Addict

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

“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?

 

End/Beginning

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.

Words and Pictures

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.

 

Rubbish

This poem was originally part of a set of five that I called ‘Cameron’s Quintet’, and is basically a reflection of the state of some of our streets. There is so much generated each year and the festive period usually sees an upsurge in this…

Please. Think twice before throwing something away… re-cycle… re-use… re-purpose… Donate…

---

Gangs of cans loiter in corners
Cheek by jowl with fast food wrappers
Sweet papers and pizza cartons jostle by the bins
Cushions of chewing gum trap the unwary.

Cigarette ends huddle in gutters,
Lost sheep looking for their shepherd,
Blotches of blood outside the chippy
Carpet the way forward.

Shattered shards of glass like
Dragon’s teeth glimmer
Mysteriously, beckoning to the
Lone plastic bag tumbleweeding by.

These random remnants
Signpost into the dark.
#CleanForTheQueen

Summer of ’76

I yearn for the days of summer,
The red, the white and the gold.

When swifts flew high
In the summer sky
And the sun shone hot
And bold.

Solitary child, outdoors
And wild.
Barefoot and dusty,
Bike grew rusty.

I roamed the fields about
Our home.

I prodded toads
And frightened pheasants
And laughed at pigs in fields.

I yearn for the days of summer,
The red, the white and the gold.

When the days were long
And full of song,
And I never felt the cold.

Words Copyright © 2016 Samantha Murdoch

All photographs Copyright © 2016 Alex Marlowe

 

 

 

The Nature of Compassion

 

“Come the revolution they’ll all be dead,”
His father said and he shook his head.

The boy, he watched and inside he cried,
Cried for the innocents who had died.

He watched and waited,
He waited and learned
And vowed to help with the knowledge he earned.

This kind young man
He thought: “I can.”

Out on his own,
He flew to the zone

He tended the dying,
Wiped tears of the crying.

Then one day, the young man fell ill.
His last breath left him and he lay still.

His mother, she cried.
Part of her died.

His father raged and he shook his head.
“Come the revolution I’ll see the bastards dead.”

Words Copyright © 2016 Samantha Murdoch