Rage in old age

It always starts here
with a wrong word
that makes your skin prickle
and your hackles rise.
It was a thoughtless aside,
beneath the breath
a whisper of discontent
you shouldn’t have heard.

Yet with pursed lips
you broil and fester,
avoiding my eyes
by watching the distance
stretch out between us.
That which once was a hairs breadth
is now a snow filled rift.

We usually welcome silky silences.
The mute knowing of each other,
the glances and winks
touches and nods.
Our minds perfectly tuned
in harmonic melody.
Our own love language.

Now discordant and jagged,
I shrink from this quietness,
attempt a soothing sound,
offer my arms in submission,
allow the tears
and beg forbearance.
It was only a careless word.

I take up an old photograph
that sits on our sill.
A snapshot of a joyful time,
Champagne smiles
and clinking glasses,
so young in black and white
togetherness.

But still you stare ahead,
jaw set in defiance of compassion,
you resist the weakness of relenting.
But I glimpse the sadness
in your moist eyes.
Just the smallest notion
that the moment will soon pass.

So I make us some tea.

 

 

 

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Decision

A blank sheet of paper.
That challenging white expanse.
Do I fill it with gentle words of love,
spit angry tirades onto the page,
or etch sadness into its pulp?

Should I cover it with bright paint
depicting the glory of the summer sun,
or wash it in muted tones
with tears of grey
to reflect the world?

Then I remember that this new day
is my blank sheet,
and I am that empty page,
clean and pristine,
to embellish as I choose.

And to cover my surface,
today I choose primary colours,
bright and forthright,
with luminous language
that gladdens the soul.

 

Art Group

I was recently asked if I would be able to write a poem about our Art Group (visit the Sutton Art Group website to see what we get up to there). Up for a challenge, I came up with this one, which they were so pleased with they asked me to read it at the opening ceremony of our 20th Annual Exhibition last Saturday, so I thought I’d share it with you too.

The Art Group

Outside, the windows are awash,
Wet on wet this watercolour morning.
The messy collage of a weary world
continues out there, but inside, inside…

Inside is a cacophony of colour
spilling across the tables,
blending with pastel chuckles
and bright acrylic laughter.

The broad brushstrokes of practice
sit comfortably alongside
the detail of accomplishment,
each hand working, creating,

whilst quietly
the paper absorbs the memories
these friends trace together
each Friday morning.

Bird

Tobago Feb 06 038

The air is still today
no breeze to carry me

It will take effort to soar
and I am feeble and weak

Yet I take leave of my safety tree
and swoop down

in free fall
forgetting to fly

‘Til instinct kicks in
and clumsily flapping

I turn my head skywards
And spy the blue beyond the clouds

Where thermals wait
To carry me above the clamour

and I will glide unhindered
ethereal and free