Author: celfypridd

Time redefined

 

And now

Am I marooned here

You told me to go

Go go go go go

When you decided

That it was done

That you were done

With me.

But I have been left here

Somehow

Then now

Now then

Time stands still

For some things

Trapped in this silence

Now and then

A fracturing of time

Fractured?

Torn?

Shredded?

Ripped?

Sheered?

I struggle

For words.

Its not true

That time heals

It simply

Loses pain

I am like a bell

That has not chimed

For so long

I am not silent

Only in quietness

Will you hear

The deep vibration

Of my calm

I can’t make

Up for lost time

Making up

For lost time

What time?

Who’s time?

A clock,

Clocka

Clagan

Or Clocc

A silent

Instrument

Missing a bell

Is called

A Time piece.

I clock you

You you you you

You. And you!

I watch you you

You and you.

And you.

 

 

 

 

 

Encircling.

The grassed land yields

to the spades sharp edge.

It has been many a year

since this soil was last laid bare

and now as the upended sods

are lain on their backs

so that the turf lies buried.

 

I smell the earth’s sweetness

and feel a light breeze

touch the back of my hand,

the sun on the hill line

reminds me of the time of day

and a chill begins to cool

the sweat on my back.

 

Before gathering the tools

I stop and stand straight

old Oaks in the woods

loose their brown leaves.

to lie on the woodland floor.

The fluttering clattering fall

shatters the day’s quiet.

 

Young Oaks on the field edge

sway, waving gently

holding their leaves tight

waiting for the warmth

of a late spring day

as if unwilling to relinquish

memories of summer, of youth.

 

A thought of children

now. And another

encircling year begins.

die hard, oh the irony.   it takes a while to remember, something acted out in childhood,   returns some years later, without intention, without memory.     until some while lat…

Source: old habits

cymer, a confluence of two rivers.   if  one ran different, if each thought  were deeper.   tide pools,   north and south, the moon fills and the current stops a while.   our  river …

Source: cymer

 

Listening to Rachmaninov’s Vespers at Christmas

brought you back into my thoughts from those days

when you were fifteen and expecting your first child.

 

And you were too frightened to fall asleep

so I sat up with you and whiled away the night hours,

playing cards and telling you those old stories.

 

Night after night from December through to March

of what it was like to grow up in the village as a child

and as we talked  the boys would slide into your room

 

Instead of prowling the streets and alleys like wolves

blowing their heads off with petrol, gas and glue

and they listened too and laughed as I told you

 

Of places I’d been to and those Manhattans night views,

of exploring the walkways and hidden stairs and floors

explorations of Grand Central Station in the early hours

 

Of that quiet time before dawn when the night crew

sat around yawning or folded asleep at their desks.

The crazy stories of the village and old Digger Young

 

and his fight to get away from the awakening dead

And the boys soon fell asleep on the floor but you

sat up wanting more of those childhood stories .

 

More of the kind that made you laugh you said.

And you told me your stories too, of North Wales

and the homes and what you had been through.

 

And you cried now and then. And asked do you

believe me? Do you believe what I’ve said they did?

And I told you I did. I believed you. You cried again.

 

And then you said quietly I think I can sleep now.

And then one night you looked at me and said

I must be bad for those men to treat me like that

 

In the way that they did. And you asked me

“Do you think I’m bad? I mean really bad?”

Is there a sign on my head that says about me

 

Anyone can do whatever they want with me.

I told you that there are bad men and yes

they do bad things and they did that to you.

 

But what they did didn’t make you bad at all

it says more about them than it says about you.

And then you told your story over and over again

 

to the social workers, their managers and the police.

And they decided you and the rest were just lying

and through the nights that followed I listened

 

to your anger and the pain of feeling betrayed again

and again and again and again and again and again.

Years later you wrote a letter saying you remembered.

Welcome to Issue #1 of Picaroon Poetry! This issue comes with a strong CN / TW for: sexual abuse / rape (‘Fallon’; ‘[Jennifer Walks the River]’), alcoholism (‘My Mothe…

Source: Picaroon Poetry – Issue #1 – March 2016