Time is Relatives

Fridayam's Blog

Time is relatives:

children pupate into

moths or butterflies; a

sister begins to ache and

sicken; brothers-in-law

die one by one;

parents long gone leave

vague memories of the

longer gone,

black and white,

beckoning us into the

colourless pool of time.

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“The Past Is…..”

Fridayam's Blog

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Sometimes I wish I were in
Hartley’s foreign country,
doing things differently, and then
maybe there I would be sated but
dissatisfied, alone maybe in
Hollywood by a silently
chlorinated pool, unborn children
unadorning it, making it messy, putting the
stub into stubborn, with no
wife to nag me, keep me honest,
make me sometimes
feel ashamed.

Maybe, in that country, feeding from
St.Elmo’s Fire, I would
never have noticed tonight’s real but
improbable sky.

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Letters

Fridayam's Blog

She wrote a letter gently with

her finger on his

bare back as he slept telling him

all the things she needed that he

didn’t provide, knowing that

he never would or could, and she

placed a cool kiss as full stop.

Her clothes were hard to find on the

less-than-clean floor in the dark as she

thought of all the men (and

one woman) who had woken alone

carrying her calligraphy where they

couldn’t read it and she

wondered if her finger would ever

stay capped or if one day

it would run dry.

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Confusion between Dark and Light

Fridayam's Blog

There’s a confusion between

dark and light in Autumn,

sharp sunshine sometimes

warming my face, then a

sharper shower, laundry

drying in the breeze

suddenly scooped in,

something soothing on the

stove smelling

sweet and strange, my

hands hesitating to

draw the curtains while the

sky is still coloured-in and there

remains one last

glimmer of the day.

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Siamese Smile

Fridayam's Blog

My current cat likes rough love now and then,

leaping onto the newel-post to bat at me as I pass,

begging me to take his gage and duel

over and under the banister, like cavaliers:

other times he offers his belly,

lures me with submission, his paws

cutely bent but alive with claws that

flash and scratch and draw blood.

Always there is the thrum of purr that says both

“I didn’t mean it!” and “That was fun!”

Just like you when you arch your back and

take me deep, your buttocks

smacking my belly, demanding

more and harder,  and the sudden

agile grace with which you throw

my twice-your-weight and pounce,

growling, clawing, engulfing:

the hum in your blocked throat,

the flash of dark eyes in wild hair,

your mouth alive with teeth and your

Siamese smile.

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The Drearies

Fridayam's Blog

We must be wary of the Drearies

draining life of all fun because we

might dare to dance and laugh in the

face of all that suffering, our

immature expressions of pleasure met with a

glare and a sharp “Shush!”.

But within the laughter and dance lie

abyssals of want, longing, love, grief,

regret, desire, frustration, all

confused in that joy which can

one moment spring a smile and the

next spring tears.

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Hearts

Fridayam's Blog

My heart goes out to hearts

caught in branches on a cold night;

caught waiting on a

street corner for a

car that won’t come; caught

watching the ice melt in a

bought drink that will

never be drunk; caught between

transplants not knowing which

soul to beat for; caught

hoping, caught dreaming;

caught in the act of

catching cold.

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Frames

Fridayam's Blog

The lost footage of your life

turned up, eventually:

grainy, disjointed (is there

some still missing?), but

compelling, though there was a

lack of narrative drive,

as though you had decided to

go round in circles

before you died (to baffle us?),

or maybe it was just one of your

trademark jokes, though this one was

sharp and stung like a

papercut.

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“Cheap Music”(Noel Coward)

Fridayam's Blog

We always want our adolescence back

to unmake, unprepare,

undecide our lives;

unkiss kisses– kiss deeper had we known;

dance as we should have, recklessly;

thought as we wanted, heedlessly;

loved as we ought, thoughtlessly.

We craved the false horizon of an alternate world

wherein anything could happen:

but it didn’t, so we listen and

leak tears in draughty kitchens to

other adolescences.

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“It’s You” Talk Talk

In our elder days I
listen to you talk in your
sleep: your worries,
frustrations, love,
muttered or out loud in
both your languages and I
hold you, let you
speak in tongues, my
mind full of images
of all that life since
I first saw you.

I’ve seen you wracked in pain and
writhing in ecstasy, in the
sough-trough of
housework, blowing
hair from your forehead.

I’ve seen you erotic and
neurotic and sclerotic (when those
lovely legs won’t
bend back so far).

I’ve seen you as a
Nereid watching
sea-clashes
ready to wrench out
sea-sodden sailors
unable to cope with your
liquid love.

I’ve seen you see life as a
patchwork quilt
forever frayed and
desperately needing repair
each thread a child
knitting their own known
needles wrenched from your
hands flapping
uselessly.

I’ve seen the flapping fade as the
wings of our children are
accepted, though you still
clutch some feathers as you
nestle into my warmth
speaking in tongues
hearth mother with
no hearth.