Fly fast, little bird
It won’t take long –
Not now as your wings are strong
Full of joy
And eyes so bright –
Hurry home by angel’s light
Walter and Lulu are waiting for you
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LUCKY xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
24th August 2008 ~ 26th March 2018
Don’t ask for my secrets
And I won’t tell you lies.
Don’t look in my eyes
There is no surprise.
You birthed me, you held me
And what do you see?
A rival? A victim?
You took everything.
What’s more – I let you.
I didn’t know – how could I see?
Dead from your past
You poisoned me.
The one who should love me
Above all other –
Don’t look at me and expect
The pain, the hurt, the betrayal. She loved her little boy. Admittedly, he had not been brought into the world for the best of reasons; but once she had him, and held him, she resolved at once to be the best mother she could possibly be. This person – this perfect little person – this alchemy of maleness conjured from her female body was a source of pride and love and tender protection. Into their world of two came more, friends, acquaintances, family. And the rot began.
Pain. Pain as if your liver, your lungs, your very heart were on the outside of your body, no longer protected by flesh and bone, but exposed and painful, as painful as someone pressing on a fresh bruise or digging a screwdriver into the tender flesh of your gums over and over. And the rot took hold.
The little boy grew, and absorbed, like a sponge, all these outside influences, and in spite of his mother – despite her – became an addict. Her own mother betrayed, colluded, enabled. And her body ached, her heart hurt and her soul wept.
“Sugar and spice
And all things nice –
That’s what little girls are made of.”
Mummy says this to me
All the time –
She doesn’t know what
These paws of silk and
Contain within sharp scythes of steel.
I call down the spirits of my
Wild cousins –
But never kill a thing.
My eyes are glowing golden
Suns that guide me through
The night –
When morning comes I’m in with Mum
Curled up warm and tight.
I tell you this
And for free
Cats are contradictions –
What Am I?
The emotions, the blood, the feelings.
Who Am I?
The memories, the experiences, the people.
Why Am I?
The purpose, the intentions, the desires.
The being and not-being
Strip away the state of being
Construct and artifice.
The dark. The un-becoming.
Strip away the self
Still the conscious.
The being and un-being
The peace that passes
The not-being, the
The peace. The quiet.
The silence. The love.
My thanks must go to Gillian of Paper Puff for the idea for the name of what is becoming a regular ‘spot’ on my blog… if you pardon the pun!
The black night of my soul is drawing in,
As thick as blood and bitter as sin.
Bones are aching, teeth are grinding,
Passion dead, hatred binding.
Lost am I: lost in the pit
How can I be when I do not fit?
Torn to pieces, shredded and bare
How can I live when I do not care?
Reaching out, I touch your fur,
Feel your paw, hear your purr.
How could I forget that you were there?
My little cat, full of love and care.
Misremembered fragments and half-forgotten phrases;
Fine, dark eyes and a sad-souled girl.
Who are you? Where do we belong?
Whose stories are these, whose lives am I seeing?
Roads of description and paths of light;
Worlds both real and imagined
And always there is you.
Half a step behind and sometimes in front;
Never quite sure if I’ve found you or not,
If our lives touch in this lifetime
Sometimes with a film star gloss;
Othertimes just you, more real
But always love. Always.