White horses met us on the shore.
We; wind whipped and wide eyed,
Braced to meet their thundering gait.
Not the romantic amble I’d hoped;
The jutting Jurassic coastline stole my gaze,
The violent air took your words away.
And although your hand clutched mine,
Your wonder was at the force of nature,
Which pushed us together
Like a majestic match-maker.
I dreamed of one with a heart for you
How i prayed, full on, shopping list
Bespoke boxes, ticks, previewed,
I totally. Missed. A point.
You craved for my heart to be for you
Giving first, faithful, loving pure,
Soulful soul mate, fixed, renewed
You eagerly, stressed the point.
Lies have kept me apart from you
Kingdom thirst, losing contentment
Fearful in love, tricked, askewed.
I selfishly pressed my point.
Love paves my way back to you,
Healing hurt, coaxing perspective
Making me trust, it’s you who’d
So readily made the point.
1 John 4:10
Dry umbrella, sniff of summer,
An invasion of butterflies.
The strangest feeling
Planning a meeting
By internet with emoticon smiles.
You were late, our first date.
So, i settle with a glass of wine.
But I text ‘I’m fine’.
I like the buzzing, gentle muzzy
Feel of the trendy gastro bar.
Clinging to my mobile,
I felt a little less solo
Then, looking up, there you are.
Lovely sparkle, like a tickle,
You’re a wait that’s worthwhile.
It’s the nicest feeling,
Knowing we’re meeting
By sunset, with genuine smiles.
I don’t normally read the gossip columns, or at least, i don’t normally admit to reading them; but i was moved to post this on my Facebook today:
Was there a woman who saw those awful pictures of Nigella Lawson who didn’t think “If he does this in public what does he do behind closed doors?”
Suzanne Moore’s comment in the Guardian got me thinking – how is it some men think that they can behave in such a way? And why, when Nigella was so evidently being mauled, was someone sitting there taking photos and not asking her if she was ok?
I’m not an expert on domestic abuse by any means, although i have experienced it first hand, and i’m sure there are hundreds of blogs out there commenting on the same thing, but it just makes me wonder: what was Saachi, the photographer, and the fellow diners at that restaurant thinking? From the pictures, Nigella’s thoughts are written across her face…
I obviously don’t know Mr Saachi – but i would have pinned him an eloquent man. But then, some of the most eloquent seem to resort to either childishly sticking their heads under a blanket and hoping a situation will disappear (rather than broach a potentially difficult conversation) or, violence.
Such actions eventually expose them for what they really are: bullies and cowards.
Two years ago i found out my husband of five months had cheated on me. Happy Anniversary:
Your eyes disappointed me most.
What I mistook for deep wells of honesty,
Were actually fathomless pools of regret.
And, each declaration you bestowed on me
Was your own, furtive lament.
Now i bow to you, awesome piece of work.
And though mascara peppers the porcelain
I think: how clever you have been,
to use that same mouth for her and me
And not stumble on the intent.
Your deception was so profound,
not even the altar could alter it.
Your words still sit like bile on water,
Dirty consequences of your infidelity
Fixed in my heart like cement.
Oh yes, I bow because of you,
Not the last debasement I ever do.
Wine wretched stomach retching,
And a topsy-turvy salute,
To love that came and went.
Cars and buses, feet on wet pavement,
Swoosh, tap, pace, and rap.
And you, oblivious to time, you lament
At dark windows, docking your cap.
Dapper old man in your battered suit,
Aiming your lighter toward your fag,
A story set in your own head, you salute
All that is familiar to you; a sad,
Weathered building in Muswell Hill.
Lights green, clutch off, and off,
I launch myself into now, and still
Seeing you, rush from all that was silent.
I’ve been following the news story on the shootings in Annecy, in the French Alps.
I picture the four year old who was found 8 hours later, cowering under the bodies of her parents and think, what sort of human being would do that?
Zeena has inspired me to start a short story…
My ears pricked to the sound of distant sirens. Yes, they were coming my way.
I closed my eyes, but could still feel the steady drip of liquid splattering against my left cheek. It ran uncomfortably down the back of my neck, and pooled under my shoulder. I tried to ignore the fact that it was still warm.
The sirens had cut through a thick and disorientating silence. Their oscillating wail stepping in to replace the heartbreaking cacophony that had stopped just a few moments before. It was a moment I wanted to claw back; the lull slipping away like the unchecked tears from my squeezed eyelids.
I couldn’t, block out the grating monotony of sound. Instead of trying to make myself small, encouraging the world to skip past me, my whole being betrayed me by exploding. It was a while before I realised the new, inhuman scream was coming from my own mouth.
I hope to finish in the next few days or so.