Thoughts on a Future Grief

image of a rock in the sea
Small rock off the Horn of Ramsness, Fetlar by Mike Pennington



Is it strange to enumerate what we have
By knowing what we are missing?

Do the contents of emptiness somehow form a container for what exists?Where in the void can it be found, that list?

Is it in a rock rising suddenly from under a wave?
Does it live in the step missed while traveling downwards?
The drop of water that escapes the glass
Slides downward to fall
Disappearing on summer concrete?

Perhaps it is in the flail of limbs in that moment
You find yourself in the nothing while sleeping.

Is it strange to enumerate what we are missing
By what we have?

When we count our blessings
Is a shadow list formed as we write
Mirroring the lines in lemon juice
Seen only by the heat of our tears?

These Ghosts Belong to Me

Smoke-like wisps in the Veil Nebula – Wikipedia





These ghosts belong to me.

All the pain and the pleasure.

No one else hears them

sees them

feels  them

as I do.


Pallid or

invisible and soundless

to others.

The colour of their eyes

rough/kind/happy/sad voices

time-wrung out

even for me.

But they are mine.

My fingertips still know

skin and hair and freckle.

Faulty memory holds weakened anger

unanswered questions

unresolved arguments

the echo of tears.

The lines on my face

remember the moments of joy

corners of mouths upturned

eyes mirth filled.

Tongue remembers the taste of

sharp delight.

These ghosts are mine.

MineĀ  to listen to

or not.

To hold close or push away.

When I too am

pale and voiceless

a ghost in another mind

will they still be there?