A Poem a Day (69): The guest

A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writing exercise... It's every Friday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

The guest

I am the guest,

The unnamed one who trips and trots

Through closed rooms, opening doors,

Seeking ways to understand what’s gone.

I wander with a heart long emptied,

A dying sound is all I emit from dry lips –

Unheard of, these gems of dust fly

From myself to you and back again,

Senseless, these things making no sense.

I dream of finding a penny while you die,

And yet I know you have no care,

And for this reason I will not despair

When you are gone. I will not sink.

I will not dwell on past things long gone

Or think to ask you a yard of questions,

All unfathomable, dried, twisted, cold.

Can I still speak when you fall ever silent?

Will you hear me when I rack and wail?

As the walls close in to embrace me cold,

I know I’ll remember how all this I sold.

I am the guest

Who wanders in and empties out,

Drifting on these small gusts of memory,

For everything else is long gone, stolen,
And we are but the remnants of our selves.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January 27, 2018

A Poem a Day (68): Fifty-six

A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writing exercise... It's every Friday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

There's a story behind this one. I started a poetry course yesterday as my writing needs a bum kick and I was chatting with two of the women in the class at the end. We challenged each other to write a poem for homework, giving each other a line. I was given the final line of this poem to use. So this is what I just came up with.

Fifty-six

The night sighs heavy when it stops to think,

The curve of the light a distant cousin,

The nail in the wall a reminder of hate;

It creaks,

This going forward, always coming back –

A tortured walk is this half-dazed oblivion,

Yet I seek it

Or it seeks me,

Day in, day out, week in, weak doubt.

I like to remind it not to be late,

Not to forget to close the door behind it,

And so it is,

This creeping remembrance lost

Of my selfish conscience,

Flapping like a dried-out fish…

Obsolete.

I like the sound of obsolete.

I can trick myself I’m nothing like,

Yet I can see,

I have eyes,

Two of them,

Though this vision of me blurs still –

A twitch at the sides of a smile says so,

This tortured style of mine.

But tell me this:

Did you think of me today or wonder

Who I indulged these languid hours with?

I was alone, but you won’t know this,

You never ask.

But you’re always here, waiting,

Sucking the bar dry until I reappear

To accompany you between the butts,

Breathing the smoky lungs we share,

Reminiscing, laughing, choking

On our fears, always bigger than us.

And so today I will retell a joke or two,

Watch your grin creep up into a drawn bow.

You know I value these simple hours,

You know I’ll always come back,

Dragging my half-spilled bloody baggage,

Bearing my very bones for observation,

Knowing you will never be my judge –

I came for a half and I got a hug.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January, 12, 2018