Rick’s Writing

#Pain #Poem

#Strand #Stand #Move #writing

This can mean:
stop what you’re doing
and come with me.

It can also mean:
I love you.

I think it can also mean:
everything is ok.

I get to lie on my sofa
on a Wednesday afternoon
and keep an eye on things
with my dog.

She just put her arm on mine.

I like living round here
because people aren’t putting up
all those flags.
(It’s not the only reason.)

Elsewhere,
and I think also last night,
drones were shot down
for crossing a border.

As did a civilian boat
somewhere else —
I saw that one on TV.

A young man —
beyond tears
or really anything —
stared in that endlessly inward
and forever outward blurred gaze,
sitting on the ground
in the ashes.

And there were children.

#poem #Writing

WEDNESDAY (thread ↓)

It’s good to keep an eye on things.
Apparently.

Last night a big tower block
surrounded by rubble and ash
was blown up.

And future humans will look back at us
and think how strange and funny it was
that we cared so much
about who we are.

You’ll be able to be
different versions of yourself —
if you can stomach it.

You’ll have the chance
to become any animal you like,
to experience their essential nature,
filtered through your own mind.

Or trees.
Or wind.
Fire.

Within any being or non-being of your choice:
a ten-year-old Indian boy, 3,000 years ago,
who thinks he can fly.
an old woman in Cornwall
who steals from her grandchildren.
an Inuit with chapped lips.
a face in the crowd
during Queen Victoria’s coronation.
the first, second, or third human on Mars.

We all know it’s a matter of time.
It’ll be an option, just before you die:
eternal lights out,
or eternal lights on,
in any number of universes.

#Future #Life #Poetry #Writing

Coming Soon (thread ↓)

Everyone already knows.
They’ve seen a film, or a TV series,
or listened to a podcast —
or maybe they just dreamt it.

And 12 could be held between a thumb and forefinger,
up to the light, for a short time—
something delicate, maybe.

Then placed aside or dropped,
and perhaps then forgotten.

The counter would be 93,
and once everything had been counted
that counting would be 12 …

Every grain and mote numbered,
every trace.

All the rocks and dust
and the space between things—
because that counts too.

Then the counter must count every pore and ocean,
each memory and secret held or discarded by everyone ever …

All the glances and sighs.

The whole of my father’s life can be 15—
and mine will end up being 41.

As does every hair on their head,
each word they’ve ever spoken,
each breath taken.

Every moment spent with them,
and each memory of those moments.

My left hand can be 82.
My second marriage can be 97.

The awareness that I have children is 36—
but each child has their own distinct and separate number …

The things I remember
and all the things I’d noticed but have now forgotten.

All the things I didn’t notice.

The sock on the floor could be 17 and my beard 4,
the whole of my first marriage could be 29—
and within that marriage everything contained would also be numbered …

#Everything #Counts #Poem #Writing

Everything Counts (thread ↓)

There are so many things and they could all be numbered—
in no order and without meaning.

It’s unclear yet.
The rules are unclear.

The After is not an easy game to play.

Perhaps we’d have to say
each word we’ve ever spoken—
end to end, nose to tail.

Every hello and sorry.
Every there and why? …

Couples,
locked in embrace,
melded together for a year or two,
breaking off into screams
till they have no voice …

Years of sarcasm
would grip the nation,
then years of
not saying what you really mean.

People would be found
gazing into space,
caught between things …

There would be years of joy—
but many weeks
on the tip of your tongue
and an itch you just can’t scratch.

A sense of quiet longing
would spread over months—
years for some …

All our talking.
Years of silence.

Some would dance for months
on feet that crumbled.
Others would whistle
till their lips bled …