The Car

Oh little cocoon of alleged safety.

I watched the man sitting silently,

rocking slightly,

as if no one else in the world could view his intricate moment of pain.

Tears of rain scattering the windscreen

little rivers of ache

heavily starched tie knotted ever-so-close to his throat

minute veins throbbing rhythmically at his temples.

This man was a soon to be burst ball.

No liquid trickle descending alabaster cheeks,

no tell-tale sign of shake.

A mystery; what ailed him?

Loss, anger, betrayal. Universal idiosyncrasies.

But what struck me was the car.

Ensconced within,

enveloped by machinery, successfully

separated from the mortal coil.

I often think to myself – where would we go if there were no cars?

PO

The Low Road

THE CRUSH:

Without the dark,

All-encompassing, comforting,

How would we know light?

If I could not see your face as I rise in the morning, I doubt

whether I would get up at all.

Such a rose.

HOPE:

Now endure this ray of sunshine,

get up, get up,

a new light is taking flight.

To mope/to wallow, perhaps just fallow,

there is more to life than this.

THE REGRESSIONAL SLIP:

Follow perpetually (there is no such thing),

This contemptible affliction.

The crush will. Become a dramaturgical fixation,

despair and inability to go forth –

even from bed.

Every day.

PO

Cataplexy

It has been too long - still, sometimes the creative river suffers drought too (how pretentious is that!) - if writing is a habit, a routine, a drive, then perhaps I am truly paralysed in plundering forth... Still, occasionally, an inkling takes hold. An idea formulates. The pen touches paper... and I remind myself that I am capable. If nothing else.

Drop me a comment on this new poem below (and/or the new one above).

CATAPLEXY

All soles, mighty, stock-still

sufferingly glued to the ground.

A sudden sense of the metaphysical,

acknowledged; unwillingly quizzical,

rigid, fearful. Muted sound.

Cataplexy.

Such a wonderful word!

Inspiring dexterity of the tongue,

demanding understanding – immobility of nightmares.

Whereupon awake, drookit with sweat, into it stares.

Embrace physical disability, no longer young.

Cataplexy.

Fear of fear itself,

a reason by which not to move at all?

Rooted inactivity, unintentionally profound,

this voyage of privilege has run aground.

Eternal stasis, preparing to fall.

Cataplexy.

PO