The Flood
My defences were slack;
shoddily built, rusted by rain, ruined by earth
each time they faltered, I built them back
deceive myself into believing false sense of security
brick by brick (stick by stick), up they went- just for a bit.
true, was I not given much to create upon. But I did what I could.
When the flood predictably comes,
The waves reveal the foundations, materials lie commodified on the floor, a sense of emptiness created by the chaos and mess.
When the flood comes, the flood really comes.
Merciless, it attacks me in my helpless position
I tell you, my defence wasn’t what I would choose.
And I am torn to bits. With only remnants of my defence
And a guilt for not building stronger walls
But I see the water flowing, I can smell the salty ocean breeze
Azure blue, carried alongside a rhythmic, thumping tide
Deep, dark, deep, compelling me in.
Predictably, the flood comes, and I am within
????.
I see it coming, and I remember…
I remember the feeling of cool water on ???? coarse skin
Soaked, dripping, my head damp, my body flushed and wet
The feeling of motionless motion as I succumb
Passivity, completely submitting, as (I let) the waves control me.
I am not quite floating, euphoric drowning?
for a second, the flood is unpredictable then.
Predictably, the flood comes
and I do not fight it until I am dry
Anthony Was…
A man I never knew.
But my dad speaks of him well,
His closest friend, that, ’til 17, they grew.
Old Polaroids and dusty photos come in a pair.
One of him, one of my dad.
Using up your photo film- that was how to say you care.
They both hold the same object and share the old cheeky grin
My dad shows me multiple photos that he’d taken of him.
Anthony is in bed pretending to sleep… and pose! Turn over the page, and there’s my dad, as a young boy, innocently doing the same.
I sneak the photo for myself; I’d like to put it in a frame.
He held them up side by side, as he showed them to me
He laughs, recounting memories, the stories, oh, where should he begin:
how he kept a photo of his girl in his wallet, his old guitar, his loving heart, or the coffin that he saw him in?
This young boy’s piece of paper, with its slowly fading matte
My father, in grief, who can not remember when, had written on the back.
He must have picked up a pen,
For,
I read it out to him today, remember writing this, I said?- ‘one day we’ll meet again’.
The first time I saw my dad cry
Was at the mention of him.
And now, Anthony is
a man I miss as well.
.
.
Red Heaume
.