Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Ghost Story

I watch the western sky
The sun is sinking
The geese are flying south
It sets me thinking

I did not miss you much
I did not suffer
What did not kill me
Just made me tougher

I feel the winter come
His icy sinews,
Now in the firelight
The case continues

Another night in court
The same old trial
The same old questions asked
The same denial

The shadows closing round
Like jury members
I look for answers in
The fire’s embers

Why was I missing then
That whole December?
I give my usual line,
I don’t remember

Another winter comes
His icy fingers creep
Into these bones of mine
These memories never sleep
And all these differences
A cloak I borrow
We kept our distances
Why should it follow that
I must have loved you?

What is a force that binds the stars?
I wore this mask to hide my scars
What is the power that moves the tide?
Never could find a place to hide

What moves the earth around the sun?
What could I do but run and run and run?
Afraid to love, afraid to fail
A mast without a sail

The moon's a fingernail
And slowly sinking
Another day begins
And now I'm thinking

That this is indifference
Was my invention
When everything I did
Sought your attention

You were my compass star
You were my measure
You were a pirate's map
Of buried treasure

If this was all correct
The last thing I'd expect
The prosecution rests
It's time that I confessed
I must have loved you
I must have loved you

Monday, August 18, 2008

Writer's Block: The Far (Out) Side

Living alone can do things to a person's mind. What once upon a time never used to bother you, suddenly becomes like a big deal - suddenly you see the world with myopic eyes.

There are a lot of perks that come along with living alone. There's no one to share anything with, no one to nag you about your turn to do the dishes, and no complaints from anyone when you get too lazy to cook or do laundry.

It's perfectly ok to walk around in your undies or belt out a not-so-perfect tune. But it also means having to change the light bulb by yourself, accidentally hammering your thumb instead of the nail, and carrying a six-step-ladder all by your lonesome because it costs $20 and three days to have it delivered to your apartment at the next block.

You spend Christmas and New Year waiting for someone - anyone, to call, and buy yourself a bottle of vino to help knock you out.

It also means having to spend your birthday like Jesus, because everyone was out waiting for Santa. And you thank your stars that at least your mother remembered, because the other one person you were counting on to remember, coincidentally dropped off the planet and returned with amnesia.

So you thank God that at least you have a job as Dilbert. At least you still got a roof over your head. But then, your landlord calls saying he's raising the rent, which means you have to look for a more affordable roof, and get some order back in the chaos of your life that you haphazardly dumped in boxes.

Then as you unload it all, you realize - Dammit! I need new glasses. -wmf

Writer's Block: As I walk away

As I walk away
from you and me
I say farewell
to haunting images
hot cups of coffee
after a brief hide and seek,
an afternoon rub,
flirty eyes
over a cold, quickie meal
wrinkled noses, late afternoon chats
of dreams and ambitions.

Tongues entwined, tasting each other
tete-a-tete, lazy french kisses
soft, sweet and wet
like melted pieces of chocolate
under the hot afternoon sun
only in great quantities.

No more shall there be
long walks
on cold, rainy afternoons,
teddy bear cuddles,
soft whispers that tickle the ears,
the playing of feet,
teasing and tickling,
weak knees, intimidating glares,
endless fights
and sweet making-ups,
a cold shoulder, and
a warm embrace.
And then I forget…
Why is it that I'm walking away?

Wendy Ferrer
(2000, All Rights Reserved)

May I die a young man's death

by Roger McGough

Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death