How Many More Times?

Beating of black hearts, cold blooded thoughts, hot blooded ideas
and the deliberate pause of a person about to step
to miss the trip and still take the journey
with or without the consent of parties who would be party to it.
In cut-glass crystal, cracked mirrors, in retrospective memory
image and imaginary somehow blur to being the right view
like a vision adjacent to that which people wanted to see,
all the positive thinking in the world wont wipe the surfaces down
or steam clean the guilt from between cotton thread.

It is easy to point the finger, wag that index of contempt,
and often gratifying to do so when everyone else is looking
for somewhere to look, to place blame, to write it off
bad seed
black sheep
born under a bad sign
there was always something not right about that boy…
we all take a five finger discount from the truth
because sleeping well at night seems to be out biggest priority.

There is a possibility that somewhere amongst the breathing
alongside knowledge-knowing-noting-naming
that one of these days a one-of-these-days will be too late,
all fingers crossed and turned cheek blind eye
fast pacing the news into yesterday for tomorrow’s problem
will topple the king and purge the if onlys,
bringing us to our knees only to find them dirty already,
a future full to the brim of a distinct lack of possibilities
and a tangible certainty that all we did was successfully fail.

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Abraham

Naught but a token
a passing sun across a palm,
a folded bill between hands shaking,
something sour of mind to sweeten the deal.
Sign on the line
wax and seal,
naught but a pinch a prick a puckered lip
and squint of closed eye,
something extra to win such a prize.
His heart had beat its loud protest
beneath a weakened chest,
his knees tried to buckle
under the wait of it all
and feet so confident
now fearfully refused to carry.
Closed eyes, to light no longer welcome,
he felt the quickening of the day
hurry him to a decision
a derision a fateful incision
and all the world turned in unison to watch,
to stare in horror unable to blink,
at a father so fathered that a son he would kill.

The Inbetween

There would be these moments,
or rather this gap in time around them,
when I would realise with a stuttered breath
that I missed the you you had been once,
and that you were still there
between the breath and beat,
between the on your way and the arriving,
unhidden and brazen
like the most exquisite of street walkers
who knew they could afford to be selective.
But then somehow,
in a space between my unlocking of a jar
and your greeting,
you slipped away from yourself,
and I cannot help but wonder whether I left too.

Dirty Laundry

It was the missing, an eyelet no longer looking
but a thread left behind,
a small button on the left cuff now an absent,
its holding thread flailing around
wandering about its purpose now that it didn’t have one.
The crudely knotted nub now exposed for all to see
so ugly, so un-fitting
now that it has been uncovered.
Opposite, the carefully lined slit gazed mouth open
ready, poised, hungry for its holder
and suddenly of no use,
left aghast in the shock of it all.