His hair line has receded.  The grey patch above his ear had turned white. Silky yet maintaining its kink. For all his years he didn’t look worn. His cheeks took the form of an ironic smile. For a while, the darker part of my subconscious was jealous of him.

I had called this man my brother for more years than I had cared to remember.

I put my ears into the air,

Was it too quiet?

Was it noisy?

Should our meeting from since a while be more amiable?

I ignore his company and disappear into my head but come back quickly as it seems selfish. Jolene leaves us. Years of trying to rekindle our friendship had resulted in cautious wrinkles whenever we met.

He tries to laugh off the awkwardness of the moment. I don’t find anything amusing but I smile.

I travel again.

His purple cords came to mind first. He was going off on one of his rants. His can of beer hit the table, his chair screeched as he pulled his body forward.

‘Watching him play is a religious experience’

This child watched bemused at his madness.

‘These kids these days know nothing about honour, commitment…..nothing!’

Jolene is dusting furniture in the next room. She is nervous. How could we fall out at a time like this?

For the miles on the clock she was a bargain. She stood confidently on the driveway as though dirt should be beneath her feet.

His eyes ran across her sheen.

‘Is this the cost of hard work or your soul?’

He was unimpressed.

The dog chases some inanimate object in the yard. The silence echoes through the room. It is cold. Like being in a museum after hours. But the room is small. This mans legacy stands here. The wardrobe slants in the corner. The purple quilt worn from many beatings is sullen. The white blind tanned. The bed? A used to be sturdy expression of age.

They say the human body reduces in mass at the point of death. Religious groups say it is the point at which the soul leaves the body.

This man that was never my brother retracts into his bowels and for all the wrong reasons I am still mad at him.

It happens,

sparks,

explode,

ignite.

Bubbles,

ferment,

then,

sizzle,

to

where burns

are,

her

new essence.

Deja vu?

In the thistle,

of Arcadia.

In the Wisp,

of Avalon.

Across the purple hills,

of Armageddon.

Lips,

so sweet.

I hummed,

by the grain;

Trail me,

take my breadth,

give it to the wind,

but only in dreams.

‘Hello’

With the autumn bud, i have run my eyes across your being. The lines in your forehead, your worrying eyes, your moulded nose, your brown lips and your scraggy beard.

In December it was your bald head, your brown skin.

My popular stranger, more friendly than not.

And while i have to admit that there is nothing more weird than writing to you, I am at a loss of media to express myself.

What is this change and where does it come from?

In months of close reflection, I noticed you stood in front of windows for God awful long periods. Distant, analysing the world from that limited outlet of pane. You said you were in thought, but I know that you cried. Because you are of such proud composition that you would not let the tears drop.

What are your thoughts?

But there you go, smiling and cheering up your peers.

Because you once said:

‘No matter the condition one should always afford a smile’

I thought that was sad.  As it is the mechanism you use to shield yourself from all our love.

In latter years I noticed that you wanted the best for all of us and there was no one more caring than you.

But in the harsh months around when the flood hit, the times reflected your mood.  Without regard you conducted your manners and your friends suffered. Your cruelty had no bounds and no one heard from you for months. Only in these passed few weeks have i come to realise that your heart was ill.

And because your face never gave away your fears those actions appeared extra cruel.

And you are a hypocrite, for how in times of worry do you say:

‘Everything will be alright’

When you don’t believe in it.

In all this i realise that you are a human being, faulty like the rest of us.

In the early hours of this mourning i had to reach out to you.

‘Hello stranger’

‘And no matter how far it is you go in whatever, don’t go too far’

‘We are here’

With that i wipe the mirror as the steam from hot showers clouds the vision.

If midnight would come,

I might have a friend.

January might come,
December without snow.

If the rains come
I should try,

If sunny days come
I should smile.

maybe I was falling apart,

because i wanted to

Maybe, maybe’s,

are what we do.

Ends of your hairs stuck to your cheek,
we sat back and watched,
I analysed your details,
your scars.

You enjoy pain,

I deposit your suffering.

The pleasure is not taste,
innoccent eyes never shift their gaze.
I sat back a few minutes,
little hairs stuck to your face.
 

Buildings go up like lego,

im inrigued by the exo skeletons.

The world is changing,

evolving.

Are we in fast forward,

or rewind?

Call it as you see it,

ideologies come tumbling.

Crimes against humanity,

Sadly.

threats of nuclear doom.

In this age of retro cool.

At night,

we’ll sleep on sheets of fair trade,

hippies will get stoned at live aid,

and things will get said at the G8.

‘demons’

‘nightmares’

That voice,

that lifeless voice.

drama,

symbols,

props,

mime

the viewers?

No empathy.

Voice continues,

bang!

tears,

gasp!

Voice pauses,

the violin shrieks

the cello strangles

and the orchestra fails.

If you find your way home,

A fortnight to this,
you danced with a chicken head,

savouring,
the dark art.

Forgone,

distant,

accompanied by scoffers,
marauding the seedy columns.

How would they know?

when no one cared to ask,

that you were nothing,

but a mordern day prodigal tale.

Tarred road dirt,
By men with arduous contribution.

Resilience,
perspiring grit.

The caution glow,
Underneath the suns beam.

To that man that worked on possibility,
Through shifts in black collars.

I’m currently in the process of spring cleaning.

Dusting, washing, hoovering.

As a result, I’m putting forward old material, dusty and crumpled from nooks and corners of old writing pads in a bid to de-junk. Also to create space for renewed inspiration.

You will notice varying styles sometimes the plight of a writer trying to find his voice.