious

about failing,

just get up and reset.

_________________________________________

Don’t accept what others think

as the truth of who you are

you are your own creation.

_________________________________________

Today I ate, drank and lived

without sharing online

and I felt truly alive.

___________________________________________

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.

Paperback Love

When words are all on the screen,

everyone forgets about

the love of paperbacks.

The love of softcover paperback books

shows how much you adore the written word.

Like vinyl shows a tangible love of music.

They show you are hungry for books

how you don’t have the money to buy the hardcover

and are resisting ebooks.

Lovers of words should touch them, write them,

caress them, hold them in their original form

smell them, know them as you recognise a human

as they come from the ether,

from whatever exotic country they are born in

to the writer, editor, to read them out aloud

then onto their home through the ages

to their final destination in some readers eyes, souls and dreams

to then finally, return from whence they came.

Battered covers are well-loved and re-read

crisscrossed calligraphy shows

classroom notes and learning

while yellowed pages are

a long-lasting love affair,

My paperbacks are like sunburnt Sienna.

I’m frightened to touch them else they will disintegrate

their tiny print was once easy to rip through,

but now they are difficult to read

they seem like spidery footprints

who gives me a headache

The paperbacks on my shelf are a time machine

they take me back to when I was young

voracious and wanting to read everything

now I still want to satisfy my appetite

I know I cannot read everything

so I’m more selective

I have moved onto a virtual text

which is as fleeting as a thought

when I finish reading a book

I often wonder if I actually read at all

I miss my book stacks

holding them and turning their pages

swiping on a screen is so mechanical

while touching, smelling and devouring each word is bliss.