A Whisper to Grandpa

Some things will always be special

They can never be stolen away

Journeys where their care allowed you to sleep

Times where a smile meant more than gold

To be proud of who you are 

Not because of how you see yourself

But because of how they saw you

Swelling esteem from a nod and a wink

To be offered your favourite biscuit

A cup of tea when you need it most

Knowing they would never say no

Would always be there when others were not

A place of no judgement

Where you were always happy to be seen

A plaster for a scratch

Always an interest in what you’ve done

Who you’ve seen

But all things come to an end

Nothing lasts forever

It is how we look back and return the pride

How we smile at their memory

Wishing they were still with us

It is the dreams they appear in 

The loving voice in a forgotten memory

Thoughts of what was

Hopes of what could be

And wishing you’d had one last chance 

To whisper I’ll miss you

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Skeleton


There’s a skeleton in my closet

It looks just like me

Cruel and evil

I don’t like what I see.


I tilt my head,

This way and that

Scouring those bones

Searching for fat.


I’m hoping to find

That in some way we’ll differ

But I fear for myself

As it’s actually a mirror.

Not Quite

Millions, no trillions of glittering lights, flicking on then off. I blink, trying to synchronise myself to the pulse of the universe. Not quite.

I inhale deeply, my chest rising to maximum capacity, close my eyes then……wait. I imagine time passing both around and through me. The eye of the storm, the centre of a maelstrom, the very centre of the web that is the multiverse. An Angel before God; a baby before it’s mother. Not quite.

I climb to the top of the hill that overlooks my town. This has to be the thing to do. I climb closer, nearer, almost there. The summit dances toward me and I reach out. Not quite.

I stand upon the highest point for miles around, feeling like a king. The orange, luminescent glow of a myriad streetlights reflect the ocean of sparkling night above. I am betwixt and between. Not quite.

Standing before the precipice, the cooling updraft of a mistral breeze wafting over me, I reach into my jacket pocket. It is no trinket, no heirloom, no moment of truth that I peel from my pocket but a picture of you, my love. Now, and only now, do I sense it to be right. I look at the eyes that spawned my love staring up at me from in-between clammy fingers. I drink in all that is, was and will be, us: And jump.

I am almost with you, almost but…… Not quite.

Reflection

Reflection

Did you know that there is no top of the world?
I do, for I have stood there where sky touches earth and the two seep together as one. I’ve gazed upon a magical vista and not known up from down; high from low; heaven from hell; reason from insanity.

The views had been staggering, and so had I, (very much so, actually). The route had been a long one, labouring in the extreme. The most basic of trails had led up, always up. An arduous physical torture of many days on foot, and an equally torturous time in the mind. Even the mysterious Yeti was afraid to scale such heights, instead, preferring to haunt the lower valleys of the psyche.
Vales of gentians had given way to woods of spruce, but for two days my only companions had been rocks; many sizes of rocks, but still only rocks. The concave nature of the mountain walls prevented my ever seeing the summit until I crested that final snow-flecked cliff.
Whether it was the lack of air, the natural spinning of my brain, or worse, I cannot be sure but my eyes professed to lie. For at this point, this height of all heights, I was looking not at a cerulean sky, but at the exact same route I had traversed. A mirror image, a window to my past, where God would not allow me to pass: not yet, anyway.
I stood there with a tear in my eye, not because I had failed, but because I would never know such perfection again.
No bird nor beast had seen this place, this Shangri-La at the top of the world, nor would they likely ever. The most beautiful thing I could ever have imagined and no one to share it with. A cruel trick to play on such a tired soul.

I do not know how long I spent at that place, perhaps minutes, perhaps several lifetimes. But what I do know, turning to leave was the hardest thing I had ever done. And, in truth, I am not sure I ever left?

Ripples

If I was a ripple, 

What ripple would I be?

Would I spread across a pond,

Or rage across the sea?

If I was a ripple,

Boundaries I’d abhor.

Would I lap against a riverbank,

Or break upon the shore?

If I was a ripple,

Would I find my way to you?

For you are what I ripple to,

My love, my life, my true.

Unwaivering Knowledge

This is simply beautiful

Writings of a Mrs

To the depths of my soul

To all that makes me complete

From the top of my limits

To my grounded feet

To the unwaivering knowledge

Of the most certainty

A love that will span all of infinity

I will be yours

To explore

To the depths of my soul

Your love makes me whole

Complete

So deeply

So sweetly

So completely

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Fallen

Fallen

Artwork courtesy of © 2013 by J.C.S. All rights reserved. Words Richard Ankers

As the moonlight plays across her face,
Time pauses for me.
So pale; so delicate; so true.
I would have it no other way,
For in a dream there is no other way.
Is this a dream?
If so, such purity was not meant for me.
To see an angel fallen, dropped to the ground,
A profile of grace backlit by starlight.
I am undeserving, but forever grateful.
I hear the wings on her back unfurl, stretch, shake.
My breath catches at my lips
For I know her to leave.
But I cannot look from her divine beauty.
It would kill me to do so.
Instead, she turns her eyes upon me: I melt.
And she smiles.
I will never have a moment like this again.
A perfect dream.
A nod to me, and she lifts into the night.
My heart goes with her.
I watch until she is gone, risen into heaven.

How can I explain my emotions?
What word can tell how I feel?
Simply: fallen.

Author: The Eternals Series

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