Poetry

The kings of our past

Your footprints are swamped by his

no matter how old you get, how tall you grow or how wise.

Because the ghosts will always contort the mirror

so you appear small, a mere cub

hiding in his father’s shadow.

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.