“It always rains when you take out the rubbish!”
Maybe so, but I never do take it out.
I consume, I fill the bins,
And she takes them out.
While she wheels out the bins,
Heaves the bags and the boxes over the wall,
I watch from inside, suddenly reminded of her mother,
The image of her before me.
The little untried girl dissolves in the rain,
And I face a woman challenging the world
By taking out the rubbish.
© jsmorgane (2005)
Before the empty box the world made sense
For you and me
An empty box to keep… things… in.
Followed by months of empty words,
Shut out of your head and no,
No communication possible
Only backwards to a past with
No answer to your question.
Then an act of courage/desperation,
You come into the closet and between
A scrap of paper and the pieces of
The blue vase you find the key to
Your little broken soul.
A key, you think, to join it back together,
To bring time to a halt before – …
We needed that empty box.
You try one lock, another, ask
The locksmith, the divorcee,
The horse people, the praying people,
The silent people, so many different people,
With many different truths and many
Different boxes (some full, some empty).
You turn the key in someone else’s lock
To open someone else’s box…
Empty… too much to keep in,
So you shout it out, your rage and hurt,
Finally communicating, sharing, back
Safe with me.
I keep finding keys in the curiousest places now.
I keep them all – in a box without a lock.
And I have started again to believe in –
Maybe not six but… some of those
Impossible things before breakfast.
© jsmorgane (Feb 2012)
A mansion, saluting neglect,
Brazen against the tides of time.
A barren place to bring back
To life again, light behind shutters
Flung open wide again.
The marshes a vast expanse,
Open space uncivilised, wildlife,
Bird-watching, there, from the gable window.
Darkness, shadows, sounds and noises,
Creeping movement, steps and stories
Told by one and all but altered over time,
Calling back to when the tides, the marshes,
The space between the isle and land
Had powers of their own, and called
For sacrifice when any dared to trespass.
One room, frozen in time,
An empty bed and pillows plumped,
Untouched, unused, unloved, forgotten.
Or nearly so. The silent lookers-on,
Wind-up toys, the monkey with his fiddle,
Wasn’t that the dog, playing cymbals
And clowns grinning, bears nodding crazily,
The music box and rocking horse.
No, chopping, rocking, chair.
And this is where she wants you.
In the deserted nursery,
No other place so desolate,
Depleted and devoid of
Any purpose when vacated,
Left, moved out, moved on,
Beyond, the little ones.
The toys, given voice
In a mad circus symphony they tell
What they have seen, have known,
See now behind your back.
The rocking chair, chopchop,
Stopped. Occupied,
So easily imagined,
By one now without purpose
But searching, foraging the past for
Consolation, harvesting…
© jsmorgane (Feb 2012)
