In Pieces
In pieces,
A moment of resurrection,
From the empty grave
A cradle
Where chained in silent reverie
Lies my pride with my past.
Fatherhood lends grounding
An understanding of purpose
Like an oak
Grows older
Sinks deeper into the earth
Becomes one with it
And is trapped.
Everything I write
is repetition these days.
I feel I’ve lost my voice,
Lost it to bland existence
The every day struggle for subsistence
Voices at war in my head
In my heart and all around me
Voices at war
With one-another, with themselves,
With God.
I sit here writing this poem
Nothing to say really,
Nothing important
Nothing vital
Taking nothing too seriously
As nothing appears serious enough
Wanting nothing more
Than a pair of young thighs
And wet heat in between
the rest matters not
a shot in the dark
and the world’s all a spin
fades away,
like a dream.
Like youth,
Like life itself.
Noises,
All around me,
Inside outside,
My head, my heart and beyond
Shapeless shapes like shadows
Forming, drowning sinking deeper,
Deeper into me
And there,
growing and growing
so big as to drown everything,
even thought and reason,
season after season,
nothing endures
but the unchanging stride
of change.
My mother the painter
My father the engineer
A match made in heaven,
Strike a match
Set it to kindling
Watch it burn
Bright as a dying day
Bright as childhood hope
Chewing itself to ashes
To a cold pile of powder
Weightless,
Blown away by the first breeze,
Gone.
The devil in me
Resorts to poetry
to appease his sins.
The godly in me is silent
Or absent,
Or dead,
Regardless, he speaks not
Not a word,
Not a whisper
When he should be screaming.
‘There she blows’
The white fiend
Spawned from the depth of thought
Rises to the surface
Stabs at the sky,
Spews her waste to the blue heavens
Then shrinks away underneath.
Carlos
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