Fingerprints – Poetry

Fingerprints

By J. A. Weymouth

 

There is an indentation of the skin.

Deep, thorough as they carry deep, and true.

there is a changing in the eyes – precipitation, condensation –

mellow slumps of the lower eye.

 

She says it

‘s of the truer.

the stiller, still.

 

And less then woken.  The urge to move the glass lips onto the pale ones.

Such shaking and urging.  Thrusting deeper into the mouth.

 

Not so painful but rather an addition to the initial habit.

And yellowing of the printed inner bit.

corner, corned, the cornet.

higher yet.  but not so shrunken.

The Thimble and Me – Poetry

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The Thimble and Me

By J. A. Weymouth

 

There is a fundamental sense of loss,

Discredited, false, sapling mind that is –

too claustrophobic in its set of ideas.

 

An infertile thimble now stationed to toss,

Only, at the bottom end of it can I see

Some form of worth.

She takes every opportunity to waste life.

 

The tall one does not seek the knife,

Don’t misunderstand this as a euphemism for suicide.

 

Only luck can handle this.

 

And with an open palm

Can one hold onto the channeling of joy –

Such freshness is met by widened eyes.

Mad Men. (the seekers) – Poetry

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Mad Men. (the seekers)

By J. A. Weymouth

 

Entrenched beneath

guessing

as the shadows dance in the hallways of darkness,

a footstep is taken, into the lamp lit room.

 

Solitary is the hint behind the eyes

the fool seeks the company of mad men.

 

His face is only half of the moon,

and tempers with the light of world.

 

Only darkness and blood can enter

though this is no gory tale.

 

Just a simple mad man

wondering,

meandering into

the hallways of others like him.

 

And so they dance.

The Night Drips

The Night Drips

By J. A. Weymouth

 

The night is dripping

Soft melancholy

of the night.

 

Soothing thoughts of nightmares weep for better words.

 

The nightly whispers.

Red roses are not thoughts.

that sparkle sound

that shines

is dim in the dark.

 

And here I am sitting/waiting.

 

Quiet lights put pressure

on the mind,

while speechless/sensless

I am driven to a quiet world.

 

There are many whispers in the dark while I search for it.

 

A knowing.  A caring.

Distant.  It sits still.

 

What am I in that dark place?

 

That night drips

and I float alone

with soft words of reason.

 

Quiet words they are.

Quiet.

Undying Sun – Poetry

Undying Sun 

By J. A. Weymouth

Damaging these old tattered bones

Tokens, now hung above static needs.

Ever trusted, ever stored.

We, basic, in all powered sources/scrounged

Depthless

Beneath

A symptom of the heart. What heart we need? What heartless? All heartless

 

ethereal/earthless.

 

More sunken, more devoured. Little by little an epiphany comes.

 

Ideas shriek like stricken grass – all grass becomes golden in a dying sun.

And I see not your eyes.

Sure, your eyes are here within withered loneliness.

You are my eyes.  My fervent, undying eyes.

He Saw Her in the Rain (Part 2) – Short Story

She Saw Him in the Rain 

(Part 1)

By J. A. Weymouth

It was then that she saw him again as he stepped out of the taxi.  His mop of golden brown hair quickly turned wet when he stepped out into the rain.  She saw him look down at his umbrella as if re-thinking about opening it now that it was already too late to save himself from the devious droplets.  Shivering, he moved forward not noticing her looking at him.  And then he looked up.  Everything paused around her that moment he looked up and she saw that look in his eye, that knowing, that remembering.  He was awake and she was alive.

She remembered him of course since he was never far from her mind from the day she first saw him standing by the edge of the breakwater.  The thought of him never lingered too long on her mind though, and it passed as soon as the memory of him came to her.  Like a dream or like trying to remember something from long ago.  Those images of him only seemed to come to her when she was in those dark places.  The little dark crevices of her mind.

Life for her had been monotonous and distant.  Grey overtones.  Dull noises.  There was no energy or drive working in the same place, bundling the same roses, and giving them to the same happy couples here at the florists.  But now… Now, he was the wash of colour that brightened her grey world.  That one step out of the car.  Those emerald eyes looking up.  Everything changed.  And she no longer regretted not turning around and going back to him, that day at the breakwater.

Two days in rain.  A life time of moments and pauses.  That was when she saw him in the rain.

“Happy Tuesday,” he said as he dropped the plastic, diamante ring into her palm.

He Saw Her in the Rain (Part 1) – Short Story

This is a sweet little story I wrote a little while ago. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Part two will be up by the end of the week.

He Saw Her in the Rain

(Part 2)

By J. A. Weymouth

He saw her in the rain when he was walking along the breakwater.  It was pouring as he looked over to see the waves lick the wooden stumps.  The waves moved in such desperation as if they longed to be a part of the land.

The sea’s ferocity moved him as he contemplated nasty thoughts.  They were inside his head and they were screaming.  But then he saw her in the rain, as he was about to jump hoping to become a part of that foreboding ocean.  He relished the thought.  He was going to become a part of something greater.  The most powerful thing he could think of.  Not some ridiculous human life.

He didn’t see her at first.  He heard the soft pounding of thick raindrops.  A rhythmic tap tap of rain falling on an umbrella.  It was the fussy sound that drew his attention. They were beating her umbrella as he turned around to see.  She wasn’t close either.

He turned and saw wellingtons.  The bright canary yellow stood out in the gray.  They were splashed in mud.  He couldn’t see her face it was covered by her umbrella.  He also noticed that she was slightly bent over.  Her back and shoulders were straight but it seemed she was looking down.  He saw a puddle at her feet, but whatever fascination she found in the puddle puzzled him.  What was she looking at?  He wondered.

He hears her sneeze and she bends closer to the puddle.  She pulls up a ring.  He sees it glitter.  Sunshine manages to escape through the thick of cloud covering her shoulders in a soft, warm glow.  It showers her face.  He sees it for the first time.  He thought she was beautiful even as she stood without protection from the rain.  The raindrops highlighted the paleness of her face and the blueness of her eyes.  Her umbrella left forgotten at her feet.  The attention was focused on the ring.

Blue globes look up.  He notices her noticing him.  All previous thoughts on the breakwater disappear as she gives him a pensive look.  She begins to move, walking closer to him.  He sees her put the ring in the small of her pocket, smiling up at him.  Her hands slid into the inside of her woollen jacket for warmth.  He felt nervous.  Her moving towards him made him cautious.  He fidgets suddenly forgetting why he was there and thinks of turning his back to her.

He didn’t.

The rain had stopped.  She is much closer now.  He could see her clearly, only a few feet away.  Chestnut wet hair clung to her face.  Now standing before him he could see her panda eyes masked by milky mascara, her lips pale and shivering.  She smells of oak and cinnamon.  He sees her hand move.  Up and open.  There sat the ring.  She nudges her hand towards him, encouraging him.  He takes out his hand and opens his palm out to her.  She drops the ring into his.

“Happy Tuesday,” she says.

He can’t find any words.  She is behind him now walking away.  He doesn’t look at her as she leaves instead he looks at the ring.  It’s a plastic cheap one, something a young girl would wear.  It has a light pink band and a diamante in the shape of a heart.  He suddenly decides the sea is too deep and too cold for him.  The thought of home was more comforting.  He would sit in front of a warm fire as he daydreamed of blue globes and wet chestnut hair, while the smell of oak and cinnamon still lingered on his mind.  He turns around and she’s gone.  He thinks he’ll keep the ring as a memento.  He didn’t feel like killing himself today.

That was when he saw her in the rain.

~~~

Here’s a thought….

Don’t be happy.

Well, what I mean is that you shouldn’t have to be happy all the time. You will be sad at times, happy in others, stressed, worried, sick, depressed, sad, happy, stressed, worried, depressed… unmotivated. And that’s all okay.

My point is there is so much “stress” to be happy all the time. One thing I’ve learned about being a teacher, while being in a situation when I’ve mentored students, I have discovered that many teenagers feel so much more pressure, stress or worry because they used to feel happy all the time much younger and as soon as they start to feel depressed or sad, or worried or felt ostracised or bullied here and there, it all builds up on them or hits them suddenly and they can’t handle it.  Of course when it is more serious ostracisation or bullying – all the time everyday – that’s a different story because we all go through bits of that at one point or another in our lives.

Now I see my students dealing with it the way I dealt with similar problems when I was their age now, and I see that they do not cope with the change. They have to be happy! It’s the end of the world if life is not perfect! They are going through such dramatic changes in their bodies, emotions, hormones, etc. that of course they’re going to feel that way! What I’m worried about is that they cannot deal with it. They cannot understand that it it’s okay to be sad, to be stressed, to be worried or overwhelmed or whatever. Because they believe that to be happy is to be normal.

I think it’s the same for adults. Recently I’ve been in and out of sorts, dealing with emotional stress as well as stress from work (reports, ugh!) and lack of motivation (hence the lack of posts recently) and then of course I have to be able to deal with my job at 100% capacity, bottle-up my emotions and not talk about them, and post at least twice a week. When, all of a sudden, things drop and then I’m only functioning at 70%, cry over nothing and out of no where and not post at all in three weeks – of course that all then builds up and I soon believe that life is shit and then I have a anxiety attack.

Cool down. Shut up. It’s okay. You DON’T need to be happy all the time. Let yourself cry. Let yourself forget something and not beat yourself up about it. Take sick leave. Give yourself another few days until you post something meaningful and let yourself get past all that. Life is inconsistent. It’s a fucking roller-coaster.

Life is good one way or another but the problem is you are told to be happy all the time. Life is not meant to be that way. Take it with a grain of salt.

You’re not meant be happy all the time and if you are then that’s okay too.

All Eyes – Poetry

 

All Eyes

By J. A. Weymouth

 

All eyes are broken glass,

Fractured away from a whole,

Expression imprinted loss,

Nothingness – a black hole.

 

Tears are but a ripple,

Wavering across that loner pond,

Mirroring life as nothing but a cripple,

Despair dares not respond.

 

Loss breeds the need,

The need to see greater impressions,

Of souls born to be greedy,

For the better to question.

 

Left to shudder the anticipation,

Of crumbling sorrow,

Leaves us with the sensation

Of nothing.  Nothing for tomorrow.