The cruelty of lies.
Why do they say it?
I really wish they didn’t.
We must meet and do this again
is how the saying goes
and they say it.
And then I never see them again.
Rob Cullen
. charcoal .
charcoal. yes a soft substance easily crushed, manipulated. must ensure, i am not. sbm.
Source: . charcoal .
Ensnared
trapped within your words – I have nothing left to say – our silence prevails © Lize Bard @
Source: Ensnared
Crow Art (excerpt)
It is an un-contestable truth
that crows are the greatest artists
of this whole wide world
as they create art from nothing.
White Sheets
White sheets.
Hanging from the wash line.
Is this a wash day?
A wash day like it used to be in the village.
With every house on a Tuesday morning
hanging the washing on line after line
in the back gardens.
The wind catches the sheets.
And as they billow like sails
they make that cracking noise
as the cotton snaps to its full length.
White sheets blowing in the wind.
Rising and falling as they are caught and buffeted.
The wind drops and the white sheets
slowly drift back to hang limply.
The wind rises again and the sheets
begin to stretch out with the force of the breeze.
The clouds break.
And brilliant sunshine illuminates the sheets.
A stronger gust and the sheets stream out again.
Each sheet rises in sequence to reveal the pathway.
To reveal you standing there.
You. Watching me.
Silently.
And the sheets hide you again as they fall
to hang without movement.
But then begin to unfurl and rise
as yet another gust pushes the white cotton out
and you are once again exposed.
You stand watching me with that serious look.
Your eyes expressionless.
Studying me.
And once more the whiteness falls
to cover where you are standing.
There is no movement now.
Just the brilliant whiteness
falling on you like a curtain.
And then you are revealed again.
But it is not you.
It’s the girl standing there in your place.
Your daughter.
Standing there expressionless.
Staring as the sheets rise and fall rhythmically.
And then you begin to move.
A long slow stride.
Towards me.
You move.
Almost as though you are in slow motion.
That slow time again.
There is no sound now.
Your eyes are focused on me.
You know me.
You look at me.
And now rain drops.
The sound of a steady pit-pat.
The sound increasing.
Rain falling.
Suddenly a crescendo.
White sheets spattered.
Grey spots
On white sheets.
Nearly dry white sheets.
Water spatters.
Water stained
White sheets.
Turning grey.
Hanging limp now.
Hanging to the ground.
And you are gone
Awake now in the darkness.
Uncertain of the time.
Lying there listening.
To the rain.
Rain hitting against the window of the bedroom.
Words (Excerpt)
I love the revelry of words sound
words as they ride and are formed
languishing momentarily or longer
on the back of the tongue
brought forward on the breath
to roll and reverberate in the vault
of the mouths vast darkness
to briefly rest on the tongues tip
a momentary and glorious savouring
and then to flit from the bit of my teeth
and freed then thrown outward
on the stuttering blast of breath
the sound of words the dissonant clash
and the smooth assonance
that always manages to awaken me.
Uncertain Times (excerpt)
Of words and truth.
Like grasses bundled
And withered in storm
We are blown helplessly
And not a word is spoken.
Who sings the authentic song?
Who speaks the words of truth?
Who stands for me and mine?
Who looks at what we see?
Who hears what we hear?
Who breathes the air we breathe?
Who sees what is right and wrong?
Who speaks for me and mine?
Who sings the authentic song?
Where are our heroes and poets now?
Rob Cullen
Time
Its the time it takes
A time to heal the wound
This healing time
Fallen
Fallen
Standing in silence
On the stone littered ridge
Surrounded by days
Bare edged morning
As black crows dive
Clustered close to curve
And stoop straight through
The treeless rush
A headlong scream
Launched from the headless hill.
The Last Gesture
The last gesture.
A dirty ward,
bedsheets unchanged.
It was simple really
the doctors failed you
and we were left
listening as they lied.
But the infection nevertheless
caused your dying to be long,
your body racked with pain.
The helplessness remains.
And when your last breath
had eased away your will
we closed your eyes
with our loss.
And we brought you home,
laying you out in your coffin
on the table in the front room.
It is our custom for the dead
to be brought back,
to be watched over
to be cared for at the last.
To make sure they know
their dying is over
and their souls are loved.
We lit candles at night
and sat with you in vigil
while our children came in
to peer over the wood
of the coffins edge
Is grandad asleep?
Is he really tired?
Does he need to rest?
Is he in heaven now?
And we spoke of him,
of the way he loved them,
so that he could listen too,
and hear the words
chosen to explain
so they would not fear
these final goings and leavings
of something so familiar
we will all face some day,
and in our own time.
You looked small
in that wooden box,
and before they fixed
the lid down, I placed
a bunch of rosemary
and lavender in your hand.
Rob Cullen
Celfypridd 