Poetry

Dream Recount

The light is bright,

but it has a condescending voice sometimes.

It’s also yellow, one of my least favourite colours,

and when it goes on and on at me,

I’m just a little overwhelmed.

Then there’s the crash of shattering glass

as feet shuffle, shuffle nearer.

A petty argument over my shoulder,

and no one’s answering the phone;

as I ring and ring,

I might as well be calling the moon.

I think I’d get a faster response.

Oh, but now here you are, my friend.

You’re taking my hand?

Why? – it’s okay.

It is, isn’t it?

Okay, I mean. With you looking out for me.

You just one-upped the light.

Huh.

Thanks, buddy.

Poetry

Timelines

We once talked about your stay in hospital.

At first, I couldn’t remember.

It was during the time when I didn’t know who I was,

but I knew who you were,

and who you were wasn’t someone in hospital.

Who you were was the person who made my reluctant self

talk about the things that bothered me,

telling me not just that it was okay, but that it was fine to feel that way.

Fine to have emotions. Fine to be angry at the world. Fine to accept we’ve had our dreams crushed by those we love.

 

I can remember now, if I really try.

I don’t recall your stay being lengthy, though you say it was several weeks.

Something about that just doesn’t settle in my mind.

Strong, grounded, dependable you

out of action, recovering from an operation

that was not like the game we used to play.

One that for you, was very real, and for me,

just fizzled from my mind

so that the image I have of you never wavers.