Oleander Fair

Oleander fair;
your head resting on a verdant bank
with starkest lilies for your pillow
reflecting the harsh sunlight to light your grey eyes.

Oleander fair;
your lips painted with the bluest flush
parted in innocence
and perfect teeth lilly-white.

Oleander fair;
your skin a porcelain etched with fine lines of ruby blue
so faint no more than wisps
painted by an artist’s touch.

Oleander fair;
soft breasts so still
no rise or fall
to disturb the tranquil air and calm.

Oleander fair;
face framed by the darkest of red
that flows in rivulets around the veil of hair
matted with such scarlet streaks now frozen in time.

Oleander fair;
cruelty that belies
such beauty
cannot remain free.

Oleander fair;
at my behest was it done
my hands so stained
with the mark of your demise.

Oleander fair;
the starkest lilies
reflecting the harsh sunlight
to dance upon my silver steel.

(c) 2005

White Lillies – a gothic love story

When first I saw you,
you were lying on a green bank laughing at the sky
as you watched the clouds scud by
and you saw all kinds of shapes in those clouds
and gasped in awe as the myriad of birds
soared and wheeled through the clouds.

Your laugh skipped across the distance between us
like magical notes from a faery harp.
The sunlight lit up your golden hair
making diamonds out of the shafts of sunlight
as you turned your head to and fro
making the sunbeams dance to your tune.

And about your head was a halo of white lilies …

When next I saw you
you were hand in hand with your love
walking into the sunlight from the grey stone church.
Your brocade of white entwined with golden thread
sparkled like a million gems.
Your face was bright and alive with smiling eyes
and your golden hair fell down around your face
catching the sunbeams.
And ringing out their joy, the church bells pealed for you.

And in your hand was a bouquet of white lilies …

I saw you again
on that same green bank laughing with joy
as your golden child frolicked in the warm summer sun,
her childish laugh mingling with your own in angelic harmony.
You grasped her up and, wheeling her skyward,
faces upturned, letting the sunbeams play around you
and then, holding her close, you sank to your knees
cradling the babe, letting the love flow out and around you both.

And in the child’s small hand was grasped a single white lilly …

The next time I saw you
you were quietly sitting in the late summer sun
comfortable in your chair watching the golden sun flame red
as it sank below the distant horizon.
Your golden hair now not so vibrant
and your face etched with the many years of your long life
yet when you smiled at the glory of the setting sun, the sparkle of your eyes
was not dimmed at all.

And around your feet grew a field of white lilies …

The last time I saw you
I gave you my hand and, with fingers entwined,
we walked away from the sombre crowd whose tears flowed like pearls
as the stark white coffin was lowered into the ground.
And looking into your face I saw you again
as you were that first time,
your golden hair that fell as rivulets
around your now pale, sad face.
I took that face in my hands and gently kissed your lips,
no more than a whisper, like a gentle spring breeze teasing the blossoms.
Still hand in hand, we looked back at the sad scene and then turned and walked into the light.

And all about your grave lay white lilies.

© 2006

Smile!

Today, a friend told me of the death
of a close friend of his:
“He was depressed,” he told me,
“but no-one listened.”
He went to the railway station
and threw himself under a train.

I thought about this for a moment.

About how he would have been
struck by the train
with a fleshy thwack.

About how his head would have exploded
in an obscene eruption
of brain and skull fragments.

About how his limbs would have been
amputated raggedly
and the pieces of the corpse scattered
down the track
and with some pieces of flesh still
adhering to the front of the train.

I felt myself breaking into a smile
and inwardly, I laughed.

Today, I read in the paper
of a suicide bomber in the Middle East
who drove his car,
packed with Semtex,
into a schoolbus full
of children returning home.

I thought about this for a moment.

About how the children would not have noticed
the car careering towards them
as they were lost in their chatter.

About how there would have been
a split-second of realisation
before the car impacted into the bus
and exploded.

About how the small forms
would have been ripped apart
with arms and legs and heads and flesh
raining down on the shocked onlookers
along with jagged pieces of the bus
and the bombers car.

I broke into a smile
and then chuckled as
I returned to the crossword.

Today I was told
I was going to die:

There is nothing that can be done
to halt my inevitable demise.

I thought about this for a moment:

About how I had smiled
when the friend had told me
of his close friend who had
jumped into the path of the train.

About how I had smiled
thinking about the children
who had been dismembered
in the bombing of their school bus.

I recalled these images as
my own death overtook me.

And I smiled,
my face set in death.

© 2007