Good Morning

 

 

My sunshine, my songbird, my morning air, warmth of my bed cloth wrapped.

Sunday morn, no rush as weekly morning make. My heart beats slow.

Author Richard Gray

Which Path?

…

WHICH PATH?

…

I walk my road, wide gap between chin and chest,

head high, eyes scanning roof tops and tall trees, squint as broken sunlight fires through cloud.

He walks the same road.

Flightful birds play in the warm air, twist and turn cast against a bright backdrop.

He see’s dark cracks in the pavement, no space between chin and chest  as though weighed with a heavy hat.

My shoulders are pushed back; allowing – inviting the days air to caress my neck like a friendly hand.

His rounded low shoulder allows nothing in, his barrier to life’s beauty,

He walks slow and heavy, although the same road we travel – it’s traveled worlds apart.

I see bright colours and smiles , he see’s dark pavement cracks.

I look forward too, he looks back at.

Life to be lived, life to be injured, which path we choose?

I like mine!

…

Author – Richard Gray

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

Those Words

THOSE WORDS

Eerie silence, fast pounding heart, crunching footsteps on dusky gravel path,

Two pairs aside, moving, gentle, slow, glide like,

Floating within my head, required words, stuck,

Not as rehearsals in days past, over and over, word perfect my vision would show,

Now time – those words won’t flow.

 Idle chat instead, no remembrance, no need,

These words just filling gaps as I rehearse again in my head,

Those words, real words, words which either will or will not change my life’s path,

My life’s focus,

Whether tomorrow be filled with smiles or frown, walk tall or shoulder slump,

Those important words.

  Now we sit, arms wrapped round, tight the hug,

Hands pull hard against each back, deep sigh,

Kiss,

As if planned – weeks, years before church bells chime their soft melody, as if themselves relieved,

Dusk deepens as night steals day, our tight embrace still holds.

 Wondrous surrounds but a blur,

Only eyes I see, deep, soft, many years hidden, as my own – ever longing,

An old soul within those eyes, many times upon this earth, many journeys trodden,

Yet bright, smiling sparkle cast from fading light reflection.

My hand lifts to brush his cheek; he tilts to firm the feel,

Breathless as if lungs crushed, I struggle to breath in this moment.

 

Those words said.

Author – Richard Gray

Red

Red is my colour now, deep and dark, not light bright pastel of childhood dreams.

Pressure through my eyes press hard upon my tangled mind, a mind of twisted fear insecure in this life, this body.

I feel closer than before, the edge seems nearer.

No return from this place, no turning back from the walls built over years of insecure,

A castle forged of granite stone encasing my mind, pressing upon my real self to stay down, behind closed eyes.

Author – Richard Gray

  

 

 

If we are honest, this feeling have gripped the majority of us at sometime. I wrote this whilst very low, they say poets/writers are mostly a bit depressive and I do agree in some ways. The mind has to be free to explore every part of life which means feeling it, we can’t explain a situation to anyone else if we don’t feel it. So good, bad or ugly we put on paper, I use it as my own personal shrink. We all have to work through these negative feelings at some stage.

Stay strong and talk. Life is short & precious.

New Writing Room.

Image via Wikipedia

Haven’t posted for a while, been busy redecorating my new writing room. My son is at Uni now for the next 4 years so an ideal time to reform his bedroom, poor lad already calls himself the forgotten son ( the things I found in that bedroom, well ).

May sound a little sick but Zest green with dark green contrasting wall does actually work, I think. Lots of my son’s artwork from college will cover a lot so tie it all together.

I will post some photos when done so let you be the judge.

All the best, Richard.

PS, I hope you enjoy my poetry, please leave a comment either way or any subject you would like me to tackle .