Slow was the first pulsation of this heart but fast would its thrum be through life. Mother read in the stars on the chart that we were to embrace you as eventide embraces the light that is soon to depart. You unsettled us with the fixated yellow grin: we knew sanity and your smile were apart from the moment you held the bluntest knife and set into mother’s skin a most demonic art.
Ten soldiers, all lie flat. Children, ten of them, hand in hand. Kings recognised in a hurried, nervous manner, without noticing the crimson velvet HEARTS.
Stumble and dive we just turned five - each of us hold a balloon. Run down the hall stumble and fall - scraping our knees before noon. Slide on some socks build static shocks - zapping each other with grins. Act like a brat slide on the mat Carpet burn stings on our shins. Wearing our shoes nothing to loose we call out our parents bluffs We ruin the lawn now wearing a yawn - our memories sketched in shoe scuffs
No one digs in the corners Where the smell festers deepest. Their shovels just clang and clack On the crumbled poured cement That’s broken in the centre Because it lifts easier that grey concrete rubble bow Where the walls join together, Connected to the cold ground: Below the record player, That knew only but one song At entirely the wrong speed: Is where she lays, still waiting, Still wasting, still wailing out. No one will ever find her. The ammonia stings their eyes Should they wander close enough To spot the fresh plaster marks, Or the abandoned teddy Adorned with a bow, alas, No one digs in the corners.
Known not as seed but seedling Etched in photographic memories That sear white hot in absent flesh. The body, too barren to hold onto What little life it longed to give love, Still scarred grievously in self-loathing. Small roots, that wished themselves To dig happiness from within fear, Found the ground soil to be lacking. But the sunlight would soon set, Bringing unfathomable darkness And cold typhoons of destruction. To compensate for the deficiency, The sapling clung to a cracking pot That recklessly scratched at itself. Soon the chippings stacked higher Than the edges had ever reached And the contents were strewn away. Wretched sorrow bled for hours Until the mud was thick as paste, Coating the future in a tacky glaze Of tormented jealousy and longing. No fruits or labors could bare bark Thick enough to be unfeeling. Other trees grew in orchards of poison, Their branches reaching outward, Upward to the glistening sun. How spiritless must this grove be To have only produced heartache In place of a vibrant linden tree.
Written to a picture prompt from the former Facebook group: Stardust Poetry
Originally Written 09/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021
Bestowed gift of manifestation As laid by this babe's head, Bring abundance to this child With bounds yet to be unknown. Create from his flesh a conduit Flowing bountiful in curiosity And free in unabashed glee. Fortify his bones against misery And afford him only adoration. Grant him true expression of Boundless and pure creativity Cascading from his fingertips Or coursing from his pouting lips. Hold his tongue from envious spite. Transform those jealous intentions Into tangible and fortuitous actions. Harbour angers, fears and explosions To free his spirit for fresh pursuits. Transmute his negative shadows Into innovative and fertile passions That may regenerate his being And unshackle his ambitions. Produce from this humble bairn An infant of widened eyes and heart; An enduring and steadfast being. Make him true, fair citrine dreamer.
Original 10/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021
There’s no dull background noise; Everything sits in the small foreground. The music; curated for a young child, Is as conducive to creative writing as Feeding a lazy dog all of my pens And burning each of my notebooks. This room knows my name, Yet insists on calling me mother At every conceivable moment; At each attempt to concentrate On putting pen to digital paper. Although, I’m not being charged extra For dairy-free milk and chocolate syrup.
Come take a seat with Mrs Delora. Find the answers to your questions, Discover your truths, Explore your future, And marvel at her talents. But, beware, You may find more than you seek, You may learn more than you need, And you may leave... Liberated! I took the man up on his offer, And sat on a stool inside the tent. Across the large wooden table Sat a Fortune teller Drowning in hemp cloth And gold charms. Her face was haggard, As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes. Her breath, strained and heavy, And the smell of stale smoke, Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs. She placed her hand out on the table, And coughed, wordlessly Demanding my hand in hers. In my open palm she placed a red stone, And closed my fingers tight. Are you a whore child? I gasped, offended, A whore! How dare she! I guess you’re just promiscuous, Don’t be offended, I’m just teasing, child. She started laughing, Throaty and coarse she cackled. But her humour was fugacious. You’ll be barren of life, You’ll just be a stand in, A temporary. Her words spun around my head, As they tightened the garotte Around my throat, Pulling burning breaths And twisting them under my tongue. Would you like some tea? It helps with the truth, Makes it palatable… I sip the mossy coloured liquid, It burns my mouth, But I can breathe again. I can breathe much slower, Pulling air deeply Into my famished lungs. Yes child, that’s it, Breathe. I nod, and bare my hand, The red stone in my open palm, It was tinged with black, Like a plague was spreading Tainting its surface. You won’t have to worry, You’ll not be left a spinster, You’ll be left, Penniless, naked, Alone in a ditch. Wha… Wha… The words slur incomplete. My breath long but shallow, My eyes open, Unblinking. Just breathe, Let Mrs Delora liberate you, Come take a seat with Mrs Delora. Find the answers to your questions, Discover your truths, Explore your future, And marvel at her talents. But, beware, You may find more than you seek, You may learn more than you need, And you may leave... Liberated!
Images move animatedly across the tv screen, Sounds are blended into the background noise, The foreground filled with heavy breathing, The satiation of pleasure between two, Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’ The sequel, a follow up on two series merging, Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie, The gentle curves of tassels and bows, And the growing basket of perfectly painted, Single expression, pose-able dolls. Years of playing courting, marriage, Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby, Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed. The babe who once played with dolls, Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae. Within a flash, the two are married, Both taking and barrelling their surnames, Living equal in their roles, life, and love, Until the hourglass is empty, And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.
Yous are ruining my life Belts an immature Geordie tongue Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. I hate yous Screeches her juvenile lungs Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. You’re not a very nice mummy Shouts the crying child. Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. * I told her she couldn’t have chocolate for breakfast
The Poet Armistead 