The Road – A Short Story

The winding road to the next place came and went between the trees with each turn. The road was wet, but just a little; it rippled slightly, though, with the patter of tiny raindrops. It was dark, which seemed appropriate.

In the rear-view mirror and beyond it, left behind, was a town, a building, and hundreds of strangers. The town was never a home; nor was the house. Each face was empty when the car started up, but they always had been – a nothingness of pure black isolation. They would not be missed, and neither would they miss.

Unfortunately, escape was the only option. There was fear in it, but then there was fear there, too. Danger, heartbreak, sadness.

As the car pressed on, some unfamiliar melancholy song playing on its radio, here was nothing more to be done. Things had happened there, been seen, which could not be undone, unseen. Just like the arrival, quick, tense and frightening, but somehow satisfying, the departure would be a rush, it would be scary, and it would be a release. Like air suddenly rushing in through shattered windows, or out of burst tyres.

A final right turn, to a place where no one goes; a place where no one leaves, either. A heartbeat. Pressure on a pedal setting a short course to nowhere. A rush. Forward.

The ground falls away and then the car falls on toward it. The sad singer sings a long, beautiful note at the end of her song.

It is beautiful.

The Cliff – A Short Story

Looking out over the edge of the cliff, we could see for miles – a luxury not lost on us after months of smoke and chaos. The crashing waves, too, were a welcome roar made perfect by the missing rumble of the ground and shouts – screams – of the people who hadn’t joined us to look out to see; people who hadn’t joined us because they couldn’t.

There was sun here, accompanied by a gentle breeze. Two friends who have long missed each other, like the women now sitting down to let their feet dangle, carefree, over the near-perfect right angle made by the meeting of the rock face and the thin but somehow beautifully green grass on the ground above it. They sit off to the distance because, like many of us, they feel both alone and at home; without, and absolutely with and within those who remain. Theirs is a privacy we all share, a secrecy and intimacy we all understand. The larger group and the little, gentle factions such as these are bound by an unseen knot, just tight enough to keep us attached by experience, but loose enough to allow us to be free from its burden.

When the wars ended, no one knew if things would ever return to normal. Humans have a habit of naïveté that comes from wishfulness and foolishness and ignorance in equal measure. The others would have called it stupidity, idiocy, and yet here we are. Victors in loss and pain and damage, but victors nonetheless.

In a way, though, this is all exactly as it should be. What once was has been beaten away by force, like the sea which now, all of us having stood taking in the salty air for far longer that we had intended as though we might never breathe it again, only kisses the rocks. But it has beat upon the dark cliff for so many years and the cliff still stands, and so do we.

In the parts of the grass where we stand now, there is no charring, but there are footprints and indentations; some are still real, some are only there in history and in memory. But the grass is green where it can be, and there is a solitary off-white flower smiling up at the sun. A child wanders happily about the group.

Everything has changed, in its way, but the long lost parts of this land where we have gathered won’t rise up from the sea and grow back. It is time to move forward. If you listen, you might hear it: a beautiful nothing. A canvas, bleached blank by the sun, begs to be painted; it begs for shadows to be cast upon it. So we walk, and begin a new story.

All of us, together.

Acid – A Short Story

When the rain came this time, no one knew where to look.

The clouds had changed from the last downpour – a time when the weather was more predictable, before even the air had gone still, as it has now. Now, there is little use for an umbrella, nothing romantic in letting yourself succumb to the falling water; it isn’t wise to stick out your tongue now, like a child exploring the world with an unbound freedom in their heart.

Instead, we wait for the end we know will come, hiding under the shells of old cars, in cafes devoid of food and shops with no music and no footsteps.

We were warned that this day would come, and we listened in our way – with a vague interest and no sense that what we were doing now, we were doing right now. No sense that it would come for us. We fool ourselves trying to imagine that the darkness is the comfort of night, that the acid taste is a lemon candy or a well-made cocktail, that the burn is made from the rays of a sun which smiles down upon us on family holidays long forgotten.

But it is not. And now it is too late.

Look – A Haiku

If you look in there,

I guarantee you’ll find it:

Yourself, see – right there.

Unfortunate

Even with all the noise,

the tragedy,

the running;

with the chaos,

and the heartache

and the fear;

the world is peaceful,

the world is calm,

the world is quiet, here.

Summer Trees

The wind through the summer trees,

is soft in ear,

and cold upon face.

The rain, unexpected,

is welcome only for its cleansing.

The sun which splits

the clouds

lays glowing shards on the sky,

on the ground.

There is beauty here,

if you have will to sense it.

Do – A Triple Haiku

Don’t check, don’t worry.

Don’t think, and don’t be afraid.

Don’t do anything.

Don’t wish, and don’t cry.

Don’t wonder, don’t be afraid.

Don’t be unhappy.

Don’t be someone else.

Do whatever: whatever,

makes you happy. Do.

Freedom – A Haiku

Freedom is fright’ning,

but is just right all the same.

Embrace it, now, love.

Birdsong

And as you walk

off the path you have

been

treading,

you will notice

just how bright the flowers are,

and how they smell;

you will see the sun

break through the clouds so clearly;

will hear the wind

– its rustle through the trees –

and the birdsong.

It all was always there,

but so too, now, are you.

Flashes

There is strength in those arms,

that can’t carry a feather –

in fact, especially when.

You are brave in your steps,

round in circles,

the bend,

or going backwards, even,

and backwards again.

There is wisdom –

flashes –

like electric storms in your head;

wisdom, yes,

even when the weather is calm,

and there is nothing wise to be said.

Leave The Stage

Explain yourself to all you know,

or no one at all,

at all.

The story is yours –

put the pen down,

leave the stage,

hang up the phone.

Or don’t.

To tell the story is not necessity;

to live it, though,

a must.

Weight

Remember,

love,

the weight of the world

is not your personal burden,

not yours to carry

as it presses your footprints

deeper

into the ground.

Write On

The beginning is rarely

at the start of the story;

the end,

rarely at the end.

The middle is not a single point,

but many.

The book is never finished,

nor begun.

It is always,

and never;

ongoing and done.

Write on,

throw away,

publish,

erase.

The story is never done.

As It Should Be

Here, the close

of a door

is not a slam.

Quiet does not

ring in your ears.

Clarity, here,

is not blindingly bright.

Everything is balance,

and just as it should be.

From Now

The time has always been,

as the brain, the heart;

they know. 

It is onward,

now,

as it has prepared itself to be.

What is done,

always was;

like this moment,

always was.

And they may think

and feel

and beat

and feel – from now –

just exactly what they want.

Snowflake

A single flake of snow

is like no other.

It becomes an avalanche

when standing with its brother.

Snow is a blanket, one of beauty.

We are strong together: you, I, we.

Water

Like water,

all dreams live in pipes.

Like water,

can sustain you.

Like water,

dreams may clear your sights.

Like water,

will not drain you.

Grief is a Thing with Tethers.

In recent times, I have encountered grief of different kinds, some my own, and some belonging to another – a friend who somehow is nothing but joy, always; even then, even now. This piece is dedicated to her, and her grief, it’s title to a book I once read, which she might love, or might not.

We have talked about the language of grief – about how you, what we are calling, ‘forget’ about the thing that aches in your soul and, as far as I have felt, makes your body hurt unbearably even though you feel no pain. We have talked about the part where you ‘remember’, too, which is nothing like remembering because, just as I say, you don’t actually ‘forget’. We are sure, or we think we are sure (that is what the process is like, it seems), that there must be a German word for it. There always is, isn’t there?

My own experiences were, (selfishly) thankfully, shorter, and resolved. They were painful, though – achingly, wrenchingly painful. It is funny how you process things, and go through those (never) forgetful periods; how your perspective changes and you think about your situation and your feelings differently. My friend talks differently now to how she once did, a month or two ago: she is in charge now – clear, confident, frank. That turn in the road – maybe not a broken tether, but at least one stretched a little further – led me to writing this piece. She is still held, as I am in some ways, but she is more free than before, which is incredible. She is a feather, floating, at least sometimes; it is an image that matters to her, and someone once said that ‘Grief is a Thing with Feathers’. It occurs to me now that my title here is more fitting than I realised, as she sits, feathered ring on her finger.

My friend once praised me for mastering my mask – for tethering it to me so that no one could see underneath – and I praised her for mastering hers. As it turns out, we are alike, we watch each other, we know and allow and support each other’s masks. As it turns out, we are tethered to each other.

You will be fine, darling; in some ways, you already are. Grief is a thing with tethers, but you are not a puppet: you are the one in charge. You are held on to by it, and you hold on to it too. Luckily, though, your strings are attached to more than this. I could say ‘well done’, or ‘be strong’, or anything else. But, instead, let me say this – a way for us to find the right words, some thoughts on these feelings, a piece of poetry dedicated to you, and whatever else this is:

 

 

-GRIEF IS A THING WITH TETHERS.

 

Grief is a thing with tethers.

It holds you to a single spot,

and pulls you along the road,

just the same.

Freezes you into position;

drags you with it.

It is hard, and comforting,

wrong and right,

in all the ways it should be,

and should not.

 

In all its forms,

it is brother,

lover,

mother to your heart-strings –

they are the same notes,

sometimes in a different tune.

Grief pulls its chords,

playing music in your chest,

so that every song is a sad memory of happier times,

played on your xylophone ribs

as they ache with your head

and your eyes,

now dry,

not from untethering,

but overuse.

 

Grief is a thing with tethers,

like reigns on a steed more noble than the way you feel,

but just as graceful;

running forward,

and yet round in circles –

progressing,

either way.

 

It speaks when you cannot,

is silent when you can –

it finds words when you forget them;

when you forget, it tethers you back,

and you remember,

then,

that you never really, ever really,

forgot.

 

Grief is a thing with tethers;

let it be –

hold them tight,

pull them yourself.

They belong to you,

not the other way around.

Take the lead,

be brave,

recover, or not:

stay tethered.

It is fine, it is awful, it is hard,

it is OK.

 

 

SPM ©️ 2019

Corks

We collect corks like every pop

relieves the pressure and creates the flow we need,

like the sweet taste from inside the bottle does enough to mask the bitterness.

But we don’t need to finish the bottle,

nor another and another and another,

to reach this oblivion.

We have made it there ourselves,

pretending the bottles weren’t smashed

and never noticing the cracked glasses enough to do something to fix them.

Once the cork is out,

it’s out.

The bottles will empty;

so too will the glasses.

We drink up – the night is over.

Time to forget,

although the head ache in the middle of our chests won’t really let us,

and the sound of ringing glasses will stay out of tune, humming painfully in our ears.

Until it’s time to sleep on this forever.

In fact,

it already is.

Empty bottles, thrown-away corks;

a single drop left, and then gone.

Here’s to us.

Good night.

Park The Car Here

We spend our time holding false hands

in a park where the rides don’t work as they should,

the leaves aren’t swept,

it rains.

The roads are complicated,

and we use a car like a dangerous safe space that steams up in the wrong moments and shakes and rattles;

the warning light is on,

but it’s probably fine.

If you listen, you will hear the quiet noises

that tell you all you need to know:

the park has always been empty,

the car is already broken.

Dont go back there;

park the car here;

you walk one way and I will walk the other.

It is time to come in from the rain,

false hands holding only ourselves together,

and drifting away,

like a wind that pushes the swings back and forth –

turns the carousel;

like wind through an almost imperceptible crack in the windshield –

glass that will shatter at the slightest bump.

So we turn off the engine:

it is time.

Don’t.

Don’t do it.

Once; Now

Once,

we were corks,

touch,

and music;

now,

empty bottles,

pain,

and silence.

It Is Death

We empty our hearts,

unfill our eyes,

close doors,

end stories abruptly.

We are all,

and suddenly nothing;

together and suddenly alone.

This is not heartbreak,

or not only;

it is death,

of the purest, hardest kind –

you with full bags,

and I with empty rooms.

Neither if us as we should be;

none of this the way it was meant.

Wasted.

Broken.

A nothing in a space meant for everything;

a never and never again,

in a journey meant for always.

We are nothing, here,

and there is nothing worse.

Crash

You feel, already,

like a hole in the road;

I bump over it,

veer off the path ahead.

And crash.

Fire, pain, and danger.

In the dark of night,

no one will see the car;

no one will hear,

because I won’t shout.

At least, as the rain falls,

the fire might burn out.

I couldn’t possibly guess.

Hope tells me

that the hole

in the road

might be fixed;

common sense tells me this lane

is better off closed.

Some things, though, are certain:

I won’t drive again,

the hole in the road will get worse,

and I will always have burns,

brusies.

Fire, pain, and danger,

off road and alone.

I am burnt,

and this is the end,

because this is the end.

Everything Hurts

Everything hurts.

This cannot be.

It just cannot be what it is.

The pain is too much.

I am not here; I am torn.

My heart

is broken.

I can’t. This can’t.

I am broken.

Everything,

everything,

everything hurts.

Good Luck

This

is the worst

you will ever feel.

Good luck.

Trust Yourself – A Haiku

The time will never,

never be right, but you will.

Trust yourself, brave one.

I Will Give You My Hand

I will give you my hand,

one knee,

and my heart.

I will give you my all;

my life,

from the start.

I will give you these words,

a ring,

and my time.

So that always I’m yours,

and you:

always mine.

Exhaling – A Haiku

This life is exhaust-

-ing struggle. Even just ex-

-haling is painful. 

All and Nothing

I am sick and scared,

whole and healed,

exhausted and enraged,

fine and flourishing,

tired and torn.

I am all and nothing.

I am scars,

where blood was set free; 

where emotion escaped.

I am a punched wall and a scream. 

I am full, ready to burst. 

I hurt and I hope,

and I have to.