Old House – Poetry

Old House

By J. A. Weymouth

These nights are a high inside old buildings as their mortality weakens

they wake to a sadness, a persistent depression of red oak, soaked

in laughter.

Laughter is the memory.

What childhood lies here?

Chalk litters the corner of two rooms.  Simple.

And the hallways are riddled with hooks and screws.

Stains of an aged dust outlines particular squares on its walls while

Mother draws back the curtain.

Sunlight is emitted as the house reawakens.

Only to realise it is empty.

But nothing is empty.

Memories are pressed like flower petals in a book.

The book is still here

remembering.

Hopes and Fears – Poetry

Image

Hopes and Fears

By J. A. Weymouth

There was something

lost in that sigh.

A paramnesia of windows shutting and

light closing began

in the wake of ideas.

 

Too far lost those ideas tread

(and they don’t remember their true beginnings)

so far away taken, over long shores and hopes, were they.

 

Corrosive/archaic from water.

Water is the fearless patient.

 

What is this wistful feeling?

A searching/yearning/wanting of the things that have passed and have not come.

All that has taken the hand.

 

Beyond question/reasoning to believe that place is only home,

but that home has become corrosive!

 

The head, like the hand, has been taken somewhere

away – mingled by the strain of ideas and journey seeking –

living in that false reality.

 

And I believed in that fantasy.

Hope has taken my hand.