Joyeux Noel

The gap between breaths was normal, said the nurse

but it wasn’t normal:

the masks, the smell of disinfectant

the rasps for breath on that dark silent night

none of it was normal.

Others ate roasts, swapped gifts, laughed around the tree

but we sat

waiting between one rise of bedsheets to the next

wondering how long a human body could last without air

thinking about past times and how

things would never be quite the same again.

We held your hand, talked about nothing

listened

waited.

The phone call came at eight o’clock the following morning:

a grey snowless Boxing Day, the air

heavy and still

nothing special, as you used to say, and

yet you were.

Oh, joyeux Noel.

Genevieve Murphy, nee Noel, (7.7.1923 – 26.12.2020)

ALONE

He turns away,

vacant eyes searching across a

void of

chairs and

desks and blank faces

for something he doesn’t quite know.

The teacher repeats

his name but he doesn’t move,

doesn’t

say a

word, and some of the

faces stare, some of them sneer.

Body hunched,

fingernails long and outlined, he

flinches

from shadows

the faces cannot see,

and murmurs ripple through the room.

He steps back,

soiled socks peeping from outgrown

trousers –

arms shielding  

a mop of tangled curls –

and the murmurs turn to laughter.

A hand rests

on his shoulder, the laughing

subsides,

something flashes

before his eyes and the

shadows disappear from his mind.

The teacher smiles

and he feels her warmth,

and for the briefest of moments,

he is

free.

FORGOTTEN EYES

Scarf pulled tight, she

stares with forgotten eyes at

bags and suits and high heeled shoes 

plundering the High Street.

 

The smell of fresh coffee and fried food   

lingers in the late-November dark,

whispering seductive thoughts;

taunting her with memories of a different time.  

 

She pulls the scarf tighter and the

rain begins to fall. The

suits and shoes march purposefully by,

hypnotised by life; 

drawn to scheming shops with atmospheric lights

enticing them with more suits, more shoes;

more happiness.

 

Hiding in the shadows of her cardboard home, she

listens to half-conversations about

injustices and regret; the words

spat into the night air like

spoilt milk.

 

An expensive-looking coat with a depressed face

disappears into a restaurant,

ignoring a waiter with a drawn-on smile,

face glowering at a little white screen.

 

A bus pulls up outside,

her eyes blur,

the smell of coffee returns,

 

and the rain hits

hard against her knees.

Chestnut Fire

 

He sits on a frozen branch
like a small stain on winter;
smudging the white canvas with
russet and chestnut fire.

The night had been long and cold
and morning light had come late;
spiritless clouds draining the
colour from a sluggish sun
that barely rose; now just a
smear of orange lingering
on a cold horizon.

Arctic air breathes around him
and trees tremble; sieving the
scene with sugary ice and
blurring his chestnut fire.

The dawn chorus fills the air:
a battle of melodies,
chirps and tuneful tweets above
fences and silver-lined roofs…
A door swings opens and the
arena erupts with shrills
and exploding wingbeats.

Feeders swing, breadcrumbs scatter
across a hushed garden but
the chestnut fire remains and
hops to a garden fork.

A small stain on winter,
a smudge on white canvas,
the robin sings his winter tune.

ODE TO VENUS

 

Oh, Venus!                                                                        

When you come out at night;                                     

when your beauty unfurls                                                           

and you shine brightest of glimmering pearls,                     

I’m smitten; in awe of your sight!                                                                             

Oh, Venus!                                                                                        

You are Earth’s planet twin,                                                        

you’re the closest by far,                                                              

shimmering high like a twinkling star;                                     

I fear for the life that you’re in.                                                

 

Oh, Venus!                                                                                        

Roman Goddess of love,                                                              

Morning Star of the skies,                                                           

second in line and sixth largest in size,                                   

I ask: are you happy above?                                                       

Oh, Venus!                                                                                        

With volcanoes of fire                                                                   

and your poisonous air                                                                  

with no water and your oceans laid bare                                               

is love what you crave and desire?                                           

 

Four and a half billion years                                                        

you have travelled in space,                                                       

inspiring from darkness and gloom.                                         

Despite all of your fears; all those sulphuric tears,            

did you dream that with love there’d be room?                 

Oh, Venus!                                                                                        

My Morning Star!                                                                            

Goddess of love!                                                                             

If you saw how you shone in my eyes,                                   

my Venus, my beauty, my glimmering pearl,                       

you’d realise how futile love never dies.  

A LATE SPRING EVENING

Swallows swoop low

over gold-tinted fields;

silhouettes of grass

haloed with apricots and ambers and

waving in the evening breeze

like freshly scented hair.

 

The sun sinks;

the gold fades and

a squeeze of deep orange

pours across the horizon.

 

Cool air sets in

but still the insects endeavour;

floating and flitting

like motes of dust

between swaying shadows.

 

The sun slips away, leaving

a tangle of darting arrows

on a dark blue canvas

brushing tips and

swooping low on

a late

spring

evening.

 

EMPTY STARS

The light on her face

forms a ghost in the dark

reflecting her featureless eyes

like empty stars

 

Her smile is desperate

confused

and lost amidst the millions

of worlds that see her and don’t see her and

orbit in galaxies of their own

 

And it is winter inside

and the pane is black;

refracting the ghost into a

blur of pictures and pouts.

 

Friends who aren’t friends bring her hope,

bring her hits, bring her likes; bring her hearts that

resemble love.

 

And

it seems like it’s enough.

 

But as planets spin

and comets collide

she devours black holes

with touches and taps

 

An addictive abyss

a ghost in the dark

 

Those empty stars.  

THAT FEELING IN THE PIT OF MY STOMACH

 

“Nothing,” she says not looking at me,

“nothing’s wrong.”

I look at the egg stained saucepan

and the rest of the washing up

smelling of day-old dishwater

and she closes a cupboard door

slightly louder than necessary.

And then there is silence.

 

And I know I’m in

trouble.

YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE I KNOW YOU

 

You look at me like

I know you

different, yet the same somehow.

 

I smile, I think,

beneath a puzzling clock

but something else stares back

like confusion, perhaps, or

acceptance.

 

Like, maybe you’re

not who I thought you were.

 

I hear my children’s laughter

linger in empty rooms

smelling of old toys,  

and the walls age and

change and stay the same

like me

and some of it makes sense.

 

But mostly

you look at me

like I know you  

and I feel that

 

maybe

I am doing something right.

 

GOTHAM CITY

Young

night in

Gotham City

high-rise lights

twenty degrees

 

White shirts

polished shoes

balcony banter

vodka and wine

 

Old Spice

R & B

sunburnt skin

funnels and fire

 

Heading in;

into Gotham

special deals

free first drink

 

Sticky dancefloors

foamy mist

Sangria cocktails

down in one

 

On stage

dancer’s cage

robot moves

on the pole

 

John Travolta

cardboard box

getting hazy

little fish big

 

Scatman John

Humpin’ Around

I’m A Believer

Boom Boom Boom

 

Catching glances

looking good

feeling sick

need a drink

 

Sweaty bodies

losing friends

finding beers

on empty tables

 

Walking alone

completely lost

chilli kebab

down my shirt

 

Aimless wandering

dream-like confusion

rising sun

where’s the hotel?

 

Wallet missing

memory wiped

staggering in

sick on floor

 

Nothing pulled

counting friends

someone sleeping

on my bed

 

Checking suitcase

finding money

50 pesetas

for another drink

 

Heading back;

back to Gotham;

back to the night

when the

time was

young.