Tag: creative writing

Remember me

You broke my heart –
Your bruised, confused eyes, staring and searching,
Senselessly clinging onto the shell of who you were,
A lifetime ago, you now wake up every day
To another memory, you remind me of what you are,
You are lost

You’re a silent child, wandering the aisles of the store, eyes searching faintly for your mother,
You might be able to describe her hair, or her jacket, her name, though to you it would just be “Mum”,
Which you call out faintly in your heart,
Wondering where you are, or why you came, or how you got here, or who I am,

I can see a mind fading to black,
A final curtain closing quietly, yet without mercy,
It reminds me of a memory,

My grandpa, my opa, that stoic old man who used to think we were so loud,
When he tried to enjoy his silence, when it was still a choice,
Though he loved music, and the music of his hundreds of clocks, his endless time,
Till he was almost blind and deaf,
Each new memory fading sooner than the next,

When I shared a pizza with him in the garden
A simple salami pizza, but to him it was magical
I saw him transform back into
A quiet little boy, savouring every bite, so content for a moment,
Present and oh so precious,
When he was finished I would take away the boxes,

And soon after, a few months,
A few more cups of tea, a coffee,
And three pizzas,
He passed away peacefully in his bed.

Now I look at you,
Every time you come into my life,
With searching eyes, so confused and almost blind,

I can’t help but feel my deepest sympathy.
I want to cry at the sight of you, my poor child.
I’m sorry I can’t help you.
I’m sorry you won’t understand
Whatever I will say.
I wish I could help you find your peace, or
To take your hand and help you find your mum, wherever she may be,

But it’s not my time,
I’m so, so sorry.

Passing

Passing pleasantries
Ignored like roadkill
A plant in a pothole
Drowning in the smallest rainstorm
Living for every bit of sun I can catch
On whatever leaves I have left
Before
A deer eats my head
A car strikes it dead
Crashes into a tree
It collapses onto the street
Where she was about to cross
She now passes
If only she hadn’t ignored
A pleasantry

Tune

Sleep well, my friend.
Don’t think about the war.
Tinker away on a tune, on your guitar.

Drown out the guns,
Drown out the planes,
Play until your fingers bleed –
Till it drives you sane.

The sandwich and the sidewalk

I saw God the other day, sitting on the sidewalk outside of the Albert Heijn.
A crown in the form of a worn and weathered grey beanie, I thought
It must be a tad too warm, but
He does work in mysterious ways.

He asked me for some change, and I told him
I used to pray to him, and ask the same.
Dejected, he asked for some food – a soft sandwich, perhaps, as he no longer had his heavenly teeth.
I got him a bacon and egg sandwich
From the bin with all the ‘aged’ produce,
Priced down to celebrate its final ‘best-before day.’
I figured it would be softened, and moistened by age.
The bacon egg combo is a classic combination, like
Man and sin, bacon and egg, man and bacon, and man and egg.

When I walked out with the soggy sandwich, a spark sparkled in God’s eyes,
A few tears on his cheeks, reminding me of the soggy bread I held in my hands.
He said he couldn’t believe I came back and provided him his heavenly lunch,
And he shook my hand, and gave me a hug.

I held him for a moment.

How did you fall so far?
Was your throne,
Your horse,
Your holiness
So high?

The taller they are, the harder they fall, and you
Were on the highest pedestal—my neck would break
If I tried to meet your eyes, your expectations, and now
I see you in your truest form.
You
Wanted so badly to be loved and adored by all,
And in turn you would grant us your conditional love, but
I guess you will have to settle
For a soggy sandwich.

A Peculiar Nature Scene

The bear waits patiently next to the river, with a rather peculiar duck between her front paws, watching eagerly along. With no intended malice, the bear slaps at one particularly silly salmon, which lands on the rocks besides the pair. Although the salmon was quite aware of the nature of things, he gave them a surprising request.

“Well, you caught me now,” he blubbed, somehow, “this might be the end of my salmon life, but please spare my salmon wife.” This was a bit new to the bear, as she had not heard her lunch ask much of her before, as she was an ever-so-hungry predator of prey. Nor did she ever consider the implications of a salmon marriage, before this day. Alas, she responded to the salmon, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but as I fish with my bare bear claws, I doubt I shall be able to uphold my end of this clause.” Or, well, she would have said this to the salmon, had the duck not swallowed the salmon whole. He quacked. The bear did not.

As for the salmon wife, she was not as fast as the salmon that had just lost its life. She swam, jumped, jumped and swam, until she swam into a large gathering of logs, drifting on the water.

“Damn,” the salmon wife exclaimed, like a fish. “Indeed,” replied the beaver. It was the six hundred and thirty second time that this beaver made this joke this summer, and he was considerably disliked by the beaver community. Indeed, he had been cast out from the community in a permanent exile, which had previously been unspoken of, considering the lack of a democratic system in the beaver community. In any case, he was hated so much, that the beavers figured it out, got together, and kicked him out of the colony. None of this was known to the salmon wife, as she had never met a beaver before. Nor was their interaction of any particular interest. The salmon wife was not interested in hearing about any democratic system, nor did the beaver care much about salmon marital systems.

The salmon wife started, “But, my dear beaver, marine marital systems are of great importance! My salmon saviour stated in the salmon bible that ‘salmon should save the life of their salmon wife, once they are broken upon the rocks by a bear, with no intended malice.’ These teachings must be taught and thought of as truth!” By now, the beaver realised the surreal nature of their interaction. A fish, speaking to a beaver?

Before the beaver could realise many existentially life-changing revelations, the story advanced to the meeting between the bear and the salmon wife. Once more, the bear waited patiently next to the river, with the duck at her side this time. The salmon wife swam, jumped, jumped and swam, and jumped straight into the bear her arm, which was swung with no intended malice. The duck quacked, “wait, wasn’t that the salmon wife? Hadn’t we heard something about her before?”

The bear replied, “Heard of her before? I don’t know, I am a carnivore.”

For a Friend – Wait For the Sun

You tried, love.
Your teary eyes were buried in my shirt,
My arms could only contain your
Shell of a body, as it emitted wracking sobs, echoes
Of years of trying to love another, whilst loving
Itself with all of its anxious compassion, you
Tried, so hard, my dear. The days
Will likely seem a little darker, for a while, and your tears
May weigh you down, till

One day you will wake up again,
And listen to the birds sing
In your father’s garden, you’ll watch
The hopeful rays of sunlight try to break through
Your curtains, and you’ll smell a fresh cup of coffee,
That your mother brings to your room,
Not because she has to, or you can’t get it yourself, but
Because she knows that this simple pleasure could be enough
To get you out of bed for a whole week,
As it is love itself, in its purest form.

It’s what you deserve, my dear, but know
It’ll take time, and to take small steps, day by day.
Know, that your loved ones, will be there
Every step of the way.

Bishops and Pawns Both Strike on the Diagonal

Frozen pathways, broken bridges, the
Spilling sewers of Rome, the holy excrement rains
From the sky, the smell is putrid
Like a preacher working the corner for days on end,
Working his body, a bible glued to his hand,
There aren’t enough eyes on an angel to truly witness
This state of despair, not enough holy mops
To rid the world of dirty priests, one man once said
“Let the children come to me,” he should have said
“Don’t let the children near a priest,” they should
Call a consistory, make it extraordinary, take it
To the top, to the tip of his white hat—haven’t we learned
That we should stay away from white hats, white masks, white robes, white cloaks, white men that
Disrobed nature and nations, stole from their people, took away their gods
And put them in a museum, hiding behind bulletproof glass, far out of reach
From tax-paying citizens, increasingly depressed denizens, we need more
Destructive dissidents with bottles of gasoline, rags soaked in alcohol,
To light it all aflame, but only at the end of the week, to make it sabbatical.

Blades

tiredness and rain, the feeling of wanting
a breathless escape
from it all and to
watch from a higher place
to the ground below and the wild seas
with waves as high as planes,
green plains of desolation, and grass
that is always greener on the other side
but
what does the colour of the grass matter
maybe i like it damaged and coarse,
and not cutting, separated and divorced