Tag Archives: memories

If Betelgeuse should Blow?

You have been my totem since I

first felt the pull of stars, first

understood the deep cold chasm of

space beyond our warm world, and I

wanted to show my grandchildren

(should I have any)

Orion whole, not as the

maimed hero who tried to

throw the grenade back and

lost his right hand.

 

But the sky forever changes and we

never notice, so your death will

make people look up at a

sudden second sun and maybe,

dying down, you will become a

nebula to vie with that which

hangs from Orion’s belt, a

diadem of uncertainty.

No Room

A tree sits wet and

wrapped in fine twine

waiting for me to

disinter the dusty stuff from the

attic to adorn it, and for

Christmas to begin,

though I am at a loss to know how

in two thousand years,

no room at the Inn became

no room in the fridge.

 

Our oven was never

big enough for a turkey but

my mother said it had to

“sit up and beg” and

twenty sat at a table

too small for ten, us

little ones squeezed in and

included, the cheap wine

passed over our heads,

laughing in the general glee at

half-understood jokes, drunk on the

expectation of happiness.

 

Many of that table are now dead and

I reach through their gaiety like

cobwebs to grasp the

gaudy baubles for my tree.

Rust

A slight metallic taste on your skin
in the sweat of your body after sex
took me back in my sleep to the docks
and the inspiration of ships and deep water.
You were with me there, a shadowy figure,
and you led me to where she stood
watching a single-stacker tying up, absent,
eyes fixed on the waterline and the greasy trickle of a bilge.
We didn’t speak, just watched as the elegant iron
rusted slowly in the corruscating sea, rotting
as our love did, beneath sight and out of mind until,
it’s back broken, it sank in some deep.

Waking in the night, I didn’t know what to say.
I doubted you had spoken, knew she wouldn’t listen.
An ocean floor lay about that dark room
and somewhere far above a bell rang, beyond my hearing.

Winter in Suburbia

Past, present, future commingle in this

uncertain weather, dull at dawn,

spats of rain like chaffinches in the bush,

there one moment, gone the next, wind

waking dead weeds, the

threat of snow without the

glee of children, late and

unexpected sunset, startling stars,

silence approaching midnight as the

dryer switches off,

static making sheets

dance like spectres.

Time is Relatives

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.

The Kiss

The kiss, the wrestle of tongues,

seems uniquely human, the

need to explore that new person’s

mouth more intimate, more

intense than all those

further fumblings.

The Flotsam Trail of Memory

I love because I love—

there is no other reason, and

reasoning cannot

undo love, with all its

tethers and tendrils, its

flotsam trail of memory

from faded photograph via

forgotten pleasures to the

cold text with its cursor

blinking in time with my heart

in a dark, emptied house.

The Smouldering Past

The past smoulders long in the memory,

the savour of its sticky,

woody smoke seeping from

long-forgotten photographs, clothes

neatly folded in attic-buried trunks,

documents—letters, bills, old

school-reports, medical files, certificates

(marriage, birth, achievements or the

lack thereof)—even the scent of

old spices in stove-worn pans.

 

The smoke hangs in the autumn trees

catching the low light, silhouetting the

stubbornness of spiders, every branchlet

webbed, every web freighted with tiny

droplets of dew, each as clear, as

murky as a memory.

Pre-Tanned Bodies

With the first hint of sun, the

girls with pre-tanned bodies

parade in as little as possible, their

tattoos looking ill-advised

long before they regret being

advertising hoardings for men already

making other plans, their names just

tags on dilapidated trains or

abandoned buildings, whilst

strutting through the streets, they

brush past un-inked people with

hearts on their sleeves and

never notice.

B-roads/M20/M25/A1/B-roads

It’s white-van Hell even at dawn,

but then 9-to-5 long ago

lost its meaning as

prices pushed people further and

further from work, wives

working for Gas Board or

gas bill, children texted, Skyped,

rarely seen except at weekends when the

phone still rings with demands and

threats, so I understand if you

cut me up, tailgate me, want me to

get out of the fucking way, so you can

get where you are going and

get back, hating that after 9,

after the school-run,

King Prius rules in Troy-Town.

Temperature's Rising

Sexy Times ~ Warm Feelings ~ Hot Flashes ~ All That

MULTIGLOM

The Anne Billson blog

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Married Submissive, Exploring the kinky side of life.

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Marriage with a Twist

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"Poetry is what happens when your mind stops working, and for a moment all you do is feel." -Atticus

Works of an Unsettled Mind

Stories, Poems and Titillating Epitaphs

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In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.

My Liver's Trying to Kill Me!... Oh Wait.

A Journey to a Healthier Me.

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layers of my onion head

The Wild Heart of Life

"He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life." ...James Joyce

Veronica Love-Wylde

Erotic Poet and Artist - Welcome to My Sensual World

my controlled ascent

living and loving as a married submissive in my D/s marriage

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A quoi servent les images que l'on ne montre pas ?

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Written Thoughts, Spoken through verse...

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Because a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste...

A Quest for the Uncliche

Dream. Explore. Learn. Repeat.. Let's traverse on the paths less taken and explore whole new worlds