The Death

I am left with my own sounds and the ticking of the clock. 
Every swallow is a gurgle and I breathe hoarsely, sucking air in and out – breaking the silence. 
Occasionally I hear a plane overhead and one bird – a robin I think, shrieking out its warning to rivals. 
There is a strange silence otherwise. 


Yesterday was a Sunday and a stream of weekly visitors teemed through the house.
Their cacophony of living noise trespassed on my usual dreams. 
Sally, whose mother sends her good wishes and Jane who wondered how I hadn’t heard about Mrs So and So – poor soul, 
Bringing the dead to the dying without a thought. 
They mean well but it’s difficult to find things to say to an old woman who rarely leaves the house. 

And then the boys, gawky teenagers, voices dropping and then rising suddenly to a high-pitched squeak- embarrassed that manhood is not quite there. 
Their unwieldy bodies knocking over the water jug and filling the room with hormonal sweat. 
Their mother ushers them outside with whispered warnings about a dying woman. 
Me. 

But we are all dying. 
Who knows if before I take my last breath
One of you may not cross the road and know no more. 

I listen to the silence growing closer and the intermittent rattle in my chest. I shall not get up today to open the curtain and welcome the day. 
I shall not bid my neighbour good morning or answer the telephone when it’s shrill ring pierces my consciousness. 
Rather I will lie here, still, unmoving in my cocoon. 

I welcome the silence of aloneness. 
I look forward to thinking no more. 

Although I will not take responsibility for my own end, I shall welcome it. 
I have regrets but I do not dwell on them. What is, is and shall be evermore.
But I have learned not to make too much of failures. 
Hurt pride does not easily give a peaceful heart without forgiveness of self and others. 

There is a persistent rattle in my throat and an overwhelming heaviness makes me smile as everything slows down to my pace. 
S L O W L Y my senses leave me in silence
Til all I know is the smell of death –


And a rushing in my ears like water over a steady waterfall.
I am falling through a cold, refreshing current as this torrent washes over me and I swim forward; down and deep
Diving towards the light beneath the pool. 

Deep breath. 

I am ready. 

These words and photo are copyright to Englepip© 25th May 2017

The Loss

Less of a hole

More a chasm

To lose someone close.

It is as if the world pauses

And only the cooing of the pigeons 

Remains in the gathering darkness. 

Fragments of memories surface and fall

Drowned in tears of regret

Of things left undone or unsaid. 

Only the assurance that it

Was a long life, fulfilled

Help to fill the gulf of despair. 

A whole generation now gone

Farewell precious friend.

Yesterday I visited the Holy Ghost ruins in Basingstoke – more of which on another occasion, only to return home and get a call about a sad death. I leave you with the poem above.

Poem and photos copyright Englepip©



In the Fall

In the Fall
Everything falls earthward
It should be a time of

Desolation
Despair
Disillusionment

At Summer’s end.

But Autumn leaves
Turning to their brightest
Most gloriously
Inventive
Artistic
Enthusiastic
Sublime embrace
Of life.

In death
Nature shines
Puts on her
Royal robes
And parades
Across the land
Dancing in the wind,
In glory.

And why?

Because she knows
This is just the beginning
That after a winter retreat
There will be new life
New beginnings.

This is not death at all
This is life conquering death
Looking for tomorrow.


Poem and photo copyright Englepip ©

THE MOON CHILD

It hangs as a ball in an azure sky
Bobbing in an ocean of blue ether,
Buoyed on pink candy-floss clouds:
And as the sun sets on the darkening 
Globe below, the all-seeing moon
Stares at the world which bore it,
And thinks that Mother Earth
Is burning like a sun, suffering
From the heat of its diurnal rival
And melting into barrenness
From the excesses of a deadly
Parasite:  Man.
And if it could cry  it would and
Drown the fires with tears of sorrow;
It would scream to eternity
Of life wasted and for its loss.
It would blow cooling breath
on the deserts and poles 
And scratch out
The infestation,
Which is killing
Its mother.






Poem and photo copyright Englepip©

When I began to write this poem, I began to write about the beauty in the sky but my feelings about the raging fires in California; encroaching deserts and warming poles are so intense I began to personify the moon and feel its loss as though we are killing its mother.

On Chesil Beach

_1610782All a long the shore they lie,
Staring at a cloudless sky
Helpless and broken
On a bed of stones.

No gull swoops to devour them
No dog to crunch their  bones
Motionless, unwanted
None can hear their moans.

Unburied and discarded,
Helpless, rigid souls,
Staring up at heaven
Near where the huge sea rolls.

And always the sea batters
Upon this beach so cold
Pounding and back-gurgling
Stones millennia old.

For aeons past this beach has rolled
These stones so round and smooth;
What chance have fragile life-forms,
Against the force of time untold?

Words and photo copyright Englepip©

Chesil beach is a vey impressive “elemental” place. It is very hard to walk on and is vast and challenging. If you are interested, please follow this link to find out more here.

 

 

Daily Prompt: White Rose

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A winter’s day

And already the sun is low on the horizon

A chill creeps through the air

As the light sinks.

The graveyard settles into shadow

And night.

At my feet lie the dead.

Buried beneath the cold clods

Stones at their heads that read

Of poetic loss and grief at their passing.

“Beloved son”, “Loving mother,”

“Sacred to the memory.”

The once living

Now lie inanimate,

Six feet under.

Waiting: for what?

For eternity, for heaven or for hell?

Certainly, their release from this life passed,

Is there death, new life, resurrection?

For this is a Christian place.

As I turn to go,

I retrieve a discarded rose,

White and innocent in the dewy grass

And I place it on the moss-covered  wall

Between the sacred land and the unconsecrated.

Is it for me to sympathise in death or

To celebrate of the life to come?

 

We shall all find out in time.

 

Words and photo copyright to Englepip©

via Daily Prompt: Sympathize

Daily Prompt: Loyal to the last

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A friend, a father, an uncle, a son

Each loyal to the last.

Each believing they could stop

An enemy

Who each believed they could stop

an enemy

By following orders

Going over the top

Towards enemy gunfire

Which slugged into bodies,

Tearing and burning flesh

Til blood seeped unstoppable into

The quagmires of a foreign field.

Yet loyal to the last, to the cause of

The politicians who sent them.

Each poppy, each death

On either side,

A memory of

A life, a love;

Forever a grief.

 

Photos and poem copyright to Englepip ©

 

via Daily Prompt: Loyal