Airlock Garden

New poem:’ Airlock Garden ‘

– as often is the case, and my preferred source, poetry inspired, at least in part, by a lucid dream.

Read it and consider supporting my work, whichever way you can, on Patreon:

Jonathan O’Farrell is creating photographically illustrated poetry and short stories

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Wake me, shake me, lay me down those lines

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Un-dream, awake!
Assume I will write poetry,
ever more dear, it seems not.
We are lovers, now,
of delusions make.

I, maybe we, would wish
to unwrite ourselves out of this now,
unseeming seam.
This most unbecoming,
bad dream.

Awake!
This rhyming reality, may rot!

So, this is it, what we write.
Every letter, a word starts.
And those, our sentences make.
Rest together, to paragraphs form.
Number, chapter, maybe titles.
Unfold, our story book.

Under those covers we’re green,
Upright, ageless stone, epitaph, seen.

 

Unwritten

Brave and Reckless

Thinking today of Chester Bennington and Chris Cornell and Robin Williams and all of those whose lives have been lost to depression and suicide but did not make the headlines or the social media news feeds.   I have walked in your shoes.  I have put my leg over the bridge, stood at the open 13th  story window and considered walking out, have thought I was nothing, thought that others would be better off without me.  Those are the lies depression tells us.  You mattered.  You are missed.

Inspired by Phases  by Kevin Kantor & Sienna Burnett


the suicide note

she did not leave

left a faint  imprint

on the wooden table

where they would sit and talk

over cups…

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The​ ​forest​ ​fell​ ​from​ ​the​ ​sky (Melo – phoenix days)

My foot strides again, over ever regular municipal cobbles.
Oh that we had time for civic pride, dear Melo.
Catching up my minds eye,
breath-taking,
aghast, imagination fails
and;

The non accommodating cafe chairs now suffice;
for although reclining cats
by the ‘Castelo’ passage
still pose,
the grid and a currency of electrons became useless that night
of the furnace wind.
Not that they needed mobile telecoms the felines, just Bombeiros.
The cats needed mobility, too close to the fire, fur!

It strikes me hard, the light, the dark
and many shades convergent.
Not so subliminal, charcoal.
You can have it back now, your town
‘any colour,
so long as it’s black’,
or, ashen grey at a pinch!
Torches, hairbrushes, a table, art, tool handles, wind up radios, pencils.
All, or most, Incendiary food,
need I say more?

Another cuddle with a scruffy friend some consolation,
as we navigate now primeval carbonised slopes.
Ruefully I survey a spot with forested mountainsides,
between night barking dogs and intimacy.
Charred, jet black giesta stubs adorn the place,
where I might have called it forest home.

That arson night the accelerant intoxicated forest,
rained incandescent offerings,
on the innocent in their nightclothes.
The firestorm proclaimed, ‘Trajectory Lottery’;
have a tidy roof over your head? – Not any more!
And still we my gentle watchers and I are knowing of quiet celestial bodies and fiery characters, all in time and rotation.
Good people, not perfect, but good, struggle.

The remote prospect of novel non-religious house front tiling,
seems to recede, just a little,
In the sooty face of trauma.
No space in the stable this season.Actually, no stable.
Give me a hammer with a shaft in situ, nails.
Oh, and yes, timber, again.
Then stable.

Auto-estrada,Auto-estrada,
autopista,
autoroute,
Autobahn, this time
compass pivots north-east,
but, will swing back, again.

 

The Villains We Keep

A Writer's Soul

It is said that heroes never die;
Always remembered in the legends they unleashed upon the world.
But these legends are one side of the story,
And the warning reads, “These are fictional events, not intended to be taken as fact,”
Yet, she reads the stories as though they were history,
Written in the riddles of wise old men and daring heroines.
The fairy tales cloud her mind with hope and adventure,
Blinding her to the dangers of the world she fell into.
(But stories always hold a lesson of truth somewhere in between the pages.)

So she waits for her own hero,
For the heart that will heal her broken love.
But she has waited too long, and since grown disdainful towards these heroes.
So she begins finds solace in their villain’s motives,
And she could never understand why the hero gets the girl.
The hero never challenges her…

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You Are Your Own Light

You Are Your Own Light

S. K. Nicholas

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Brush your hair. Scrub your skin. Pour something to blow the cobwebs away and see stuff that isn’t there. Wish someone wanted you. Wish that they needed you as much as you needed them. Hide away. Avoid others. Cry some tears but don’t let anyone see, because to see you like that makes you weak. But baby you gotta know that like that, no one else comes close. You’re as pure as snow and as dangerous as the written word. So stay that way. Be a wound. Be a kiss. Be the steps you need to take to taste bliss. Wreck havoc. Wreck yourself. Look inwards and know what you are. And then, and then paint pictures and write poems about what it is to be your own enemy and saviour in the same sweet and desperate breath. Cut yourself off. Cut yourself. Open doors and step outside. Step inside…

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Breathing Water

Heartstring Eulogies

“When I was drowning,
I learned how to breathe water.
I learned how to breathe you.”

Life has never been easy.
But that’s part of the point.
There are so many things
worth living for, yet
there are also things
that can strip the air
right out of your lungs.
Blindside you out of nowhere.
And when I was drowning,
I learned how to breathe water.

I learned how to breathe you.

© Sarah Doughty

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