Twen2y-Ei8ht Read online



  TWEN2Y-EI8HT

  A collection of poems and thoughts

  By Zac Thraves

  Copyright 2012 Zac Thraves

  In the beginning there waslove, and it grew out of me like a sickness. The darkness of need and want; the despair of jealousy and yearning’ the sickening crumpling of feeling lost when you realise that you are in love.

  Love should be avoided…

  Early Sundays

  Your delicate hand,

  joined to rising breast,

  my still-life body

  your brachium rest.

  Your legs entwined

  against my warming thighs;

  my wistful gaze

  toward the lightening sky.

  Your breath gasping

  on this bristled face;

  my heart awakened

  with each fingers trace.

  Your words linger

  behind bridling view,

  my slow acceptance

  that your terms are true.

  Your lips tender touch

  on excited skin;

  my sanguine smile

  as our day begins.

  Your morning sunshine,

  your time to dance.

  My welcome arms.

  My final chance.

  In the style of Neruda

  I Hate Sunday Mornings Because

  I hate Sunday mornings because

  it is then I can love you,

  and I know that in loving you

  we will be consumed until,

  it will finish,

  before it has begun.

  I love Sunday’s but as I lie in

  your arms, with the sun

  bleaching the blinds,

  I hear the day tick by

  and hate that

  it won’t cease.

  In stopping time, the winter

  mornings will become as

  long as summer’s

  and we will

  smoulder, while

  we satisfy our hearts.

  But the morning dies

  and drifts into afternoon,

  which then promises evening,

  we will wake from one

  another; then I won’t see you again,

  my love, until Sunday morning.

  ----------------------------

  A woman sits at a table alone. On the table sits a slumped string puppet, ragged and old with only one string attached to its arm.

  The woman echoes the puppets body language, sullen, with arms across the table and her head on her shoulder.

  Woman:

  I’m like this puppet, holding on with a single string to life, to movement, to any sense of animation. I can pull this hollow person into a kind of being, I have the power to do so, to bring this docile figure awake with a single flick of my wrist. It’s painted smile on her ageing face cannot hide her uncomfortable and inevitable future; a future of nothing, of being abandoned in a box or left out with the rubbish waiting for collection. A future of eternal blankness once that final string works itself loose.

  I know what she needs, she needs a professional, an artistic and nimble hand with creativity and ideas to put her back together, to restore her to her former self. To re-new and re-energise her so that once more her legs can dance while her arms swing about above her head. Her head can hold high, lifting up to the sky and watching the expectant crowd with the confidence that she will deliver and delight. To dance again, to feel the joy and laughter once more. She deserves that, she needs it. Yet she sits, forlorn, stuck, unable to move unless someone moves her, while I wait for I know no such person who can bring her back into her life of promise.

  She had such hopes for me, such dreams; when she unpacked from the box all those years ago, shiny and bright she promised endless fun and games, I promised that too. As if we had a beautiful summer-like life ahead of us together. Then the scissors fell, the biting and harsh cold steel came down and snipped away, piece by piece, at her fragile string. Cut away, too easily, far too easily, removing any hint of what might have been and what could have been. It cut, painfully and frighteningly easily, to leave her sunk, inside herself; wishing that someone would come and rescue her from this empty spotlight that is about to fade. The audience left years ago, her stage is empty, now all she has is me, and all I have is what I wished I could have done for her.

  Sleep Alone; Wake Together

  You always leave me in my dreams;

  last night you walked away

  while I stopped,

  crouching,

  tying my shoe-lace;

  I looked up and there you were,

  as I thought,

  gone.

  Nowhere to be seen

  amidst the crowd of busy bees

  bustling with their heavy bags.

  Yet it felt empty,

  as I silently called your name,

  listened;

  stared,

  for your jet black hair

  to bounce back to me.

  But there you were,

  gone;

  and I never saw you again.

  -------------------------

  Inky-Veiled Heart

  Slowly the inky-veil descends,

  Like a theatrical curtain announcing the end.

  Heavy grey clouds choke the ether;

  breathing disjointed; feels like forever.

  Falling to the ground like rain-soaked stone;

  leaves dropping gently into the winter terrain.

  The black dog is here with its ferocious bark

  and the world once bright is moonless and stark.

  Angelic eyes are broken and bent,

  staring with a devils intense intent;

  gone is the light that burned in the mind,

  replaced by sight vacant and blind.

  Though beautiful birds still soar high,

  they are crows as black as the heart inside.

  Life appears lost in regretful shapes,

  solace in a carafe of dark-red grapes;

  romance promised, by the blood-red solution.

  Answers surely lie at its final resolution.

  Become that which the soul feeds instead-

  empty; remote; unattached; dead.

  Snow-Bound

  Quiet

  be still

  watch flakes fall softly onto sheets

  white

  harsh

  bitter

  fingers numbed

  hostile heart

  raw soul

  but calm

  cleansing

  celestial

  beauty

  birds

  remain distant

  lack song

  add mystery

  add wonder

  add pain

  --------------

  Neruda – Shivers

  Shivers slither on skin, paralysed and fragile;

  your breathe of soft, eloquent voice

  an icy wind that stings at my eyes.

  Your burning touch that freezes blood

  and brands your fingerprints to my arm.

  Your sublime pain shoots

  like a springing flower and I embrace it all,

  because it reminds me of

  you.

  Galloping Horses

  Galloping horses

  with coarse wind billowing their manes

  and cries of pain,

  again;

  whisper all I hear

  when I keep you near, in here

  and fear

  that I will never see

  those beautiful manes flow

  while you grow

  and show what I know

  to the rest of the world,

  while I curl, in my ball
<
br />   that you will never see

  and feel sure

  on the floor as I implore

  not to give in anymore

  56 minutes ago…a poem about my children, for my children

  56 minutes ago...

  this house was

  filled with laughter;

  now I walk in

  footsteps of ghosts.

  Prickling eyes scolded

  with hurt as they grapple

  to see you once more.

  In my photographic mind

  you are a negative;

  a memory that I strive

  to hold on to; fading and blurred.

  Fingertips touch all you have

  touched, all that remains,

  of you,

  untouched. Still. Yet

  I saw you just

  56 minutes ago.

  ---------------------------

  Close your eyes

  black hole inside

  swirling in darkened sight

  and my mind

  skirts the edge

  anxiously avoiding

  the desire to slip

  deep into the vortex

  of thoughts

  angry

  painful

  despairing

  red glow

  shimmers

  as I drift

  into dream

  nightmare

  of the soul

  while the black

  core

  the eye of the hole

  lures me in.

  -----------------------------

  Intense tears gently slip,

  while the clamorous clock ticks,

  with my beating knee;

  and inside my breast,

  this pain within my chest

  stays my soul from rest

  burns my sky,

  wingless flight,

  will never see the sight.

  Rain caresses my brow,

  head bows, patiently low,

  see my ragged knee,

  see your burning breast;

  take your crystal hand,

  disintegrating sand;

  my fingers slip,

  lose the grip,

  with desire, touch your lip.

  Autumn Flower

  Dead

  autumn brown

  reflects this diseased passion within;

  And thriving bud of bloom

  is my scolded soul come to life.

  Bright.

  Let me in;

  I wait at your moss-daubed dry-stone walls;

  greying, protective church;

  my floret-heart beats still for you.

  Still,

  peaceful you;

  withered deity of affection;

  illumine your petals

  and liberate your stamen soul.

  Ex-

  hale slowly;

  though bitter breeze tears into my eyes

  by assassination;

  I forgive your bleak, vacant stare.

  Come

  back to me.

  You haunted rose who charmed crimson blood.

  Be the beam for whom I

  reach and shelter me from my-self.

  Twilight’s Comfort

  Funereal cloud drapes

  like a stiff winter coat

  on my scarred back;

  beaten with the horse-whip

  of time

  and bleeding forever.

  Sacrifice of life while

  gazing in the gloom.

  As twilight wraps her

  long fingers

  around limbs

  so weak,

  exhausted by anger

  fear,

  of anger;

  gently she lays

  my head on her lap

  encrusted with carnage,

  memories of wars.

  I lay;

  fatigued of the journey

  and listen to the words,

  grief, desolation, want;

  echo about these vast

  halls of my head,

  like ancient stone corridors

  recrimination rebounds,

  emptiness swallows,

  my trampled soul.

  Cling to a Memory

  If I stop to think:

  I can sense your breathe

  on my neck;

  tiny beads of your vapour

  that sink into my form

  and give brilliance behind

  my eyes,

  then illuminates my

  translucent skin.

  I feel your gentle touch

  yet

  know it’s just an illusion;

  cruel illusion of the brain,

  apparition memory.

  An aspiration, a hope,

  forever unfulfilled.

  I know you are there,

  as the harsh coastal breeze

  is an echo of the sea;

  yet I cannot see you

  while you shuffle about your own

  world,

  mine remains empty,

  hollow,

  filled only with fairy-tale memories.

  I try to see you, a picture

  in my mind

  while I haunt you and

  refuse to admit,

  I’m clinging on.

  T

  hrough Youthful Eyes

  It breaks my heart

  when I see you cry;

  and those youthful eyes

  shine with diamond tears,

  from my inner fears,

  when I have to say

  goodbye.

  Sometimes I wish

  that I could not go;

  and you remained close,

  no longer alone,

  our days filled with

  hello's.

  But I revolved,

  though I cling to you,

  so that youthful eyes

  can see, through me, that

  there is something more,

  for you.

  -------------------------

  Peter and the Wolf

  I am the wolf

  The wolf who hides away

  I huddle up deep

  And vanish in bushes

  my eagle eye chases away

  the children who come out to play.

  I am the fear

  Within their eyes

  Children’s dreams

  I come out at night

  My steely claws rip apart

  As moonshine glows, destruction starts.

  The nightmare beast

  I feast on screams

  With determination

  My fierce eyes stare

  A yelp and bark from in my soul

  In their empty gardens I take my stroll.

  But then I saw him

  A boy of grace

  Who stood before me

  And stayed with strength

  I cowered low and prepared to fight

  This curious creature on this frightening night.

  He crouched before me

  As if I were the king

  Lowered his body

  And his eyes shone

  My claw then tore his delicate flesh

  And he fell to the ground gripped with death.

  Slowly he stood

  A man from the boy

  I huddled back deep

  o vanish in the bushes

  He held out a hand that dripped with blood

  I looked in his eyes and understood.

  He was like me

  Angry and confused

  Not accepted by man

  Just needing to be understood

  I lowered my head though eyes stayed firm

  And he spoke so softly I had to learn.

  I am wolf

  I barked with pride

  I am not

  Was his reply

  Ashamed I walked toward his arm

  And he lifted me into his world of no harm.

  We w
alk together

  Like brothers in arms

  Children flock

  To stroke my fur

  I smile within when I see his eyes

  For we both now have no need to cry.

  We are the wolf

  We run and play

  We cuddle up deep

  As the day fades away

  -----------------------------

  Love Consumes

  I miss you;

  as the bitter wind filters through the crack in the window

  that I leave open

  for you to slip through,

  even though I know that it will never be true,

  I miss you.

  While the clock gently ticks each hour that lasts

  as long as day

  and I stop it

  in the hope that it will call you to me,

  but that will not be;

  I miss you,

  and this life carries on regardless of love that burns

  and cuts my heart

  in two

  for you,

  because I miss you.

  ---------------------------

  Butterflies;

  spreading their kaleidoscope

  wings;

  and soaring

  way up high,

  breathing in the magical air

  that's you

  and me

  as we see

  more to make us cry;

  like butterflies,

  calling with their colour

  for us to go home;

  giving us freedom

  to float

  in our world

  of blue

  of sea

  and of sky;

  with our butterflies

  within us,

  constantly fluttering,

  nerve shattering.

  Sending us hopefully

  with hearts

  toward our destiny

  with our butterflies.

  -------

  Dawn hangs on for a little while longer;

  as raw mist smothers the land.

  Sun strangled by winters harsh blanket,

  sky droops frozen in this seasons hands.

  Trees bend double as they brace the wind;

  hedgerows brittle as they cling dearly to life.

  Snow, falls softly, unseen in the brume

  and cakes our home in white.

  The day stretches on, as short as it is

  and weeks mosey by like a month;

  strain to the birds if they dare to tune,

  Come spring, we’ve all had enough!

  ---------------------------------------------