. give things .
to some one else,
will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.
handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.
we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.
Hedd Wyn was a Welsh language poet who was killed during the Battle of Passchendaele in World War I. He was posthumously awarded the bard’s chair at the 1917 National Eisteddfod. Wikipedia
Born: January 13, 1887, Trawsfynydd
Died: July 31, 1917
i should not have gone
we had to call her auntie
no blood relation
we sat with her for tea
i shared a room with Catherine, (it may have been K I forget) so long ago
we were at the top of the house off the landing before the staff quarters – the
Cath was older, brave and treacherous
i liked her yet felt the others didn’t
a bad influence
we went out on the chain ferry across to the beach
all sun sea gulls and possibilities
day of freedom
on return that auntie shouted i should not have gone, screamed and shouted from the stairs shouted
spoiled our lovely day
Cath left the home soon after, they found her a flat
i missed her
i visited her
it continued with escapes in the bathroom
the door locked
wished i went with Catherine
i think of you often
the last tab was mushroom
i looked. they had been
there a while. food waste
when the fog clears we creep back into the garden
watch birds eat wettened crumbs. softly leaves fall
each year mist falls an anniversary physically fed
on sleep we meet
you are gone & you are gone
no parallel lines
storms are predicted
slowly the sign starts moving
we head toward home trees
are down. power gone
dark yet the bones
the door is open
we ring the police the line is dead
buttons gone spongy
reduced to mathematics and tying the thing in knots
no dialogue they are out everywhere
trees are down
bones are showing
police arrive tree men to mend and repair
crowd in the house for tea
find there are no pastries offered.
there is nothing in the house.
bones are apparent.
our upbringing denounces us.
i stand in the garden, a glimpse
of the bat out late. early here.
now i am hollow.
he said that swimming can be dull,
i prefer calm.
we hide from nothing in particular,
distance becomes us.
near cuckoo woods,
the hollow i sat as a child.
empty dry ditches.
as many as that;
not as many as last night you know.
brainstorming with abandon
and counting symbols.
crossings out and wiring my brain is a task
for which i am not fit without a drink.
a sort of drink cannot say or i will fail.
challenge:~ 50 words. no ‘e’
Pain applied on canvas.
and fills with red, peace And Rothko
you said nothing is ever perfect, and
i remember this and why.
reciting, shouting, jumping on walls
you sent a book, along
with the money due.