The Letter

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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
“Mother.”

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Addict

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Picture this:

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.

Picture this:

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.

Picture this:

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.

Imagine that.

Cinnamon Tiger

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“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
I know.

These paws of silk and
Softest down
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 –
See?

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End/Beginning

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What Am I?
The emotions, the blood, the feelings.
Leave them.

Who Am I?
The memories, the experiences, the people.
Forget them.

Why Am I?
The purpose, the intentions, the desires.
Release them.

Reach out.
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
All understanding

Shantih.

The not-being, the
Wholeness and
The dark.

Shantih.
The peace. The quiet.
The silence. The love.
Shantih.

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Poetry Pimple…

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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!

 

Dark/Light

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.

BEAUTY

 

Words and Pictures

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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
Or not.

Sometimes with a film star gloss;
Othertimes just you, more real
And near.

But always love. Always.

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Wanderer

 

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Come, my friend,
And let us go,
If only for a while.

For I have tales to tell
And things to show
That may not make you smile.

Come with me a little way,
Just to see how humans play.
Loving and crying.
Fighting and dying.

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See, see, see what you have done!
With blade and bomb,
Poison and gun.

Cities laid waste
Children dying.
The earth is crying.
Death wind sighing.

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“I’m going home. I’ve had enough.
Why are you showing me all this stuff?”

“It’s dead, it’s gone.
There’s nobody there.
No one left, no one to care.”

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“Come, my friend,
And stay with me.”
And Death, he smiled,
For it was he.