caroljoyce Poetry (65)

Thoughts tip tapping busily about my mind
Brightly hoping inspiration to find.
So I kneel to ask a delicate elf
She says,' it’s a feeling beyond regard for self.'
Next, in a jar of wisdom I take a peek
It says,' love is a lesson taught by the meek.'
Now I know that this implies no lack,
It means love cannot ever harm or attack.
So I question the lining of a drifting cloud
And the answer is whispered not very loud,
'Love is the infinite possible feat,
Because it requires giving without a receipt.'

Your love lived in every cell of mine
Our souls and genes still intertwine
loss of you nightmares crush my mind
no peace from them I ever find

When he scared you I felt your fear
if he came you kept me near
Protecting me from all his harm
his handsome anger, rage and charm

Such a little while together were we
just long enough to teach me, me
you taught me every word I said
the grief still screams throughout my head

In every way you put me first
gently corrected me at my worst
aware of your suffering waterless thirst
things left unsaid so full dam burst

Gone when I was so small and young
left out in the cold, my coat undone
by my beautiful, dreamy, temporary mum

You taught me all I know that’s good
would you know me now?
I hope that you would. x

All resistance lifting
Senses stirring, shifting
Reason is quiet
Chemically induced riot
Foothold daily slipping
Caution tender, gripping
Downwards, backwards sliding
No conscious overriding
Constraints now loose
Denial not in use
Resisting little, less
To absolute, confess
Deeper, wider going
Only instincts knowing
Softer, safer now
Don’t know how
Endlessly entice, invite
Touch, close, tight
Neurons firing, yearn
Beyond point no return.

A touch of love or a hint of lust
A fleck of pink light in a mote of dust
Think that you can’t but feel that you must
Rattling of thoughts that you can’t see or trust

If you suspect you may have been smote
In need of evidence, where it is wrote
That this is the one to endlessly dote
Or another conquest to boastfully quote

Mind thinks in doubt so how can it tell
Answer in cool depth of soul wishing well
Or cast off a gilt edged nefarious spell
In the spell drop’s heart the answer will tell

Gaze deep at a dew drop longing to find
Revealing reflection calm unquiet mind
Peace that bewilderment is unable to find
That lights up the smile and is blissfully kind

When questions swirl temptation for fright
There is comfort in the magic, infinite light
Soft whisper the query to an Angel tonight
To tell you a dream if you understand right.

RANDOM RAINFALL/PLUIE ALEATOIRE

Random rainfall fills soft tender space
Touches every nerve cell on groove of face
Rinses where pining has left its trace
Cleansing wounds from life’s harsh race
Dreams we made were formed from lace

précpiatations aléatoire remplit soft espace d’appel d’offres.....

For love found herself no true home
Desire waits silently crying alone
Hope almost gone flat monotone
No warmth to feel or call its own
Desolation fresh and vital sown

Pour l’amour lui-même ne trouvé acune veritable maision.....

Longing vertebrae winds around
Crushes feelings without a sound
Bewilderment and loss abound
Dissolution all around

Précipitations tombant sur mon visage
C’est just un mirage
Mais parlent pas
Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment
nul besoin de paroles.

The Fledgler’s rusting Lada rumbles determinedly down the middle lane of the M5 southbound, their caravan veering desperately behind, swinging across the carriageway at varying angles between 30% and 60%, evoking unprecedentedly vile verbal volleys from the Respectable British Road User.
Mrs Fledgler sits emphatically in the passenger seat, bosoms quivering with outrage, maintaining a running commentary on the suggested management of every approaching vehicle.
Her hat today is a singularly jolly affair, a straw saucer-like contraption swathed in old yellow ribbons that look suspiciously like used crepe bandages, causing her head to take on the appearance of a badly wrapped parcel.
Settling into her routine, Mrs Fledgler is standing at the caravan sink on a pair of pale, puffy ankles, dabbing at her drab, voluminous draws with some diluted travel wash, conscious of being a picture of ‘English Holiday Respectability.’ She pegs her sagging apparel on to an improvised line, thus marking out Fledgler territory from those of less worthy disposition.
Mr Fledgler is dozing uneasily in a deckchair, emitting ominous rumblings as the gases from three forced helpings of dubious looking beef and carrot stew jostle and vie for space in the confines of his small intestine.
Suddenly there is s loud rustle, and a trio of two sheep and a ram make a guest appearance on site, having escaped from a neighbouring field. The ram cautiously and with precision, lifts the remains of Mr Fledgler’s egg and tomato sandwich, but becomes overly excited at the sight of the bright khaki green nylon slacks and, watched by his admiring posse, gives Mr Fledgler’s left lower leg a deep nibble.
The poor man awakes with a start and gravitates 45% into an upright position, bloodshot eyes at an exact level with the rams, whilst simultaneously relinquishing a deep belch.
Horrified, the ram turns 180% and bolts for its life but unfortunately gets its horns caught on Mrs Fledgler’s hanging draws, and heads off in an utter panic with them held aloft, like a partially inflated sail.
Two tipsy, bandy- legged elderly men give chase gamely, but suffer a severe and simultaneous collision with the farmer’s collie, which has just arrived at its best ever top speed of 34.5 mph, in frenzied pursuit of the escapees. As the dog gets its wind back, the sheep trio, like the three stooges, head speedily off towards the town centre.
Our poor Mrs Fledgler is left murmuring little moue’s of distress, for stitched neatly into the back seam of the bloomers are the letters, Mrs F. Fledgler, 9 Beaver Crescent, SE1......

The air this morning is redolent with fried bacon and an unparalleled opportunity to 'be seen to do the right thing in public'. Mrs Fledgler is in pensive mood as she swabs furtively at her various fold selection with a grey/white, slightly slimy flannel.
Mr Fledgler is indisposed and has been quarantined upstairs following an unexplained laxative overdose. He is reading the Daily Star peaceably, interrupted on occasion by little puffs of spontaneous emissions of a highly noxious concentrate.
As she steps up into the welcoming Hearse, Mrs Fledgler’s brand new black hat crouches uneasily on top of a super springy new perm, rather like a malevolent and disreputable cat. Each time the hearse brakes, the hat lunges diabolically towards her left ear in an acute Easterly direction, causing the lady to expend considerable energy in ensuring it manifests its correct alignment. As she sits upright in the vehicles plush, black interior, palpitating proudly, her dress persists in its spontaneous upward shift, revealing an unprecedented and shocking diplay of patella only partially disguised by a yellow support hose that has the appearance of a severely dehydrated caterpillar.
On arrival at the graveside, there is a little outbreak of squabble as the ladies fight to stand closest to the vicar, but then the service proceeds in a practiced and well-oiled fashion.
Speaking of which, The vicar was just annunciating the hymn, 'Immortal, Invisible, God only Wise’ when shouting was heard in the distance. This soon took on an distinctly Irish note, as Joe Macnulty, flushed and exuberant from a previous wake, looms unsteadily towards them, preceded by a thick cloud of foul smoke.
Little putters of disapproval are emitted from the good ladies, however they are all secretly rather enthralled and hold out hope for considerable scandal..
Joe is by now experiencing significant difficulty in maintaining an upright position, and as he reaches the periphery of the grave, he finally looses his battle with gravity and drops backwards quite suddenly, at an acute angle of 45%, like a skittle. The shock, which is severe, results in him being parted from his cigarette, which flies through the air and lands accurately but perpendicularly on the rim of Mrs Fledgler’s hat, like a well aimed nuclear interception devise.
As the veil ignites, the shocked gathering spring valiantly into action, swatting violently at the incandescent hat with rolled up newspapers, brollies and The Bible.
The force is so severe that Mrs F herself then looses her stability and topples forwards into the freshly dug ground, extinguishing the flames and sustaining a severe penetrating blow to the left occiput on the handle of the coffin.
As the sirens start to moan in the distance and the good ladies minister to her ineffectually with Joe Macnutly's hip flask, Mrs Fledgler wonders how she will ever come to terms with the shame of ‘having had a public fall.’

Broken parts meshed rough together
but may not hold intact forever
risk of cracks if we come together

Corridors of doubts crowd beyond my mind
forgiveness, acceptance I will not find
no belief another being is kind

As deep weals of harm begin to heal
my skin remembers how to feel
layers of rejection slowly unpeel

Yet with words and secrets softly spoken
forgotten wounds will silently open
Cannot offer them as trusting token

discarded trysts clutter my bedroom floor
I don't wish to feel or cause pain once more
harm to another I do utterly deplore

Do not seek to understand my soul
only partially mended seeking whole

Closeness mocks the essence of me
empty cadence of what I ought to be

For so it is only me and I
who is granted permission to watch me cry

I place a seed of love in my secret drawer
from a distance I will care, adore
and no one will be hurt once more.

I sit amidst the rubble of damaged, broken things
future gasps aloud with harsh words, arrows, slings
I wear shredded rags of suffering pinned across my chest
Pain clutches my soul possessively like an old familiar vest
mists of doubts and loss have settled in front of me
fogs of dense confusion blanketing all that we should be
in a winding, meandering, long and silent night
a dream emerges with its edges clear and bright
hood of bewilderment lifts beyond my tear filled eyes
and happy filled sparklers dance about the skies
as the lightness beam intensifies it irradiates the sea
the darkness fails and dissipates revealing love for all to be.

Longing ,closely ,loving glide
above, beyond, beneath, beside
doubt flecked dreams meet, collide
whisper secrets deep inside


Tender places touch converge
Rain swept losses comfort merge
Strength together courage surge


Pummelled feelings comfort find
Peace for weary shattered mind
hurts forget leave far behind


mind to mind touch and meet
create softness, sweetness, heat
broken, loss admit defeat

My soul is on onwards and upwards flight
past dancing particles motes of bright
parting the clouds of deepest night
seeking its path of searing light
though rejection may wait through every door
I sense much more I must endure
though others rip and scorch my soul
my inner being is strong and whole
from torrents find shelter within my shell
for only that without is hell
and if I feel I can’t withstand
I seek and answers touch my hand
if I regret the years of pain
well it’s in the stars, it’s in my name
so once more I will agree to stay
another heavy harmful day
to show there is another way

So Earth Angels get your shirt sleeves rolled
be ready for that which was foretold
the long awaited amazing birth
of a healed ,cleansed and mended Earth
an end to pain and death and fear
oceans running sweet and clear
no soul shall be forsaken
all helped gently to awaken.

Yesterday was Sunday and the morning involved mindless ministrations to a threatening and incomprehensible deity.
The afternoon was threaded tight with tension interrupted periodically by the wind querulously rattling an ignored open window and washed down by lashings of stingingly cold slanted grey and persistent drizzle.
The man was more exhausted than usual as he left for the pub. The trip has sparked a fresh squabble but there is nowhere else to go. He is greeted enthusiastically by other paroles and they compare notes, each has his own chapter from an identical book. Brave, bright attempts at humour are tried but fail at the first hurdle and the men swallow deeply in fellowship and silence.
So when he wakens late on Monday, the perpetual emptiness is tempered somewhat by the vague hangover and he is stale with sleep and ill prepared to tackle the sentence of yet another week and he wonders what crime he has committed.
The sheets are warm and rumpled from hours of routine practiced avoidance and his day whirrs into action like a sluggish but well programmed computer.
In the kitchen he stares at the windows which accurately reflect the innermost workings of his soul and are dark, stained and spattered by life, letting in minimal light and only partially disguised by an attempt at a bright yellow curtain.
He wonders why the train with life on it did not stop at his station.
The little cat silently lets herself in and meanders around his trouser leg and he welcomes the attention and scratches the top of her soft head with clumsy, well intentioned fingers; she purrs a response and he is happy for a brief moment just because of the affection.
On the way to the office his mind wanders momentarily and he almost hits the car in front causing those behind to slam on their brakes resulting in random ripples of rage from other provoked travellers and he wonders at their malevolence.
His day drones on towards its weary conclusion and the time comes again for him to return, and he slots his key into his door. Sensing bad temper however, he does not stop for a meal. He goes up to his study and hangs the jacket that has taken on the shape of his life for the day on the back of the chair; he moves the cup of cold yesterdays coffee to one side, sighs and turns on the switch. The machine fires up slowly, the screen flickers but then hesitates. His heart stops, but then the device gently whirrs into life and he starts living.