Death Is Nothing At All
Death is nothing at all,
I have only slipped away into the next room,
I am I, and you are you,
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still,
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the same easy way which you always did,
Put no difference into your tone;
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect, without the shadow of a ghost on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was; there is absolutely unbroken continuity,
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am just waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well.
Henry Scott Holland
Saturday, 24 March 2012
Girl with pink bra, long legs and short skirt,
Glitter speckling from red platforms onto ambivalent concrete.
Boy with red eyes, cheeky smile and blue hat,
Features blurred by wisps of smoke, but not rings.
Youth drunk through straws clinking over cobbled streets,
Sudden dips that lurch on, groping for unsteady balance.
The flavour of the night rises up to tickle the stars
And waisted embraces come from stranger-friends arms.
Smiles grow and hearts heal for just a little, short while,
Hope toasted. Tomorrow delayed. Yesterday’s tears can wait.
I'm an intelligent person with an irrational problem
The place that I live in is flawed .
I believe what people tell me and I hope for the best,
I see what's right but it doesn't come from my hand.
What ever it is, it's stronger than me,
Older, and wiser and bigger than me.
No-one knows what we're thinking
We all hide it so damn well -
All buy it and watch it and follow it too well.
We talk budgets and buildings,
Politics plays at living while life stands slowly still.
Non-uniform wearers have so much in common:
Colour palates and plastic wrapped lunches,
Yet none of it quite fits, quite right. Just left.
All the trays piled up are wet; soiled just a little.
Reused, recycled, refreshed just enough -
Enough to stack up and step on, stand tall as we can:
Bruised, used and damaged here, still.
Friday, 16 March 2012
… anybody there?
Not a good time?
It's never me
Voicemail and I'll call you back
Seven missed calls but still no word
Busy lives breed busier friends
Moments passed should be moments held
Trying to hold on to compliments
Forgetting everything; Nothing left
An empty room and a night bus full of people
Cold hard stairs lead the way I've known before.
Calling out softly
Never making a fuss
A text at your next convenience
Until then I’ll be fine.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Single hairs sensitive to every movement.
Frustrated screams that shout nothing but silence,
And scratch me. Go on, you’ll feel better.
- I’ll go.
Sound echoing from every touch.
Acute dips in temperature that only I can feel,
Goading me to pick. Go on, you’ll feel better.
- I’ll go.
Moisture leaves my mouth
And the urge bubbles through my brain:
Go on. You’ll feel better.
- I’ll go.
But you don’t do you!
You’re the only one who never leaves, never lets me go;
Never walk, run or swim alone
Without your breath on my neck
Whispering: Go on, you’ll feel better.
I'm up three years of cards at two and a half quid a go,
And thirty pounds worth of flowers weigh heavy in my heart.
Empty vases and card-less mantles, this is what I’ve gained,
Years of homemade presents collect dust and lose their glitter.
Memories of daffodils and breakfasts in bed
Line my tears with clouded pictures, pierce my guarded, stiff resolve.
Cuddles over songs, roast potatoes dipped in wine,
Chinking clinking forks on china, scrap their love from plate to plate.
Pressed up against a window, no glass; just a bar,
On looking on the very thing I crave so very much.
Desperate to say my thank you. Pleading for the chance,
Surrounded by complacence, ignorant to such a loss.
Your mother gave you everything:
Your life, your love, your law of all.
Tell her today what she means to you
And remember that tomorrow she could be gone.
Thursday, 1 March 2012
I’m trying to remember the last time it wasn’t this hard,
When was I last not tired, too exhausted to find a way.
I’m trying to remember the last time I was sure,
When I knew, without a doubt, what was black and what was white.
I write my name in a book to prove that I was here.
Keep counting pages and wages, changing ages every day.
Shadows fall across the table where I sit and not write,
Right time, right place,
Wrong me, wrong head-space.
Going home, going no-
Where everybody thinks they know my name.
But it’s not so easy as eight little signs
Because my eyes tell tales that words never will.