My Mate In A Pot

 

We’ve driven miles and miles my mate and I, I chat away, he says nothing.

I choose the route, the music, the destination, he chooses nothing, but he’s still by my side.

I stop for a break, something he doesn’t need, nor snack or water to quench his thirst.

I smile when I see his smile, broad from ear to ear, his eyes would light.

He is neither seatbelt strapped or viewing the world go by, but is watching everything.

His patience has no limit, wisdom beyond the years he has behind him.

I dive into the car after a mad dash from the pounding rain,

Shake and brush myself to a dryer state, I make sure he isn’t wet, sealed in his pot, water tight.

Many times I’ve thought of leaving him places, places I think he’d like,

But then my selfish side takes over, the side that can’t say goodbye, can’t let go.

So there he sits, waiting.

His last breath taken on this earth yet four years gone, cancer.

That pot of ash, a spice pot, it’s not really him I know, yet I see the pot it brings him back to life for a split,

Soon I will dust him on the ground, a place I think he’ll like,

Green fields will surround him as he melts into the earth,

His last journey taken by my side.

Author – Richard Gray

 

Emotions “Who Needs Them” (part 1)

Emotions “Who Needs Them”

Number 42, always full by 8, scented aroma of so many, shower freshed, ready for the day’s work to unfold.

Splash of hot water, I franticly rub my shirt front, removing rushed coffee spill, breakfast missed again.

Door slams loud behind, I pick up pace, no time to stroll, to notice mornings bright sun or start of springs flower pushing through the earth’s surface, to feel the fresh crisp air on my lips.

Within seconds it hits, slower I step yet faster is my hearts beat, not caused by years of smoke and drink. No outside influence at all.

People pass, I seem no different, same person they pass each day, usual smile missing, but the same.

Yet inside this same person, at times too painful to allow normal function – taking from me my whole self.

Deep breath, raise my head and force my feet forward to help my pace, increase my chance of a normal day.

The drivers grump lets me know his mood without words. We used to speak, I’m sure, was it him or me who stopped?

No seat I stand hand tight on the plastic rail as the drivers mood shows once more.

Lack of life’s natural rest causes my yawn, a yawn which filters through the crowded bus; one after another hands rise to hide the process.

My week’s sleep may count a dozen hours, far too few. I long for, yet dread the night.

In darkness it creeps too me, invading my mind, destroying my chance of sleep, each hour to the next the same, wave after wave it takes me to the same dark place, I see no end to this. My tunnel is without light.

To close down emotion is my dream.

Author – Richard Gray