Palpable Hum

There is an incessant rumble here,
This empty room of crisp wall covering and fading flooring.
Here, the rumble is an echo of fading noises, lost in the passage of two short weeks,
Now that my hoard are free from their education shackles.
I stand between my insipid blue wooden tops, eye catching the shelf of faceless books,
Open on a page of vivid expression: pupil crying for attention.
Explicit imagination, tainted with fragile and sickening reality.
Ears and eyes open to the cry of a lost and tortured soul,
One that commits me to fear for her and where her fear lies.
Frantic retrospect tells me I heard her voice above the hum,
Hoping beyond hope a spoken word or scribbled utterance came to the rescue.
How would this play out under the gaze of another?
Would her silent cry be heard above the rumble?
Do we lose the face behind the name when trying to acclaim and shame?
Am I really that good at what I claim?

All of the above sting my ears as the palpable hum rises again from each tattered page,
Fragile sounds striving to be acknowledged above the rumble of her silent cry.


The bonnie Scotsman (at rest)

This is a difficult piece to post. I love him, and he will hear this.

On a day of toil, remember a bonnie soul, clutching to life, straining to survive, but now at peace, restful in his sleep.

The bonnie Scotsman wanders across his lands with the wind in his hair and haggis in his heart. Shame our Scotsman lacks the follicles to stand in a fresh wind and sweep the flowing locks from his eyes, except for that one time the cousins and I brylcreemed a mo hawk on that random strip that protruded from the egg shell.

The bonnie Scotsman bowls the greatest players off the green, luscious grass of the county parks, even though he never had the pleasure of pitting his skill against the Kerr duo. Even in the practise arena we went soft on him, honestly. I am sure he was inspired by the kitty; the chance for petty cash to buy the Scottish amenities: the shortbreads, the kilts and such.

The bonnie Scotsman is strong, in every thing; in every aspect, every minuscule detail and every fibre of his being. The wall was built to separate and divide, but this Scotsman scaled its broken rocks and wandered triumphantly to these, our shores, the land he calls home, with us, his loved ones.

The bonnie Scotsman is now a shell, a broken image of his former self. His aesthetic lies though. Underneath his fragile bones is a heart of fire and courage to fight. His days now stolen by torturous cells, but presently straining to taste another one, continuing to fight and scrap, for his precious life continues, with us, his loved ones.

The bonnie Scotsman is at peace, resting in the hearts of everyone who was lucky enough to have known him. Sleep well sir.

The Night

Tonight is empty,
a cavernous expense of pleasantries and misshapen greetings.
We sat in blissful noise,
broken fragility,
an excuse to feel wanted
within their crowd.
They often appear, disappear, reappear
and each time, someone else affirms
their obnoxious importance:
how do we look from above your nose?
My frustration burns behind a mask
of polite defiance, not being one
to rock the proverbial boat.
The next night remains empty,
false and empty,
shallow pleasantries.

Free Sky

I sit before an open sky, my eyes transfixed on the curtain of wind shifting the grass of the rolling field. Each blade slices, guided by the stiff breeze. Blanket clouds shuffle like a dense gas escaping towards the setting sun. Dusty orange shimmers penetrate the rising night, ending the day as darkness falls.

My gaze falls back to the shivering grass, flashing in patches of green and black as the wind continues. Broken plimsoles enter at the base of my eyes, permanently changing the landscape. My feet took me to this place as an escape from the noise of my daily excursions.

I’m in this nature, part of it’s life span and a voyeur of it’s beauty. I stand at ease when the sun ceases to paint the sky, free to wander aimlessly back to my reality.

Hope Box

Hope is fundamental;  an ever-changing yet essential aspect of the mind. Often, hope is all we have, when the pretense of our existence falls apart around us. Hope fulfills the need to carry on, to fight and survive.

I wish this post to serve as a celebration of hope, in every form – a ‘Hope Box’ if you will.

Please reply to this post and share your hope, and join with me in celebrating this fundamental condition of optimism and positivity.

Kudos to @LeakyVision for the inspiration.