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Charlotte Boyle Poem
Both you and I breathe the ocean, inhaling the waves,
With each surf passing through our lungs
we are immersed and each verse of our life is told through the rolling tide,
At the depths of our love desperate vibrations boom within our ears,
Yet tears always fall silently on sodden ground,
The sea whispers ripples of our old lover’s tales,
But within our shipwrecked bones the only thing
We sink,
We drown and
We anchor for
Is our love.
Yes, our love there, always love.
And as time passes with azure, lime and scarlet, we become the coral,
Our eyes fluorescent with a feeling of home,
We illuminate the sea with each giving stroke,
Our rainbow hues reflecting against one another’s skin, we are akin
to pearls sleeping in their shells, and with each
touch our pigment comes alive,
The colours of love there, always love.
The algae spreads beneath our nails, moss green against pale skin,
Withering and wrinkled, our bodies a map of our lives,
With our struggles and woes freckled along the way,
Our arms intertwined amongst seaweed tides,
And bottle green ribbons tangled around our thighs,
We find comfort in our tempest,
Though at times we may drown in this sea of loss,
There is love there, always love.
The Ocean is unforgiving and our life much more so,
But all I know,
Is that I would rather live at the bottom of the sea with you,
Than sail the current alone.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
The Starlings gather in flight,
A sight for longing eyes, the quartz cluster
grazes the changing skies,
Charcoal moss upon a cloudy wall,
They sweep the air as they fall into
cascading emerald tides,
Suspended in the breeze like puppets on their strings,
They compliment each other through the winds,
With the promise to protect each other
from passing threat.
Inhale, exhale.
As the dusk sets in again
the amber takes another blackened breath,
Each their own but also
belonging to the flock. They are home.
As a billow of gypsies, they roam
the calmly cobbled skies,
Until the darkness crawls from the earth to the moon
and the flock settle on trodden ground,
With the promise to keep each other warm
through bitter nights.
Inhale,
Exhale.
Through lonely days and even lonelier nights,
We dream of the sight of the murmuration,
And whisper quiet courageous thoughts,
Because we all long to live as Starlings do.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
“Life is like a country park”, the peasant said to the King.
The King so sure of his profound answer,
Looked coldly into the peasants eyes
and without a murmur burst out into laughter,
Tell me peasant why would that be
Be this another story of the birds and the bees?
Should we admire the setting sun
Whilst hounds and foxes fight?
Or should we watch the morning birds
As they take their dewy flight?
Should we tred with caution
so to step over the badger’s mess?
We wouldn’t want to disturb the forest,
While for her slumber she does undress.
“How shallow of you my King, be but you a jester?
It’s all about the way we live,
and the way we’re taught to fester.
We walk the paths where others tred
Only because of the lessons we are force fed,
They’re cut and trimmed to look inviting
And drags us to the path when we start fighting
The structured lanes of the labyrinths
Mask the ever-present hidden depths,
With only one way in and one way out,
Of which at the end there is only death.
“I wonder king do ever contemplate,
How our civilisation has structured fate?
You scoff with fear at my fairy-tale ramblings
But when did the ramble lose its wanderings?
Some of these follies are over grown
To draw in those of us that want to roam,
But even those are thoughtfully constructed
To keep us from the freedom they’ve obstructed,
The once wild flowers do with our hearts arouse
And then trap us in with their illusional boughs.
“Tell me master, though you believe you are wise,
What is in the thicket, the bramble of lies?
Be there a place beyond this realised bush?
Is there another place where does sing the thrush?
A field where human hands have not touched
Or perhaps a tree where our safety has not been crutched,
A nest where the bluebird sits out of place
Or a mudded mound where the mole will show its face.
I do not ask you for forgiveness nor do I ask it of the world,
For down the rabbit hole I have finally been hurled.
“Yes, today I took a walk my King against the beaten track
And the splendours I found along my way do certainly do
not lack. The forest was not meant for the rules we
force upon it or the lies in which we trap the animals. No.
Instead my foolish jester, it should be full all the things that I dream whilst in my bed. And whilst there are those things that we all do dread, the nature will
look after you. For the forest will give you what you need,
my staged laughter, and exactly when you need it.
If only you and the others would be brave enough to see it.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
In crowded rooms I saw you but feared to say hello,
So I never invited you round for tea, instead I just wallow,
In this life without love, I know not of what I have lost,
And each slightest sun beam cripples in the nightly frost,
Twisted branches hug me, creeping over lumbered limbs
that know my smell, long for my touch and tangle in my sins,
I am desperate to break free from the blackened bark,
And rid me of this sombre paint, my colourless birthmark,
I long to smell the salty breaths of the wild and violet ocean,
But instead I numbly follow each life-long learnt emotion,
But frothy waves desert me,
And these twisted branches hurt me,
Though they say they love me dearly, they pierce into my sullen skin.
When I first met you love, I didn’t know what to think,
I’d been on stormy tides for years and I balanced on the brink,
I know not of what I am my love as I float with you beside,
And I know not of what I will now become on these tempest tides,
To take the risk of having you is to leave known loneliness,
But in this cloistered room my breaths unwillingly confess,
Your flowers bud from rotting wood in calm sporadic delight,
And blossom amongst dewy moss against a sunless fight,
Maybe we can share a brew my dear, a steamy cup of love,
“Please do not shy away from me”, sweetly sings your mourning dove,
But blooming orchids scare me,
And the roses thorns cling to me,
Though I long for your touch my love, I am nothing without my kin.
You say you have always known me love, as though you were always there,
Like you were always at the breakfast table and I always had a chair,
You’ve bought me out of darkness dear, without shadows I cannot hide,
I feel you watching me as I sleep, from my one lamped, one booked bedside,
You’re with me in my dreams my love but not keeping tears at bay,
But now when glassy eyes run deep I’m no longer in the clay,
There will be times when I desert you and leave your loving hold,
But know I’ll always think of you until I am grey and old,
I promise to always love you love and I’ll always be home for tea,
And I thank you love for loving me though at times I’ve wanted to flee,
Now caring words they warm me,
And growing forests holds me,
Though we are new born friends my love, just now I love you love, yes always.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
Injustice coughs its blackened breath.
And like bracken he wraps himself, prickly prickly, over the moss drenched mud.
The fog receads, its spite dulled.
Twisted branches fall, softly softly, leaving the gentle fern to protect the wild things that live beneath the hearth.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
The Marshutka travels down
the jarring road, and
just as in
life, we are unsure
of the hurdles we will
encounter
along
our
winding
journey.
The torn and
chalky seat carries each
of you,
And you are with me,
Just as was
intended, by a divine intervention,
for our blessed
meeting.
Your kindness needs no
words because I can see it in your
eyes,
beneath the veil that
covers the raw you, the one that
cries,
Scripted within
your
iris,
I follow your narrative, with
every creasing blink,
And through passing
looks
our living stories
interlink.
In those speckled brown
pools, I see your soul,
I see
your past and
the worries you hold, passing windows
of cobalt blue
I feel the truth that lives
in you,
and
in apertures of forest green,
I see the things that you
have seen.
Your dandelion clocks,
show where you
went astray,
and where the wind of life blew your
seeds away,
And on this everlasting journey,
the two of us sit opposite one another
on this rickety marshutka,
Separated by the language we speak yet
found in our own translation.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2018
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
"We must split the Silence", our ego often thrums.
"If we leave it singing for too long, the crow will coo and caw the truth of your darkest hour."
"We must break the back of the hush", it calls.
"Crack it's clay, decay and rush it's calm. No good can come of it. The lull will receive your mind."
"Open its jouls wide and break the quiets jaw", our ego tempts.
"Before it cuts you open and it's jagged sand abbrases your heart. Leaving your weakest thoughts on its shores for the wild hounds to chew and tear".
"Just a few words can cut it and pour its whole, drained out", the ego cries with hurt.
"We can drain it of its desires. Let it fester in the sewers and arrive at somebody elses door. Drip. Drain. Pour. Empty."
Empty.
"Empty the Silence and fill it with words."
Our ego weeps and wraps itself with the story of your suffering.
Drip. Drain.
Pour
Pour
Empty.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2019
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Charlotte Boyle Poem
I fell back into mediocrity, or rather
it fell back into me.
I longed for colossal waves to crash through me,
Inflate my veins,
Saturate my heart,
Those waves so gigantic that when they approach you aren’t sure
whether you dive or drown,
A little part of you wishes the latter,
Until that tiny frightened laughter escapes your lips,
And you think,
Here is where I feel most alive.
But I have a little box
One that I return to.
It always feels so familiar,
Though not at all like home.
Outside that little box I found you. I held you in my arms and whispered, “You are always safe”,
No matter what happened to you before,
Or how it tainted the decisions you have made,
You’re still my little child who keeps me awake in the night.
Inside that little box I lost you. I wept for days, weeks, months.
I cradled your ghost and sobbed, “Where did my child go?”,
You were weeping also but so silent the birds could not hear,
And I was still aimlessly searching aisles.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Little box, why do I let you keep me contained?
The pillows aren’t as plumped,
The softness numbs my soul,
Your tightness, it suffocates me,
And your closeness, it makes no room for others.
I’ve spent too much of my life alone.
Let me tell you little box, or rather don’t.
I’ll tell you all the same.
Listen up, get comfortable, let your lid down, we could be here for days.
No longer will I sit within your jagged walls,
Those that pierce me with internal claws,
No longer will I take slumber in your shadow,
Or nestle in your deathly silent throws,
There’s a child that I am looking for,
And you hold no windows.
I do not begrudge your caging pain,
And I now dance within the light,
Never do I long for the end of your rain,
I now tie ribbons with birds in flight,
There’s a child that has been waiting for me,
And you hold no light.
Little box is crushed, torn into tiny fragments and thrown into the recycling.
Copyright © Charlotte Boyle | Year Posted 2019
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