Poetry | Stories | Photography
You invited me to take a voyage on the notes you love.
We journeyed together, listening to the way songs changed over time; we embraced our favourites and kept an open mind.
Now, I remember you by a series of your favourite songs, which I sometimes play alone.
O’er the mountain and into the sea,
we will meet again just you wait and see.
O’er the hills and down into the lake,
we will meet again and memories we’ll make.
O’er my heart and into your love,
I’ll see you again, my sweet dove.
Cold untilled soil,
an overgrown garden full of weeds,
blooming roses,
an atmosphere heavy and mournful.
An empty house
unlived in for many, many moons.
Decaying walls;
unloved, dusty and abandoned.
Eerie sounds
once sound of laughter, happiness.
Dark shadows,
lurking horrors and unsolved truths.
A vacant owner,
unwilling to return to the family home.
She lingers alone;
he hides alone so far from their home.
Through a prison window,
light falls on a room with dead roses.
Her favourite vase untouched,
roses she loved sit cobwebbed, dead.
A ghostly glimmer;
faceless, loveless, she stands alone.
Unbroken connection,
she cannot leave the place she loves.
Unsolved truths,
bound to this house by his untruths.
Unable to move on,
chained to this lonely torment waiting.
A coward disguised,
his fear of her spectre haunts his nights.
Provocative heart,
her resolve to linger touches his days.
She waits for him,
lingering within what was the family home.
She waits for him
to bring the son she loves so much home.
To wish for a love
Someone kind to a soft heart
I talk to the trees
Together for decades: as young lovers, they were inseparable.
Now he is dead; she wanders alone through the timezones.
Never staying in one place for too long, never making connections; She could have had it all, some say, yet without him, it wouldn’t be the same.
She keeps walking through so many countries, walking to remember and to forget.
The death of her love, the haunted heartbreak lingers until it will no longer remain.
Lost on the journey, she stands still under the stars; the recognition of the love she lost startled her, as she finds herself looking at what was in the Bamiyan Valley.
Looking and imagining the Buddhas standing within this beautiful Valley she would have loved to have visited before their destruction by hate and intolerance, she moves on to walk in a direction that suits her soul.
The heat of love,
a bud about to bloom.
Blooming before those eyes,
a beautiful flower in disguise.
Mistaken by a love,
there is no bud or flower.
Instead, flesh and blood;
pomegranate and plum.
Will the fruit be cut open,
or wait for the ripening?
All beautiful fruits need time,
rare fruits take time to ripen.
Cutting ripe fruit is delicate
until you see what is inside;
revealing madness and love.
Mother and Daughter
Checking the bud everyday
Blooming bud rapture
Caught by your soft eyes,
those eyes tell no lies.
You fight the truth within the mirror,
Your eyes see who you are much clearer.
Caught by the way your soul cries,
Your bleeding heart slowly dies.
You fight a true love growing dearer,
the touch of a heart coming nearer.
Caught by your love for grey skies,
tear-stained soul resists, it dies.
You are near to her,
You can now hear her.
Caught by her crystal blue eyes,
A vision in blue, those eyes.
You rid yourself of all the lies,
lost forever within her eyes.
I think of her softly,
the way she moved and the things she said.
Even now, she moves through me,
even as the rain softly falls on the windows.
Someone said you should love,
yet I want to tell them to go fuck themselves,
for love has broken my heart into a thousand pieces.
Yet, still, I sit and think of her,
the little ways she made my day bright and happy,
how we talked about everything.
I miss her sunflower soul dearly,
for her soul calmed me through my many storms.
Me, alone with my broken heart;
I keep the sadness close to feel her.
Sitting in my seat;
on the train, her face and eyes come to me
as the rain turns into icy pieces of snow.
The two of us stood in this place on countless occasions,
as you talked to me about so many unimportant topics.
I listened to your words, not because I cared for them;
I listened to your talk because I knew the hunger
for your flesh and blood would be satisfied soon enough.
The way you looked at, “the big old elegant green one
with unkempt hair like mine” was a woman’s talk to me,
yet it never moved me.
I think of you, and I play your mannerisms, your face,
your voice, your speech; I play them over and over in my
mind so that I will never forget.
The riverside willow of you. The unkempt hair that hung
around your beautiful face, like the weeping willow
branches hang down into the river, is all I have left of you.
I realised too late that your time with me here in this
place was more important than only the hunger, which
is all I knew, for your flesh and your blood.
Your flesh and your blood was my desire for you, yet
your words, your actions, your love, and you,
the unkempt hair you, was the reason for my hunger.
C & K 