When loving ghosts, one must make allowances, for their intangible nature prohibits touch, physical warmth, passion. They mire in sadness regardless of kind words, a warming sun, a lover’s wistful look. To struggle is in their make-up, their very essence. Like drifters on a highway, they patrol the ley lines you may not tread. Not yet, anyway. Not until the blue fades from your lips, too.
This insipid cold, if you will, does not make them cruel, nor inconsiderate just unable to yield to the pleasures of flesh and blood. Though they would if they could. They remember them, distant though they may be. They recall them, as the echoes of memories lost. Like violin strings plucked in a dream, they would hear this music called life once more.
So, how should one treat them? How should one appreciate these gentle spirits of the night? How does one love a ghost? Simple, my friend. Remember them. Remember them all. But most of all, and here I beg, remember me.
There once was a boy who lived in a hole. There in the warm, musty darkness where roots embraced him, he hid from the bright world outside. He hid from the loud, the violent and crude. He hid from the harm they’d done.
They found him cringing that meekest of creatures, pushed in a corner like old fruit in a shopping bag. He mouldered. It was their duty to save him. Everyone wanted saving, didn’t they?
The men with their silver badges glittering, their colleagues in white all wide smiles and soft words, tore the boy from the roots he clung to; he screamed for them to stop. They carted him away like a stray dog to a pound and placed him in the knowledgable care of strangers. But they had no knowledge of him, this child from deeper regions.
He woke to crimson, some his, most theirs. Its stickiness reminded him of tree sap back when there were trees to weep. And he remembered. And he wept. The memory of those lost forests stung like the syringes thrown in his hole. His nice safe hole. He ran. They ran, too, those who still could.
Out in the savage daylight, he made a decision. The little lost boy with pain in his eyes made a promise. He’d dig deeper. He’d burrow like a mole. No one would find him again. Once upon a time was one once too many, his mother used to say. Before they took her and all that was green and blue, too.
Surreal, suggests the fish-headed man
Battling against societal currents, swimming against the tide
He’s getting nowhere fast just as he likes to
Bobbing up on occasion so plastic ears might listen to
A piano with bones instead of keys sounding a glockenspiel salute
That migrating sparrows, pink and proud, nod agreeably to
Whilst carnivorous sunflowers snap them
From the air like feral children with donated candy flosses
This I observe with dispassion, this I see and now believe
As governments say we aren’t dying fast, but slowly
And scientists place hands in back pockets
To withdraw cigars rolled up in green papers
The Queen’s head is on mine. She’s weeping
The Birds and the Bees
The leaves hung like hummingbirds hovering for food. In swarms of suspended metals, autumn’s glinting deposits waited to settle on the scorched ground.
Next came the wind. Warmer than a lover’s kiss, colder than a refusal, it took me in its swirling embrace unsure whether to throttle or enfold. Me and that last of all trees in that last of all places.
Those leaves that remained whipped about like bees stinging at my skin, my throat, my everything. In beauty, I died.
We all did.
Pastels in the sky
A new day born of pinched cheeks
Author’s note: It’s amazing what you can find hiding amongst the sheep and guinea fowl on a cold English day.
This Andean visitor
Thinks he is a sheep
Photo frame moments
Snapshots of life without us
Startled horses gaze
Robin on the fence
Breast aflame with red passion
Lost Summer sunsets
The world is blue.
Although life can be defined by the colours in which we parade, the earth itself lies resplendent under an emerald green jacket. For most people, a copse of trees or lush meadow define the idyllic. But not all.
For some, those identifiable dreamers, blue is the colour they aspire to be it ultramarine sea or cerulean sky.
Blue will fold around us when the green dies away.
Blue will be there when needed until our dying day.
A rippling reassurance when troubled. A turbulent chastisement when persuasion fails. Our droplet of universe.
The world is blue.
These uncertain smiles
Drawn over frosted jackets
Revealing red lips