Tag: writing

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Fool’s Errand

kurtlookingatcherylsorg-1Eyes closed to dream.
To dream about you.
Not a dream of a yesterday you,
or a you of today,
but the you of tomorrow.
But, no dreams came.

My eyes open and you are there.
There, standing in front of me.
There, standing face-to-face.
I feel the cool air of your breathe on my lips.
You kiss me and my eyes close.
My eyes close, and I still see you.
You say something, I hear you, but am too afraid.
Afraid you won’t be there.
I close my eyes even tighter, trying to hold on.
Hold-on to a dream.

I open my eyes and you are there, still.
Still standing in front of me, still face-to-face. Still
The cool air from your breathing brushing my lips.
Your lips touch mine, and you tell me things.
Each word you speak, vibrating from your lips to mine.
Pulling you closer, closing my eyes,
I now feel you talk. You talk and I feel you.
I am,
moved.

But, you have moved me before.
Each time, with your words.
I have listened to you before. Each time,
clinging to every word.
Stripping each down to it’s letter,
each time, trying to find meaning,
any kind of meaning. Each time,
to only find they were
worthless.

You kiss me again.
My eyes open, so I can see.
Your eyes are open too.
And we kiss. And as we kiss,
with our eyes wide open,
I realise then,
as you realised some time ago,

I am on a Fool’s Errand.

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My Conversation With Death

For the past two years, he has steadfastly remained at my side. I hope I did not offend when I told him he had come too late.

“I died many years ago,” I said playing with the handkerchief I held in my hand.

He looked at me, and put a smirk on his face,

“Yes, I know.  I hear your silence.  I cannot kill, what is already dead.”

“So why do you stay?”

“To keep you company.”

Our silence, once again, returned.

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The Judas

scabal test29447Her decision had been made.

She snuck in, past the guards, during the very early hours of the morning. Having found his cell, she stopped and stared at him. In the darkness, she could see his swollen face, beaten so badly, she thought him nearly unrecognisable. This, she had not expected. She made the journey because she convinced herself that she needed to see him one last time. To tell him she was sorry, that everything was going to be ok, and he would back in his home soon, surrounded by his family. But now here, those words would not come. She was too afraid, and even more ashamed to call-out to him. She stood motionless for 15 minutes (maybe more). Still no words came. As she left, she heard him mutter – but she did not stop. She kept her eyes forward, carefully slipping past the guards once more, never looking back.

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The Jazz Singer

If I won’t be remembered for my songs,
I want to be remembered for your words.

Never stop talking my love.
Never stop.

7

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Sarah’s Poem

img_0516Your love is like a rose.
With each touch,
your thorns make me
Bleed.

My love, a deep red.
As deep and as the red as the Blood at the Cross, bleeding (and dying) for your sins.

Your love is like a rose.
I give you my light, my sunshine.
You grow before my eyes,
as you wilt in my hands.

I am your reservoir.
You drink.
And drink.
And drink.
And drink, until I run dry.
And still thirsty, you drink more.

Your love is like a rose in winter.
Grey, cold…lifeless.
Naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.

I am your gardener.
I see your beauty during the long, cold winter days and nights.
I value your nakedness, your vulnerability.
I am your protector.

Your love is like a rose.
You only know when to love when things are good.
That’s when you bloom, with your petals ruby-red,
as ruby-red as the Blood at the Cross.

Your love is like a rose.
Each day,
you dying
for…
your…
sins.

*This poem is not about a ‘Sarah.’  But the real Sarah, Sarah Haines, who challenged me to write this, my second poem, by giving me the opening line, “Your love is like a rose…” and told me to run with it.  And to her I am, as the cliché goes, I am eternally grateful.