Prose Poem Five

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For the want of trying they simply gave up. Each of them held fast to their bitter memories nurturing them as though they were the seeds of some delicious fruit being grown rather than a bilious loathing eating at their hearts like a cancer.

At the root of this odium was a hurt so huge it required an even bigger emotion to deflect the pain. It was hate that now gave fuel to their lives; it was hate that gave them purpose.

The shattered shards of their history lay in pieces on the stony ground reflecting sunlight and revealing the stains of their recrimination. It was as wanton an act as a war in the third world.

Prose Poem Four

Tesco sells flowers. They stand them in bunches in buckets of water tightly grouped together looking at you like children in an orphanage wanting you to select one of them, if not children then dogs with reckless faces that nod in supplication. They, the blooms are the stuff of ardour, of love. They are gifts given on mothering Sunday or to a lover, a wife or someone dear to you. These are the flowers of romance or flowers for funeral parlours, their petals soft, colour coded to match the mood: love and death, birth and decay – two ends of the same spectrum. I touch the blooms, feel their velvety softness. I rub my forefinger and thumb against them then lift my fingers to my nose. The musky scent is like the earth, pungent like the mystic force of sex. The thought of buying a bouquet crosses my mind, but no one has died. No moon or stars have eclipsed my sky.

Boot Print On The Heart

Prose Poem Three

 

She shouts her hate at me. I shout mine back. Tit for tat, tit for tat. Two adults returned to childhood. Name calling like spitting cats. Claws sharpened by razor thin hurt, the subtleties of communication descending to primitive depths. Doors slam shut loudly in the face of memory. The fuzzy edges of love turned sour. Sentences formed in full caps.  Sentences never finished - Punctuation emphasising the fractured syntax of the relationship. At the epicentre of the conflict lies blame. It is a bruised fist of unequal proportions. North of England is flooded. Silt covers carpets and the lower floors of houses. An advert sings. A newscaster informs. Silence shunts the sound of rage into submission as TV regains sway over the empty living room.  

Dog Stomach Bloated by Republican Ideals

Prose Poem Two

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The fridge when opened casts a sterile light. I rummage around seeking something to nibble. The chill nips my fingers as I turn over various items; the slab of cheese sliced at an inaccurate angle; the yoghurt pots that cling to each other’s lids like conjoined twins; the foil wrapped pasta from last night’s meal. I settle for a chocolate digestive from a packet buried in a cupboard. Filling the kettle I wait for it to boil. A watched pot never boils or so Nana used to say. It does though. The lounge has one light on, an up-light, and one candle burning on a stand in the corner near the patio doors. The TV screen is blank. I turn it on to cover the sound of the conversation held upstairs. I watch Lewis. TV, tea and biscuit

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Prose Poem One

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I pass through the vacuum of the landing that is covered in dark blue carpet. Above me the ornate light fitting hangs on temperance high. A silent padding of boot heels in the hollow haunted hallway, on the soft shoe shuffle stairs. The bedroom with its white bed linen and pale blue walls beckons. The door creaks open like the gradual dying of moments; rusty, crusty and dry. Candle light casts a dancing kabuki. From the open window a light breeze ruffles memories. It’s the same old drama; it’s the same old scene. Outside the garden whispers; a wind shivers the trees. Dead leaves gather in a rogues rustle, conspirators all. The screen of the computer sits silent. It is the only other sign of life here now. The mirror reflects a diminishing façade. And even in sleep the same nightmare dream. Nothing moves here anymore less it is the slow pulse of sleep or that flickering screen.

 

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In a string of loveless living

Pearl drops in a white basin

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And now a silence of well-worn regret

That whispers wistfully behind the edge of conversation.

The remote face at the television screen

Never looks at you, never smiles, forever faraway.

Somewhere over the blue horizon

a dream escorts a wounded memory,

Footsore, swollen, treading hungrily to reclaim lost ground;

Time wasted by petulant disregard.

Another sin in a cul-de-sac of sinners.