Tell myself the truth
Where did I lose
The dream your hand
Revealed
I see you turn my dark
Into light
The words written on
Your skin
The twist in my faith
Lost for ever
Still I hear
Your footsteps
Echo the trail
Of
Parallel
Tears and fears
With joy and smiles
Pain and gains
Of life’s reveal
The perpendicular
Fading in the past
The lines never cross
Yet
Still remain as one
In my joy of your
Happiness
His hand in yours
The love you share
It was of a Monday when the lights came over the sun and the moon was just a memory not long forgotten and she held his hand by resting her head on his shoulder. No sleep had been enjoyed since love had been engaged upon with vigour and gentle touch under a moonless night. Never once from the beginning had he entered her body with the absence of a warmth in his heart which spread beyond the logic of his mind to delve deep beyond the locked chasms of his soul. A part of him he would have have denied existing but which he always held a secret hope of eventually discovering: she was beyond his reach in the normal course of human interactions with a beauty he would hold in his heart until the day its final beat lapsed his never ending regrets into the calm repose of nothingness. Somehow his words had transcended the physical inequality of their respective positions in the potential romantic pecking order of human interactions to allow for moments to be shared which would transform the world from one of drudgery to a place where the rainbow of the dragonfly’s wings sprinkled its magic along the yellow brick road of his destiny and he knows somehow hers too from the look in her eye and the smell in the air and the sound of her body.
The moon cast its trail painting a memory along the river under the bridge where he imagined grasshoppers playing fiddles among the dew drops of a morning capable and indeed willing to change the man he could ever be from such a silent morning onwards. Evolution expedited from a multi generational phenomenon to the wonderful instantaneous transformation of true love
As much as the field of daffodils did for a man of words so the moment would in vacant or in pensive thought be for ever the place he would revisit constantly to languish in a love beyond his highest expectations or imaginations.
To be continued…….
The most I’ve written in so long in a prose style. Words spilling from inside not sure of their origin but knowing the validity of their truth and the warmth of the image. Where do the words ever come from but once they start they refuse to stop there need to be set free only matched by my addiction to hear what they have to say. Voices in my mind would they have locked us in the home for the bewildered once of a not too far distant time. I promise myself to indulge with the keyboard on Saturday. What am I without my words but a beast roaming who has forgotten the beauty of the pen
Corduroy boots prancing
She stepped beyond the
Pole he wrote on the line
Weeping lines of ash
Trailers painted morning
Pink reflecting in Spaniard
Dancing boots of vacant
Leather
Hidden he commences
To descend above the flames
Burnt into pale fluorescent
Tattoos depicting the stray
Torture of a dreary priests
Last moments
Curled toes stretch to caress
The lost pole golden skin
Of the girl lying naked
Fiddling with his emotions
While her cross eyed stare
Describes the winter time
Design of her corduroy
Boots cast meaninglessly
Before the amber turf
Of his vacant fire
(C) Francis Mcgivney
The blood we share on the mats
Pulsing to the crunching of our ears
A slap of a fist for respect
We delve within ourselves to feel
For the truth of who we are inside
In their eyes I see the beast inside
Not the one of popular imaginations
But the quiet one whose growl
Resonates with the freedom
To stand for who I am,
unshackled
From societies expectations
Perceptions and deceptions
Who’s choice instead
Encompasses
The gentle word
The silent smile
The ferocious growl
To allow
The tender touch
(C) Francis Mcgivney
Brazilian jiu jitsu is for everyone but after a while it’s only for those with the beast inside
Tiny feet to stroll
Slow from her
Breast to grow
Fascinated to
Feel the wonder
Tiny steps to make
The garden grow
To meadows
Full of dreams
(Kids realise small steps make the world grow large and allow the wonder to be absorbed
Adults see the end with their big auld steps and fail to see the wonder between
Words I love to write 