Sitting across me
on the table
arms wreathed
perched on lap
shoulders resting
after battling
years.
Groans the chair
on her behalf
heavily fragile
with crow paws
by the eyes
pecking age
weighing down.
Wild winds rage
beyond reach
we sight each other
in each other’s
silver hair, dotted cheeks
failing soul
cheeky smile.
Wheezing for air
in open space
as cling-packed
shrooms, dried
awaiting pop
that livens one
snuffs, other.
a soldier, a wine
barrel-full of tales
one shovel at a time
one glass
darkness, clinging to glass,
dregs of last night
desperate to stay
despite the day
pink hues behind trees
peeking through
prying, the sunlight
posing for eye flash
vacantly elegant ways,
vacationers’ night cap
validating sleepiness
Victorian showpieces
never ending bird chirps
normalising serenity
neutralising pain
neither here nor there
calmly, under shadows
cries of the wee morn
catching the light
cat strolling by
He didn’t know what it meant
when, eyes pitiful,
doctor said:
parkinson’s
common disease
wrecks, wracks lives
yet much to hope—
apparently.
She didn’t know what it meant
when, eyes screwed,
husband whined
deafness
another sign of age
comes to all, all in good time
one ear to another
infecting.
When her walk faltered
as staff he stood
to lean and to love
supporting.
She showed, never told
as his ears waned
for speech had lost
sensibility.
Trembled her throat
only trebles escaping
with none to talk
the mute.
World fell silent
as extinguished flame
calmed his mind
undisturbed.
They didn’t know what it meant,
a balance in life,
for time deemed obsolete
communication.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk my heels in to the path clawing their way like elbowing soldier limbs snaking braving unknown land into a frozen canvas fifty shades of green a thirty more of brown like monsters fully grown towers rooted on the ground a hoodie fading in the light no other soul within my sight or even a whiff stirring dewdrops on the leaves. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk my heels in to the path barging all along as pindrop in a morgue a crack in peace in a silent dome through outlined arches thousand echoing screeches and a hundred more whispers like black spots on pale face scattered along the maze unnamed birds picking dirt and dropping, as yeast in wort lost in a winter too cold for folks to banter.
The Chaos Within 