Lost memories

He was once a boy, too,
Although I didn’t know him then
He was never one to share
His how, his why, or when

He grew
He loved
He lost,
He reared
He lived
He died.

Scattered in the mountains,
On an autumn’s austral breeze
What then became the resting place,
For his lifelong memories

His first scraped knee
His first real kiss,
His first broken heart
His dearest bliss,
His deepest passion
His darkest abyss.

I’ll never know of his best day,
Or if he recalls when last he cried
I’ll never know what he thought of me,
Or hear of the childhood he hid inside

I only have my own memories,
Which is half our story’s tale
Perhaps one day we’ll catch up,
In an austral mountain gale

art: Autumn Descends by Tracy Webb

Void a void

The stalwart walking chalk outline,
a bone-white sillage swirling behind,
in a dramatic paisley murmur of aloof
pursuit; his barely throbbing corsage

sheds its wet petals for a burgandy-
pasted path of disenchantment; my
steps slow in the crimson sludge, as
I desperately grasp at the beckoning

cloud; chasing Plutonic perfection,
what I was meant to be, always one
step ahead of me; a void to fill a void,
a voice to fill an echo, a fate feigning

fulfillment, in the unbroken dust of
an unlined palm; each day brings
hope of reconciliation, each mourn
welcomes his ruby breadcrumb trail

art: Portrait of a weary ghost by M Tumulty

Homage

Paying homage through pain and suffering,
any distraction an afront to his memory,
any relief a disgrace to his tenderness;

my love will abide until the falling pall of
darkness flutters to rest upon my eyes, and
the final tear to streak my cheek has dried;

an hourglass of ashes, counting down the
sentence; a condign repentance overflowing
the void, suffocating acceptance within the

throat hushed by broken glass remorse and
voiceless reports of choler and dolor; upon
my heart and mind, restless he will ever be

art: by Eric Lacombe

Turmoil

Bloody knuckles and broken heart,
barbaric breathing in tender breaths,
uneasy lies the head that wears the
frown, weighted memories, life bereft;

wall of innocence, dotted hue, departed
love, the vacuum filled; fester, blister,
boiling blood, dawns the night in
unexpected bruises; now with eyes,

the wall stands judgement, mock the
man in swelling weakness; staring
contests, blaring silence, idle hands
with masters violent; wringing, wanting,

calling out; no succour, no escape,
besieging grief in cryptic reminders;
coherence forsaken, harmony shaken,
turmoil wakes in remembrances taken

art: by Zao Wou-Ki

Serenely sleep

sweet smother, serenely sleep
the shadows sense wherein to creep
a raptor whispers secrets keep
slip away in silence

masked madness, molly please
free of freedom, binding frieze
foolish hope on mindless seize
alacritous alliance

when upon an umbrous sleuth
awakened awe uncovered truth
overwhelmed with unctuous ruth
rebarbative reliance

tripped and taut, cataract gleam
eyes torn tight, tantalized dream
twist the secrets, tautologies teem
visions of the violence

raptor breathing poisoned plume
plight and pallor, palling brume
the answer lies, impending doom
death within defiance

art: untitled 35 by Peterio

The writing’s on the hand

Staring at textures of
skin and light, shadows
and scars, painted across
a topography of vein and

bone, he sees an age-worn,
sorrow-torn, hirsute surface
whose rivulets unerringly
circulate life that remains

teasingly beyond his grasp;
out of reach, this life, with
its promise and potential,
augurs riverbeds run dry,

fortunes forever lost, and
the certainty that one day
others will look upon him
knowing death, as he does,

like the back of his hand

art: Mano by Javier Arizabalo