poetry

the lady on the bus

fragile and foetal
death picks up the chaos
she cannot collect

her eyes hide
in the slow smoke

her hair lies between
rules and regret

a brown umbrella
decorates her day

a white hat
holds the echoes
in her speech

her son died today
in dank ditches
where spoons suffocate

eyes like a soldier
a voice so tender
it narrates the
fingers of smoke

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Thoughts

Death of a Giant

Few people in my life deserve the title “Giant”, my current manager is one of them. The best way I can describe him, is a big, bouncy lovable, warm-hearted and mischievous guy. Of course he has a serious attitude and gets things done, where need be. When you’ve worked under a few people you start to realize that the more people climb out of there social veneer and show themselves to you, the more you appreciate them. Through out my life I’ve had a therapist, and one or two university lectures that have showed me there are giants out there.

By using the word Giant, I mean someone you can rely on and trust, and a mentor type figure whose shoulders you can stand on to see the world a bit better. Today I got told on a meeting that my current manager is leaving. I haven’t been this sad in a long time, he’ll always be in my thoughts, that BFG (Big Friendly Giant) that saw me grow from a nervous little kid, to a polished and confident sales person.

While a take time to look at him leaving, I also start to realize that perhaps it’s time I took a few notes out of his book. One day when I leave I want to bee seen like that. A Giant, a powerful force that can change people for the better, and sculpt an organization (and it’s people) into something of a legend.

Saying goodbye is a tough thing. In the meeting today, I actually felt my eyes trickle a few tears. It’s been a while since I cared and respected someone as much. Perhaps this will lead to greater things in the future? There is some disappointment, but also a lot of opportunity and excitement kicking in for what can still be gained.

I once remember sitting in a therapy-type session with my father. My father is a naturalist at heart, and he spotted a cycad outside in the garden. Most of it’s leaves were in blossom and sparkling in the sunlight, except for one which was tucked into itself (a bit like a centipede does when you touch unexpectedly). He simply remarked, “You may look like that small leaf now, but one day you’ll unravel and turn into that massive leaf soaking in the sunlight.”

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

the one he buried

there was a small soul
who buried a hole
right underneath his
own carpet today

he thought that if he
could take enough
hysteria and squash it
into his jamjar with a
few simple fingers
people would come to watch

some healer had said
that putting your problems
in a jar overnight would
help you sink into the
swaddling momentum of peace

this morning he sat on his
bed and watched
the blister events
whirl wrapple quiver and
cry behind the tears of
peanut butter

watching it made him
late for work when a small
trickle of pathos rippled
down into the ground and
just above the lid

a few flies began
to sit there and watch
him hatch more
stone solid emotions

he cut his nails though
his grandmother
said a clean griever was
a righteous believer in
the book

she absorbed at night
today he only had a jar
to use and process the
heavy twinges for now.

that was ample enough
for his stamp of serenity
other folks grilled their
voices in waves of coffee
and headlines which
then made them scatter off
to imminent events

he finished his toast
wiped his hands
scrubbed his mouth
and got up feeling lighter

he pulled out the virile
tongue of his shoes and
tied the arms of laces
together to keep his
feet inside of the
brown arms that collected
at a heavy knot and

looked like a noose

PhilosopherPoet

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