For Gramps

Today there's a new bumble bee
hovering over the speckled daisies. 
Small wings play soft music to me
that sing the same words you did. 
Those songs still croon in the breeze
through the stripey bumble bee fuzz.

Tonight there's a new shining star
shimmering beside the smiling moon. 
It glistens brightly against the stillness
watching calmly over the world below. 
I swear that star has a laughing grin
from seeing the same pranks you pulled. 

Tomorrow there'll be something new
so familiar that it feels almost borrowed. 
The gentle reminder that you're near. 
You reflect in our features in the mirror; 
In our kindest deeds to our neighbour;
In the hearts that'll remember you forever. 

Sea Mist

Soon you will be washed upon the sands of time as a memory left on the tongue tips of the angels left behind. Your physical form will be gradually reborn from the glistening teardrops we’ll cry in chorus as your body is bid to the eternal dust. You’ll slip into the arms of family through the gap of our knowing and feeling; welcomed and soothed by the same loving presence you too once grieved. All the fear you feel in the shallows of this vast ocean will no longer matter as you begin to drift between the folding waves of a final sleep. Goodbyes won’t be whispered into the sea, but the thickening mist will nod, on my behalf, that we’ll meet again someday.

Marshmallow Tar

Death's kiss, 
with all of it's surgical precision, 
cannot wash away your scent. 
Sweet burnt marshmallow
pooled in the final sands of the hourglass - 
a tar to keep the coffin sealed.
Stale espresso left in the morning dew
whispers that it tastes the same - 
a brew far more bitter than the lonely truth.

Corners

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.

Seedling

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

At the Gates

The exclusive rights to grief were taken:
Shouted from lips that could never be kind, 
Painted on a face that had never seen, 
Twisted in the belief of false guiltlessness, 
And pointed at the remaining husk of me. 
The cold iron gates stood heavy in judgement, 
Separated the self-righteous from the sinner.
The one heart that beat love to both sides, 
A heart once so swollen and overflown 
That it willed there to be a second pulse, 
Had burst its banks and bled out silently.

Emptiness is the disease that devours joy,
Turning time into a weapon of contagion
Until we're all wasted and spent in heaps
Of decaying flesh and worthless broken bones.
A death lived and re-lived in cyclical attack, 
Feeding on the casualties that too have fallen
Into the welcoming arms of temptations Union.
When those gates sighed their disapproval
How sweet was that call to be swallowed whole
By the ravishing teeth of an irreversible vice
And no longer be blamed by that judgement.