Who will be strong for me?

i’m a nothing
– like gaps in a bamboo fence
letting in every inferior thing –

woman with no man

Advertisements

Cimetière of tradition

Pay homage to the departed

A collection of villages, this
hectare of cobbled lanes,
elaborate tombs, the size
of small houses.

Long-standing tradition –
resting place.

A code of conduct
for homages, to the
noteworthy graves:
This stately quarter doesn’t rock after dark.

(but night owls will find plenty of options nearby)

 

(Found poetry – Words from Lonely Planet, Paris Encounter, May 2007)

Swirling of thoughts

swirling of thoughts

White. Predominantly. The only thing my mind could take in. A place, completely whitewashed to stay in. Safe. Until, shadows seep in. And break off into shapes, rushing off, in, around. A swirl of starched white with a flurry of arms, heads, faces that you think you should focus on, must focus on. After all they might be important. Telling you, please move outside, as they draw curtains shutting them off. Shutting you out.
More white.

Nightmares. That sinking sensation of being sucked down into quicksand. Mouth wide open in a silent scream. Tongue dry-glued to the roof of your mouth. Jellied limbs, torturous, as you try to move, to escape whatever danger pursues you.

But at least, you wake up from nightmares.
Just not this one. No, not this one. This was one nightmare that threatened to entrap one completely, eternally in its murky depths.

That nauseating feeling that reality is about to intrude. And then when you awake with a swirling of thoughts, you realise the nightmare is a certainty and you are alone. Your loved one is gone.