Creative Coping


The Prisoner and the Whale
June 26, 2009, 10:56 pm
Filed under: death, fishing, hope, nature, regression, willpower | Tags: , , , , ,

Inside a whale sits

Jonah, pondering

How many more rotting

Tuna he’ll

Stack up in the corner

Before he dies of

Stench and despair.

Not a scale can he see

Only slime to the touch

As the creature heaves

Through the Deep,

Filtering fish through its

Radiator teeth.

 

Jonah dreams out

And up, into the light

And over this rut.

cards fall on the table,

Dry, clean in the sun,

Behind the horizon,

Life’s line, noone

Can question

The silence beyond.

Always there.

Forever, back

Down fathoms and more

To our whale and

Trapped Jonah.

Never to see the sky

Split from the Land

And the sea

By the line.

There in the gut’s leviathon walls his

Murmurs sift the

Gloom for gold

But none drops.

Patience and hope

And his jaws will part

And out he’ll fight

Then float like a

Ripe apple, spongy after

The long winter store.

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S.C.Alexander, died 14th June 2009, POW, Changi, 1940-1945
June 17, 2009, 9:23 pm
Filed under: bereavement, death, memories, pain | Tags: , , , , , , ,

That skull there on

The pillow,

One two three we

Heave him up,

Belch,

One two three we

Let him down, down,

Death bubbles in his

Guts,

Fiddles the clockwork

In his heart.

A nappy smothers

Paper skin and knees hover, angling,

Buzzards above the

Wan skeleton, barely

Worth the fuss.

His eyes are lidded

And the curtain’s shut

But for the odd crack

Of Pain and Cricket,

Outside.

In they come, ‘The family’,

He mouths and seems to say,

As he lifts bone to

Palm, before the bridge

Breaks and his life flows

Off, prisoner no more,

Away.



Fatal Reflection

Round and round it swings

With centrifucal force,

The cycle of pain and self torment, the

Frustration of procrastination

Why not do it today?

Cant! Wont?

Loud the pound, Narcissus

Streaming round the brain,

Pumping full the eardrums

With the sound of sheer

Doom

Boom, it goes, again.

 

Forget the sun, what

You had won through

Ernest Toil.

The boil on your leg is the

Clumsy spy, whose

Yellow fuss gives away

Conspiracies beneath;

Self sabotage.



A house on a London terrace
June 11, 2009, 7:07 pm
Filed under: childhood, haunting, home, memories | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

The house was built in 1864 or thereabouts

With bricks and mortar

In the usual way,

Set down on the street

‘Tween two just the

Same.

No, I lie. Next

Door was a shop,

Greyed out now, modern

Style, frosted windows, the works.

 

Behind doors to the house of

A family, bent by

Chance into odd-

Shaped rooms, tombs

For the spirits of eras

Passed, mingling now and

Then with the plates on

The rack or a glass in the

Cupboard, no harm meant.

After twenty five years

No surprise at a flying saucepan.

 

The family lived in the house,

Part of it, kin to it,

Whatever its freight.

Besides, after twenty five years, they

Had their own ghosts as guests,

Those former selves in former

Times living on,

Resonating in overlapping lines.

 

The cello practice, the barking

Dog, the sleeping dog,

The trampoline, the one that

Broke, the roller blades,

The skipping rope.

 

The time when budgies tweeted

In the kitchen

And Ma cooked at 6 for me

And 8 for him, again.

 

The time when garden’s shade

Was less and next door neighbour

Had a cat called…called….

 

Times gone but still present

In the ether, round the stairs, up the blocked chimney,

Or the skylight, then,

Down, over mossy steps

And at the back door, again,

With a ratataptap, like a

Ghost..

No, it must be Jack

The new next door neighbour’s

Cat.



Girl in 5 parts
June 11, 2009, 6:51 pm
Filed under: growth, healing, love, nature, pain, regression, shame, strength | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

1.

My name is girl

My age is when

I feel the day

My height is fringed

With misty things, the haze

That surrounds all,

Air , or something like it,

Electrical.

Part 2.

My fate is but a worm

Squirming in the sand

Beneath an apple on the

Beach.

My rubbery coil senses Autumn’s

Mellow fruit but feels

Only grit and cigarette ends,

Yellowed with spit

And the odd spat of sea.

Part 3.

My Date is a round

Can of something fizzy,

A man, who’ll pop

And bubble over

With sense and tunes

Told well, with confidence

Like some voluntary tramp.

Part 4.

My ache is a bell

Bent out of shape

Chord twanged by the wrong

Hand. Who”s hand?

Who cares? Lets fix it,

If it’s copper it’ll meld well.

Part 5.

My tune is a song

Soldered on to the side

of my liver, an odd

Audience, granted,

But keen, it knows exactly

Where I’ve been and what

Deals Life’s dealt.

No, livers make grand audiences,

They’ll tell you whether or not

You were truly magnificent,

With their view from the stalls.