Hollow Out My Heart

You begged for forgiveness
With scrapped up knees,
And I stood on my steeple
With nothing to steady me.
The hollow of your words
Drowned out these chapel bells
And I struggled not to slip,
Knowing you wouldn’t catch me if I fell.
If the air is too thin,
Then why does it seem
That here I can think!
While with you I can’t breathe?
These lines between lies,
They blur into truth!
And the crows in the graveyard,
They recognize your tune.
The magic of the bard,
A lair’s way with words.
They wait for fresh meat,
For me to fall at your feet.

So you must sew up forgiveness,
Stitch it to my lips,
And have me recite it
Edit out my slips or quips

You apologies for lying,
You never meant to cheat
And though I’ll nod along,
Mimic your rhythm and the beat-
My acceptance is falsehood
As much as any of your deceits.

Graveyard 001

The Clocks

They forget that we mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

While their youth remains endless and death a rare myth

Our years roll by and so grows life’s rift.

 

Her beauty entranced him when the gardens were young

And the rose bushes held buds still to be sprung

But restlessness grows in the white of new wings

When the promise of flight in the wind whispers and sings.

 

She’ll forget that mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

And the gardens will bloom in the promise of spring

But mortal hands will stop when the final chime rings.

 

So she’ll lie across steps where their feet once fell

And the memories of smiles can still yet be held

For his bones have been lost to the passing of time

To mix with the soil from where the ivy does climb.

Continue reading “The Clocks”

“Why does this writer not get more views?”

Have you ever asked yourself that question? I would have thought that it would be a common one to crop up, especially if you’re someone like me spending infinite amounts of time trawling through websites such as Deviant Art, WordPress.com and Fanfiction.net.

I have even been on the receiving end of astonishment from some. Random comments cropping up on whatever piece I’ve recently published, on whichever site I’m using, the author bamboozled by the fact my stats have never really taken off at any great rate. 

Now I know I can write, it’s taken some time for me to listen to the insistant voices in my ears, (namely one of my best friends Jad) but I’ll now admit that I can write pretty dam well. I just haven’t achieved large numbers of readers.

The thing is, I find it bothers me more when I find incredible writing by other people and the reading stats are low. When my own stats plummet, I’m fairly comfortable in the knowledge that there are a group of people out there who I can rely on to enjoy the writing I upload, and they will tell me if they don’t think it’s as good as it could be.

Admittedly, If you trawl through writing sites on a regular basis, you’ll find some atrocious stuff. I have to be in an incredibly good/patient mood to open up my Deviant Art  notifications and work my way through them one by one. More often or not I’ll delete anything that doesn’t grab my attention in the first few lines. This is purely down to limits on my free time and the fact that some of the writing that crops up in my notifications is truly terrible.

Especially when it comes to poetry I find myself reading what seems to be the same thing over and over again, leaving me to wonder if there is any understanding that depression does not have to be the only theme in poetry.

Of course there are also the diamonds that you find hiding in the piles of fool’s gold. These are the writers and artists who keep me from deleting my entire notifications inbox the moment I log into DA and give me hope for the future of writing.

Sometimes I simply like the thought that someone has put into a piece of work, such Akeesha909 who wrote ‘Inspiration’.

Red, Blue, Green
             Every colour becomes a thought
????!!!!!????!!!!
             Every thought becomes a painting
Oil paint, Water paint
             Every painting becomes a masterpiece  
Mona Lisa, Adam and Eve
             Every masterpiece is hung in a museum
The Vatican, The Louvre
             Every museum is filled with colour
Purple, Yellow, Orange
             And every colour becomes a thought

http://akeesha909.deviantart.com/art/Inspiration-300409076

The poem may not be perfect by any means, but I like the way it’s been set out and the theme running through it is refreshingly original. Publishing to Deviant Art is not about putting up works which are polished to perfection, or should be plastered across the pages of best selling novels or anthologies. It is supposed to be a stepping-stone, and a place where you can share what makes you happy and what your passion can achieve. 

Of course there are pieces which tackle the more worrisome issues such as depression, addiction and grief incredibly well. I can cope with reading these and there are some which are fantastically put together and can really connect with a reader. Prose such as ‘147’ by sense-and-stupidity does go some of the way to proving to me that these issues can be taken on and presented, without following the awful cliché’s that seem to litter the online world.

However, one of my favourite pieces of the moment has to be ‘Emily’ by inkedtea. The piece was right at the bottom of my pile of notifications this week, and almost brought me to tears after I read it, (take from that what you will.) Of course I then had to check out her gallery, and thankfully found that she has a beautiful collection of work that is just as wonderful as my initial impression.

All three of these writers have fairly low stats, yet their works contain something that I, at least, hold to be promising. I will defiantly be keeping an eye out for future developments and I advise you all to do the same. The links are there in the text, get clicking and reading, you know you want to.

 

(I hold no claim to the works of these writers, I simply wanted to share my appreciation for their work and talent.)

The Green Armchair

She found it strange how memories can creep up on a person, like the ones that swarmed around her old student flat and the green armchair they’d kept in the sitting-room. Some nights, when the house was coated in the type of silence that arrives once the night had persuaded even the most stubborn to go to bed, she would find herself leaning back against the familiar faded leather. Her fingertips traced circles in the ink stains that decorated the arms and she could close her eyes and hear the music and laughter as her boys sprawled themselves across the room.

Danny was always last one to come in, relegated to the floor since the few seats they’d had would already taken. He would lounge against the cluttered coffee table; legs sprawled out across the rug and his guitar resting in his lap. He was their music, the one who could pluck mismatched notes and twist them into tunes that wound themselves through you. She had tried to repeat them to someone else once, but the song came out confused and stilted.. It was only Danny who could make his music work.

George would be stretch out across the settee, his cigarette hanging between two fingers, never lit but almost always present.

“An unlit cigarette had more impact.” he claimed. He explained to her that it made people question the point of the cigarette, and in turn this made them question him. He liked to obscure other people’s trails of thought. She’d nodded, understanding him somewhat.

Danny just snorted, abandoning his music momentarily to throw a cushion at George’s head.

All of this would lead to Peter rolling his eyes, making out that he couldn’t understand how he ended up there. Their philosopher and rogue. He put up with them because she was there, if they fell out then it hurt her and without her there was no ‘them’. They needed the ‘them’, though none would ever admit it except maybe her.

Peter had claim to the beanbag; squished up against the side of the green armchair so that when her fingers hung down from the arm they almost brushed against his shoulder. He poured himself into books, inking notepads with ideas for new worlds and stories, ideas that he never thought to share with anyone. He wrote about the girl he’d fallen in love with, the one he adored, and the one who adored another.

Everything change when Danny claimed the green chair as his own. He curled his arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap instead of the guitar. The beanbag was abandoned all together and Peter shoved George’s feet off the settee, placing the coffee table between his self and the couple. She hadn’t realised until years after that he’d always blame Danny for what happened, even when she’d blamed herself, or when they’d both blamed the Blonde in part.

Danny’s blonde crashed in and curled up in the green armchair, coaxed him into playing songs that had been on the radio the day before. George’s unlit cigarettes were binned, and cruel curling lips kept him from replacing them. The clutter from the coffee table was cleared when she came home one day and Peter’s notepads crumpled beneath the curious fingers that flicked through the pages and laughed at the ‘nonsense’ within. The blonde took her boys apart one by one, tearing them from their own identities.

She tried to fix it, but Danny just fought back and called her jealous. She tried to sooth harsh words from Peter’s mind but his pen was already locked away, the notepads remained half empty and abandoned. George just went quiet, stopped thinking about the depth of ideas and thought how he was told to think. Even the green armchair lost its hold; she couldn’t sit in it anymore, the blonde’s perfume had sunk into the leather.

Danny dropped out, moved out, and shacked up with his blonde. She could remember it only lasting a few months before the phone call at three on Sunday morning, a policeman’s voice and the coroner pulling back the white sheet. Suicide. No note. Just a tape with her name on it, one she could never even take out of the plastic case.

At the funeral his blonde didn’t even bother to show. Instead, they stood the three of them, staring at a sleek mahogany coffin with Danny’s mother sobbing in the front row.

The blonde had cheated she found out. Danny caught her and she was the one to kick him out! Instead of coming home he chosen a pistol and a bullet.

“These artistic types.” She’d heard one of the police officers say as a young woman pressed overly sweet tea into her hands. The police officer been about as wrong as someone could be, art connected Danny to life, his death reeked of peroxide.

After graduation she lost touch with the other two. George’s expressionless face passed across the television screen from time to time, watching audiences with half interest, as power politician stood to hear him speak. He did well; followed party policy and managed to win them an election. It wasn’t one she voted in. It was his initiative to renovate the old student flats, ‘modernisation’ and ‘better facilities’ he claimed. She watched him press the button that brought down a familiar red brick building and she knew. She saw him try to wipe away the blonde memories, they both failed at that.

She was never sure what happened to Peter, he wrote now and again, the stamps mapping out the globe in her letter box. He never spoke about himself, just about the places he’d seen, and sometimes she would notice a book in a shop window, his name printed beneath the title. He was the only one of ‘them’ who seemed to survive the blonde.

When it came to the reunion George kissed her, impassionate and on the cheek. She cried in the bathrooms afterward, ignoring the sympathetic glances from those who used to know her, the ones who remember Danny and thought that it was him haunting her thoughts.

Next to the dance-floor the blonde tried to hug her, smiling with too much teeth and red lipstick. She almost smiled herself when the blonde turn ashen white, flinching as she hissed ‘murdered’ under her breath and pulled away.

George followed her outside, catching her arm to ask if she was O.K. and she had seen the blonde’s hold break a little in his concern. She had turned to the smokers beside the door, begged a cigarette and stanched it from outstretched fingers. She didn’t light it, just pressed it into George’s palm and left.

In two days she spotted him back on TV, twirling something small and thin between his fingers as he began to question everything he had once been told to say. His career crashed within the month, and it was coffee at a backstreet café every Wednesday for her and him. He wrote a book, his own philosophy of the world today, she read her name in the dedication and remembered the abandoned stories in crumpled notepads.

Peter cost a ticket to Peru, vaccinations and a headache in translation. It still seemed like too little. He had blinked at her in a stunned way, standing in some ancient ruins and watching her stumble across uneven stepping stone before catching her as she almost hit the bank. He asked why, and she caught his lips, she had thought he’d escaped the blonde and he was fine, but she hadn’t remembered her own blind barbs until George’s book had weighed down her hands.

The green armchair was wrought into a memory, lost between the rubble of demolished student flats. Or so she thought. She came home to an open door, and while Peter was still heaving luggage out of the car boot she wandered into the house.

George waved his spare keys at her, stretched out across her settee and holding an unlit cigarette between his fingers. She’d heard Peter laugh behind her, suitcases forgotten in the hallway as he crashed into beanbag she couldn’t remember buying.

“Look!” George had grinned, nodding across the room.

The green armchair stood beaten and battered by the fireplace, separated from the settee by a coffee table covered in cups and plate that George hadn’t bothered to clear away.

She had tipped out her handbag into the mess, fingers ghosting over the tape that always clattered around between her makeup and diary. They had both watched her hesitate, draw back from touching the plastic case.

It took Peter’s urging to make her pick it up: “Put it on, you’ll miss him if you don’t.”

The tape hummed a lazy mismatch of notes, winding themselves around the room. She leaned back against the faded leather, tracing the familiar ink stains and closing her eyes to listen to the music. There would always be less laughter, sadness holds in the memory much closer than joy, but she could always fall back on her boys.

carol's poetry night 061

Spider’s cracks

I’m trying to remember a string of words.
A jumble of letters you once gave me.
I fear though
I fear they’re lost in a haze of sleepless nights.

You plucked them from clouds and rain
Wrapped in sunlight and tied with a frozen bow
It fell apart
It fell to shattered glass between my shaking hands.

I shed tears of crimson from wounds unseen,
injured fingers trying to fix the spider’s cracks.
I failed to
I failed to hide, to hide the broken marks.

Give up on fruitless tasks and weep,
For you see but never saw or heard me
You tore apart
You tore apart what became your heart.