Letters from Thrídrangar Lighthouse
I stand on top and wave to you across the sea,
From the loneliest house the world has ever known.
Like a lost star hung over the cold north.
Silence breaks when storms hit the stone walls,
Moon sends his light and calls my name for sure.
The air is freezing on the roof, I feel like a sinking boat.
I am the keeper here, in this white-walled place,
Writing you letters, my beloved, in short.
One day you will read them and send flowers back.
Sometimes I seal my words inside a bottle,
Throw it from the tower where the ships go past,
Hoping the tide will carry it to you.
This light shows ships the way through the vast sea,
So they will not be lost when the night grows black.
But my letters are lost in the weight of the sea.
A lighthouse is the last hope for those without direction,
The one thing that calls them home again.
I keep the light. I keep waiting.
He laid on the beach
Soft surf washing his feet
A red plastic cup clutched in his hand
Sun glistening off his salt coated cheeks
Two crabs walking the beach
Stopped and shook their claws
A shark fin cut a V in the shallows
Waiting for the tide to come in
Seagulls stole fries at the hot dog stand
He would awaken sun burnt and hung over
Claiming he had fallen overboard
I made two out of order signs
Fastened them together
Hung over my shoulders one day
Sunny was the weather
I took a book I had started to read
And sat down in the shade
It was a day for rest for me
I wouldn't use a spade
My kitchen had closed on the door
Cooking was not happening
This was a day of vacation
Don't call it slackening
Women of America use some sense
Take a day for yourself
Rest, read, take a small nap
Put your work on a shelf
Add a day now and then to rest
It will do a wonder
For your mind, body and spirit
So you won't go under
Today, I learned
of a family broken
by hands that should protect.
A man, cruel and bitter,
beat the mother for daughters
three, then four.
The baby cried,
and he told her not to touch her child.
Threats of poison, of bullets, of death
hung over the quiet of their home.
How could a life be measured
by the shape of its body,
the promise of its heart?
Being a daughter is no curse
no mistake.
It is a gift, a blessing
from God,
from the universe.
A mother does not choose
it is the father who determines,
yet the world still asks
her to bear the blame.
I hate his cruelty,
his misuse of power,
his betrayal of humanity.
But I do not hate boys,
I do not hate men.
I hate injustice.
I hate violence.
We must speak.
We must protect.
We must honor every life,
especially the girls,
the daughters,
the mothers,
who deserve love, care, respect.
Let kindness guide us.
Let empathy lead us.
Let justice hold us
to our highest human calling.
Note: This is a true story that happened just a week ago.
A ty Place
I remember a novel by Graham Greene, “The Consul,” I think.
It was a hard time for the little man under the regime of Doc Duvalier
I was in Port-au-Prince, its capital, and it was a ty place, helped by the USA.
I was a chief steward on a liner, but was too scared by the routine brutality
that hung over the city like a cloud of a toilet not flushed. It was totally corrupt,
agents, guards, and the dreaded Tonton Macute demanding
whisky and cigarettes. I had an intense dislike of the people in power.
It was a hole then, kept like that by the USA, who feared that a socialist
party could take power, bring peace and equality; well, Duvalier
has gone, but the stench from that time still hangs over the country
and will continue to do so as long as it suits the USA.
The looming house smelled of stale pumpkin pies,
When I stepped in through the creaking door to distant cries.
The lore said a mistress had waited a century for her lover,
Before drowning herself in the nearby river.
Her portrait still hung over the fireplace,
Her face was veiled in translucent black lace.
Her armchair still rocks deep into the night,
Her footsteps echo down the hallway to the right.
I stare back at myself in the mirror by the withering parlor,
And see a replica of the portrait in drenched clothes, with a sickly pallor.
i overdosed for the first time last night
all the times i spent trying before
didn't seem as bad anymore
i laid in bed trying to sleep
hoping this would be the time
my eyes stayed closed forever
but i was held awake against my will
deep in my brain,
i knew something was wrong
even if this is what i've been wishing for
for so long
in the past i managed to fall right to sleep
when i took less than i did now
i wanted to be swept into dreamland
but the wheels in my brain kept turning
and my body did too
flipping back and forth
trying to be in a comfortable final position
i kept getting hot
no matter how little blanket i had on
and the wave of nausea hit
i thought i could be fine
go to sleep, make it all go away
all of it
but as i rushed into my bathroom
at four in the morning
i knew tonight wouldn't be the night
as my head hung over the toilet
i wondered why i'm forced to stay
reliving the same treacherous days
without anyone knowing
because how do you even bring that up?
to someone?
i don't know why this world is so adamant
to keep me here, held captive as a prisoner
is this karma?
what did i do that was so bad?
to deserve this?
He slept here overnight after a pub crawl.
I heard him vomiting in the toilet
in the early hours.
Now he is up, hung-over
eating fried eggs sunny-side up.
I remember when he used
to crawl on the floor
baby drool hanging from his smiles.
He looks up at me now with a dopey grin.
I want to tell him both `thanks' and `sorry'
I don't know why.
Years later, `thanks' and ‘sorry'
have become blurred in my mind
with the term, 'fatherhood.'
the morn never came
the sun denied to arise
defied its duty
to say good-bye to hiding
veiled below the horizon
an early bird rose
but if the sun never rose
what would such a bird
do to kill time while on pause
in the darkness scorned forlorn
too soon the cock crowed
the birds sang their dawn chorus
sang again again
in vain for the sun slept-in
hung-over in netherworld
The winter sun hung over the bay
A golden orb sending its rays
Far & wide to bathe in light
This town by the sea, before Christmas night.
The sun beat down on a languid sea as a million diamonds danced and sparkled
on the surface of the water.
The red-tinged cliff hung over the beach, threatening to envelop an unwary walker.
Above, the sky was so bright and blue, whilst on the horizon a misty hue.
The rolling hills are so verdant yet bleak, with small cumulus clouds atop the peaks.
Even on the darkest days when the odds are stacked heavily against us, we should never give up on hope.
Quote By Poet.
We were heading for better life to the new world on the sailing ship 'Athlone',
After about five weeks disaster struck, and the main mast and sails were lost.
For two weeks we drifted aimlessly at the mercy of the unforgiving ocean.
Food and water were running out fast and an air of doom hung over the ship,
our spirits were lifted when a sailor in the crow's nest shouted out "Land ahoy".
It was full of long stringy grass which had grown out, all over the back of the house. It hung over the bare walls. The briars were everywhere and they would prick you clean red blooded. The shed widows shattered and the door covered in heavy moss. the thick smoke running out from the chimney looked like it was about to go up in flames. The red ransomes lawnmower was rotted in rust and rooted to the ground by long grass.The clothes line had snapped in half. The tarmac laneway was cracked with weeds pumping out from underneath it all. Remodelling was out of the question. It remained untouched and there was no even sign that anything would change
Read a book once
Folded the corners
To mark my progress.
It was sort of a
Wagon train read
Long, torturous,
A seemingly endless quest
For an unknown destination
Pictured only in the minds
Of others
Who
Sadly
Were only aggrandizing
What they were told.
The book I read
Had been chosen for me
By a deranged
English teacher/football coach
Before the era of the
Concussion Protocol.
The Book Report I wrote
Received an “A”
I believe because
I trashed the book
Question why it was assigned
As it was a tedious read
Containing statistical
As well as anecdotal
Documentation
Of its unreadability
Or more likely because
He was hung over
After the football team
Beat our traditional rival.
She walked through the Valley of Death,
As a loved one was laid to rest,
One of pure spiritual wealth,
Witness endured every true test.
Feeling alone and so depressed,
Slowly walked away with head bowed,
Heart was hurting under great distress,
Dread hung over like a dark shroud.
Approaching the path toward home,
Heard a noise coming from behind,
Strange, she thought everyone had gone,
But friends were walking alongside.
Grateful to see friendly faces,
And receive their warm embraces.
Thankful to have such welcome guests,
To help in her deep grieving quest.
There was a strong divine presence,
An Emmaus Road occurrence,
For Jesus was among the folk,
That lightened her heavy yoke.
A cloud of witnesses on earth,
Filled with love and heaven’s worth,
A lesson from God on His throne,
With Jesus, no one walks alone.
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