Sinking stone

We farewelled with a hug
after a lazy beach day
I complained about
your sweaty hot skin on mine
your breath burned my earlobe
I dived straight back in the sea
to cool off

When the police kicked down
your apartment door
you laid on the warm floor tiles
bathed in the hot afternoon sun

The coroner released you
in a numbered bag to the holding room
1-5°C was ideal for you

I stood staring at you
in front of the open casket
You looked cold and distant
took no notice of the flush pink
plastered on your face

All the eulogy givers tried so hard
to warm up the service with dead jokes
to comfort the mouners with inconsolable stories
to celebrate your life with cruel death’s doing

You are now a chill stone
tied around my ankle
sinking me forever into the deep blue
withholding your hot sweat
and burning breaths

Post shock

the truth that
you have gone
is like
the cold sweat
after a nightmare
it pierces the numbness
to thrust
the cruel reality
upon me

abstract break broken broken glass
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Frozen

she was a sunflower
turned her back to below zero
gave her all to the sun
whenever she bloomed
she radiated life and enthusiasm

today
the relentless frost
finally defeated her
a scrunched up sunflower
hung by a noose
her spirit was crushed
with no mercy

– In loving memory of A who lost her fight with PTSD on 25 October 2019

 

(Two Sunflowers – Painting by Van Gogh 1887)

Separation

Many times I had dreamt that
I held your callous hands
tugged myself under your hem
where you shielded me from the sudden rain

Many times I had convinced myself that
I was strong enough to fend for myself
from all the accusing fingers
which you would had crushed them without hesitation

Many times I had wished you were still here
to share the weather worn swing
sipping lemon tea together while
recounting our childhood mischiefs

I didn’t know that I had lost you
until so many times I had misplaced
my memory of your presence
They snugged up on me
in my most vulnerable state
where I had no tomb to crawl into
no means to make my way to you

 

woman sitting on wooden planks
Photo by Keenan Constance on Pexels.com

Widow

She walks straight into the industrial loft showroom, searching for the rustic vintage teak study desk. The dark shaded timber furniture on display blend in with the red and burgundy floor rugs. They float on the dark metallic painted floor. It makes her feel claustrophobic and reminds her of the wake room at the funeral. Halfway into the showroom, she spots her desk standing next to a red Victorian Tiffany-Style floor lamp.

She races towards it ignoring the other shoppers and the enticing aroma from the coffee cart two metres to her right. The long drape of her moss skirt brushes the heels of her bare feet. She leans on the short edge of the desk, closes her eyes and breathes in slowly, then out. She tries to block the chattering customers, the professional tone of the friendly salespeople and the whining of coffee grinder. She lays her slender tanned hands on the rough surface of the rustic teak. Her half-moon shaped fingers are tracing the grains in delicate circles. She smells the sandalwood incense and hears the trickles of the Feng Shui water fountain. Then the void hits her and brings a lump to her throat.

An Angel

To our Baby Danielle on 6th September 2015

Surprisingly you came and surprisingly you went.
We didn’t get to meet you in the sunlight.

It’s comforting to know
our Heavenly Father keeps you
close to Himself as a gift which
He freely gives and freely takes away.

We love you Baby Danielle!
You are always safe in the palm of His hand.

A tragic mind

she sits on the rope day bed
he weaved for her
cinnamon coffee swirls its way
into her fond memory of him

he used to massage her feet
while she was tapping away
to create sad stories from
her tragic mind

day after day
she could not believe
his unwavering love
he was like the floor lamp
giving out a glow to
clothe her in comfort and love

she always kept that
little distance and space
where he was blinded by confusion
he did feel like he was
just part of the furniture
fit for a purpose but
underserving of her love

now she is sitting alone and
writing a tragic poem on
what it should have been
a happy ever after
reality