the one who is left behind when the light goes out

Retrospective - lessons learned too late

I have found how hard it is to lose one’s life,
The small things which I took for granted,
the infinite daily subliminal expectations,
how things used to be only noted by their absence.
Every minute, every hour I become more aware
How unappreciative habit had become
The repetition blunting the edge of gratitude
Making commonplace the extraordinary.

And unexpectedly the chasm looms,
Gone is the author of my life’s even tenor
The ache becomes deeper than the sea,
wider than the horizon, higher than the sky.
And now all these things that teemed with humanity
Have no substance, are lost, alone, empty
How could I know that when she left
She would take the whole of me?

All these years together, how I drifted into complacency
Knowing that our lives were drawing to a close
I made no allowances, carried on unfeelingly.
Then suddenly she was gone, fled this life
I did not think that I should be the author
and that her life would end so violently
Like holding a robin’s egg sky-blue in my
Hand, clenching my fist – shattered inadvertently.

The remaining years are far too long suddenly
Life’s hopelessness stretching to infinity
Nothing is important, what can living mean to me?
Without her life is lost, never to return.
All of nature’s beauty is calling her name
Places where we once laughed and loved now
Weep in the wind and cry on the rain
The sun has set, she will not come again.

the eyes through which one sees the world

This photograph was taken with the painting in mind. At Huyumans tomb in Delhi one is transported into a past both decorative, spiritual and, in contrast, palpably echoing of all the blood shed in those distant years. The pointsettias in the foreground were to have the delicate tracery of the lattice work in the tombs. The sharp red bracts told of spears and blood.

To lend light to the painting I muted the colours to blue, moved architecture and nature around to give a simple, decorative look, changing angles to draw the eye to the poinsettia bush as the dominant factor. In the end I got what I was looking for and luckily, as the photographer myself, trod on no toes in the translation.

for a magically talented friend

Mardi Gras Eyes

Mardi Gras eyes, laughter just out of sight
rich as maple syrup,
warm as only the wise can be
Mountain stream brown, reflections of light.

Etch images with your eyes, tell stories with your soul
Capture life’s litany
Each frame a gift to those like me
Collections made of days, chapters of nights.

I wonder if the essence of all you see
Stays locked in your mind
Ghosts of other’s lives and loves
Caught in the amber of your artistry.

I’d walk in the labyrinth, run in the maze
Of your memory
Collecting a scrapbook of images
Culled from your journeys, halcyon days.

Margi Gras eyes, laughter like velvet
Mind caught in crystal
You sing the song of the artist
In visuals no onlooker could ever forget.

**Mardi Gras -the day before Lent, celebrated in some cities, as New Orleans and Paris, as a day of carnival and merrymaking; Shrove Tuesday.

caught in the spider's web

Nicholas - not at ease but not moving,
unresolved issues put on hold.
Life locked into a welcome limbo
of almost silent companionship.
The bustling plans, the constant movement
in abeyance for just a while.
An empty space in a kaleidoscope of
changing company - a sanctioned opportunity
for no particular activity.
The clock ticks on, winding up or winding down,
heralding plans and people soon to approach.
concentric circles spinning ever closer.
You seem unaware or unwilling
to see how close they’ve come.
I stand and watch you caught in
briefly frozen time
And wonder how I became ensnared in
your magic net.
Nicholas - not at ease, but not moving……yet

tears like autumn leaves

MISTAKEN IDENTITY


I thought it was a road, it turned out to be a parking lot
In my hands I held a crystal ball but it was
just a bubble waiting to be burst.
The conveyer belt seemed to take me forward
but everything around me was really moving back.
Often what you’ve lost isn’t obvious at first.

Seems what you never had is what you miss the most
Shards and splinters of what might have been
carving initials on your heart.
The bright promise of the rainbow
is really just another way to look at rain
Reality not circumstance keeps us apart.

Close the windows, lock the door, throw away the key
Draw the curtains on the happy memories
they were never meant to last.
The sun goes down on hopes and dreams
fading swiftly, fleeing forever into the dark
Trust and innocence are relegated to the past.

Cobwebs of a life gone by like a maiden’s wedding dress
All gossamer and lace dressed for just a day
the magic fades all too soon.
Tears fall like autumn leaves and lie forgotten
on the ground swept over by the winds of time
Leaving only echoes of a long forgotten tune.

Love lost dances solo on a darkened stage
Movements to a sad and silent melody
the last act draws to a close.
What I thought was reality was just a pretty show
the curtain comes down, the players leave the stage
I’m on my own - Love’s Labours Lost, I suppose.

underestimating Neptune's wrath

the storms which hit us as August was ushered out, where quite spectacular. Unfortunately this often brings temporary insanity out in photographers and their ilk. Here is a bird's eye view (bird included) of a photographer with his tripod sheltering from nine metre high waves. Two people were rescued from the sea off the breakwater on Sunday. Hopefully he did not need rescuing as well. In the next shot, if the fishing fleet could talk, you would be able to hear the frightened scream as the wild white horses ride them down.

the stairs to oblivion no longer travelled

A Fragment from the Diary of an Epileptic
I’m tired and it has been a long day. Maybe it’s the time of the month, maybe it’s the time of the moon. It’s stalking me again. I must be vigilant. The beast is out there coming in to take a piece of my mind and my life. How to arm against it? Quick - take an extra pill - wait quietly and hope the beast will go.
No, he’s moved closer now. The giddiness begins. Just enough for me to feel it deep inside my head. Now I begin to use words out of context. Me, the wordsmith, the person who guards the power of words with an almost religious fervour. The words mill around inside my head and I try and catch the right one as it swims past me. But miss and stumble and correct myself. I look at the people around me and wonder if they think I’m drunk. I toy with an explanation but it seems too distant - I can’t quite get the enthusiasm necessary to care.
The room is brightly coloured, iridescent and surreal, shapes elude me and mutate around me. The beast is winning the fight. I continue to talk to the shadow people around me. I try to catch what I’m saying. I watch them to see if they notice that the beast has taken me to his liar. I wonder what I’ll remember at the end of this absence. I try to put up a struggle in my head. Try to leave the situation and go to bed. Go to sleep with the beast where no one can see him hijack me. I’ve left it too late. I am no longer me. I spin away and have no conscious mind anymore. My last thought is always the same. “ I hope no one notices, I hope I hurt no one by saying things I can’t control.”
Hours later I wake up in bed. I’ve got quite good at getting myself there over the years. I have a headache. It feels like the inside of my brain is shattered particles. The pain is intense. The world is fog and cotton wool and I try to move through it. Everything happens so slowly, it’s like straining against elastic bands imprisoning me. Time to pick up the pieces. I go into the day, pretending it is a normal day. The beast took the night. I remember watching myself talk to my friends, but that was early in the evening, before supper maybe. What happened next? Did I appear normal until they left? What did I do?
It’s too late to get time back. Try and screw up the courage to face the day, my life. Move forward, work out a game plan of how to find out what I did without people knowing I have no memory of the night. Pick up the pieces left behind by the beast. Pretend I don’t really care and am not frightened by the now absent hours. They are gone. I know from experience that no matter what people tell me happened in those hours, it will never strike a chord in my memory. They are gone forever, stolen by the beast.
Like a child learning to walk I pick my way through other peoples memories of last night, desperately piecing together a kaleidoscope which will remain forever broken.
And wait for the beast to fetch me again.