Tag: Prose

And sometimes…
Cold grey afternoons spent in solitude
Reading a handwritten letter from an old friend
Narrating what life has done to them in the years gone by
Heartbreaks and joblessness, and the journey to self-discovery
The end of old friendships with people we both used to know
The beginning of new ones found in unexpected places
Memories of our summer days long ago
Spent lying on the grass in the park, staring at the blue sky
Counting clouds one by one as they came back to us as rain
Long conversations wondering who thinks about us
Who dreams of us, what do they dream of?
I get to the end of the long letter and think…
Perhaps this is the point of our existence
To bear witness to each others’ lives
To hold dear, and to remember.

Take a pen and begin to write
Start with the things you miss the most
Memories of things that never happened
Work your way down to the ‘what ifs’
And then to the ‘almosts’ that only happened in your head
And finally end with your hope for the impossible
And say the silent goodbye
Then tear the page off, make a new start
Keep it in an old book you’ve always loved
Like Verses on Things Forgotten
Mark a page that means something to you
Like Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Put some rose petals to keep it scented
The idea is you never open it again
Perhaps someday your children will find it
Or maybe your children’s children
Then they will know
That you too have known what it is to lose
Precious things that were never yours
What it is to let go
Of things your hands have never held
What it is to say goodbye
Way too soon after a first hello
Take a pen and begin to write
Start with a name, and then a place…

I sat next to a woman, at the park, on a bench
With a smile on her face like a permanent scar
She watched life around her as stars watch us from the sky
Distant, removed, like she knew something we didn’t

She began to speak to herself
“Was there ever a sadder thing to wonder about
Than the ‘it might have beens of the road not taken
The silent ‘if onlys’ and the lonely ‘what ifs?”

Then she kept quiet as though expecting an answer
I looked around first, then began to whisper
“I’ve learned to hold back what is too intense
When there is no container to contain it,
No comforter to comfort…”

She interrupted me before I could finish
“Oh the fear of knowing and not being known
Of remembering and not being remembered
Because to be remembered is to be known and to be known is to be loved
Because…”

“There are other things too,” I interrupted impatiently
It was my turn now, she had to let me finish
“There are other things too beyond what words can string together
Like the ugliness of the truly beautiful
Or the fatigue from a race that never begun!”

She looked at me for the first time
“You are too young, far too young!”
She stood up slowly and looked at me again
With that smile on her face like a permanent scar.

You say that you often lay awake at night
Worried about your fragile heart
Going over the heartlessness of those who’ve burned it
But do you ever lose precious sleep
Or take time to remember
That there are those who’ve loved you before
Who trusted your delicate smile and your unwavering gaze
And you, in the plight to keep faithful to yourself
You betrayed them, let them down like rain
Cut them apart with the cruel selfishness
That we execute in the pursuit of our own happiness
No, you are not a wounded bird
And delicacy doesn’t belong to you
You are fierce, and you too have drawn your sword
That is why you are still here
That is why you are still beautiful
Be swift to pardon those you think have hurt you
You too have blood on your hands

…she walked away from me, upset perhaps resentful
But I had no comforting words to offer
I just wanted her to see,
that the poet has no secrets… because she knows no balance.
Every emotion is a raging fire and she must relieve the burn
And so she takes refuge in paper and lets emotions scorch it
Only then can she close her eyes, till it all begins again.