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


Guilt – Poetry


By J.A Weymouth


Day is like opening,

seeping a while not there

deep, thorough and momentless

it carries – stops/taken – the word is ever.


An unavoidable grasp sends

a wave to a shiver

as the memory curls

the motion blurs

a stain fixes itself

onto a translucent permanence.


It doesn’t care of the action.

& all of memory is divided and focused.


Parallel thoughts hinder it

& overwhelms.


The fist clenches as the eyes begin to stare.


That unknown triviality – frail like

but weighs against the mind and it



Calming into a comatose state of denying


Let go.