Archive for the love Category

Conception

Posted in health, kids, love, Mental Health, Poetry with tags , , , on October 28, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Jagged fears stab

The nerves like tiny,

Slivers of glass, shards

Of the shattered crystal peace,

Which came as a wedding gift,

That December.

Its glacial presence,

Its pure, singing, note,

Now fractured and falling,

Wildly refracting spectral colours,

Fleetingly beautiful before it

Hits the ocean below.

Going under, it spins, simultaneously

Melting and drowning,

Disappearing and assimilating,

Its diluting purity poisoning,

The saline sanity of the sea.

Until, gasping for air,

We awake together,

Reverie broken.

Your soft breath soothes me

But the inaudible whisper of another heartbeat

Says something has changed.

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Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.

Tartan

Posted in love, Mental Health, Poetry, winter, writing with tags , , , on December 7, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Some days beautiful

Things need

To be

Written

 

Words fly across

The page

Like the shuttle of some old loom

Interlacing the weft  of solid experience

With dreams and imagining

To create wondrous tartan

Hard-wearing, warm and comfortable

To keep us snug together

On a night such as this.

Rolande Barthes Proved Right by Text Message

Posted in christmas, love, Poetry, Uncategorized, work in progress, writing with tags , , , on December 3, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

What a lovely text to cheer

Me up when I’m working

Away

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

That’s nice. I’m glad

You’re thinking of me when

The week must have been hectic

For you.  I’m glad

You don’t resent my being

Away.  I’m glad

I have you to come home to.

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

Do you? Am I being naïve?

Do I need an irony app?

Is this the face of festering

Resentment?

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

The missing vowels denote

Lack of warmth.  Is this

A throwback to that disastrous

Date just after we met?

When you said,

“At least one of us had a good time”

Maybe you think I’m having

Too much of a good time.

Should I feel guilty?

 

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

What awaits me,

When I get home?

Cold shoulder? My things

In a bin bag on the pavement?

 

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

Well, you know what?

Screw you! I’ve been working, trying

To make a little extra for Christmas.

If you didn’t want me to go

You could have said.

I wouldn’t have gone.

 

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

Yes I know, you

Had the kids all week but I’ve not

Been living the high life you know.

It was one drink,

An old friend from school I

Hadn’t seen in years.

I missed you, you know,

You obviously didn’t miss me.

“I hope you hd a gd time. x”

No need!

 

 

“Did you have a good time, love?”

“Get stuffed. I’m going to the pub.”

And so a perplexed, tearful, wife,

Wonders what she did

To be so harshly treated

After missing him like crazy all week.

Without Love, This Happens

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, philosophy, Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on October 4, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Consciousness

Is too much.

We are not

Primitive enough.

 

Instinctive sense

Of smallness and place

In something bigger

Is drowned in ego.

 

We are just enlightened

Enough to see our folly

But unable to escape it

Except through death,

Which we pursue wildly,

Whilst trying to pretend the opposite.

 

We cannot afford to admit

That self-destruction is the only path

Which makes any sense

Whilst gorging on annihilation

Chemical, consumerist, religious or military.

 

If death is the last great adventure,

Why do we live?

More primitive species know

But are unaware of knowing.

We are aware of not knowing

And it will destroy us all.

 

And then, I look up

From my reverie,

See you smile,

Your eyes turn these words

To vapour

And everything is easy and fine.

 

You wordlessly take my hand,

Lead me into the garden.

I am whole.

I am home.

There

Posted in love, philosophy, Poetry, writing on October 4, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

There is no road.

There is no journey.

There is only home.

There is only you.

 

Because I have been there,

I will always be there.

Because I will get there

Someday, I am already there.

HOPE

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, writing with tags , , on September 30, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Turbulent volcanic waves

May be ridden;

Earthshaking quakes damped.

Hurricane’s insane roar

Can be made quiet;

Blows of the terrible beast cast aside.

Quenched may be hell’s deafening inferno.

But these feats are not finite.

The fight must be daily waged,

Lest fires engulf fevered souls,

Turning to dust their molten core.

Sunrise, blessed relief,

Blinds terror but temporarily until

She finds her eyes

And, worse, her voice again.

Clawing words slash wildly inside the mind,

Casting doubt on defences until

Sleep submerges time once more.

But time undrownable gasps,

oh too soon, demanding

The barricades be manned again.

For to let go;

To let the monsters roar;

To allow the flames and earthquakes

Do their will;

To take cover, watch

The inferno burn itself out,

Is a risk never to be dared.

Is there breath enough

To dare dive, headlong,

Into that depthless ocean?

Where the oozing leviathan,

Hunts and stalks unseen fathoms?

To wrestle and overcome?

Then is there the reach

Left to surface?

Find daylight?

What revenge may other spectres take,

On their kindred’s slayer

Emerging into air again?

Why look,

To unreliable skies,

To bring relief?

Any maternal embrace

Of gentle sun

Has long since set

Over the western horizon,

Never to return

Untainted by cancerous night.

Speak of peaceful dreams,

By all means

But the eyes will always tell

Of fighting dragons still.

Then tomorrow…

Oh, great myth of tomorrow!

Tomorrow nothing changes.

Tomorrow looks at faces,

Says words.

Stays damned.

Give up hope

Of rescue, go native,

Become the beast

Which gnaws the brain.

Spit poison at the weak to numb the pain,

If you must. Reflect

Sour sunlight’s stinging daggers

On one outwardly more wretched. Yet,

In the evening,

Still no redemption will come.

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