Lovely

The One

Me thinks he might be the One.

He tells me I am.

(Of course I am)

‘I am One’ I wrote long long ago while

walking around, kicking up the past and

milling around hopelessly

And we meet many along this tattered path to somewhere strewn with ambiguous love; the ' Do I Don’t I' Scenario.

We wonder with aimless bewilderment;

"Does she love me as much as I love her?"

"Is he thinking of me as I am thinking of him?"

And

"do we understand each other? "

i.e.

Do they ‘get me’?

If we think this, more often than not, it simply becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, if we must question it, we don’t truly believe it, if we don’t wholeheartedly believe in it, ultimately:

It is, and always will be:

Just not ‘Right’

I don’t feel like this anymore. I don’t have reservations about my own despair, or his despair, I don’t think him unreasonable, unfathomable, unsympathetic. I don’t think him anything I would not think of myself.

Is he the One?

Fucking hell, I butter my toast with Branston Pickle

Its a pretty good indication.

© Marjorie Razorblade

As Clouds Go By

The click of the pavement

and my heels on asphalt cloudy

day 9 Celsius stormy weather

on the way

looking out of a broken sash

window pane repaired in 1980

by a man glazing above window boxes in the rain

onwards to the sea of indigo as a newspaper

blows by on a current of warm tropical jet plane

fuselage searing heat and

women shake sheets

and children break moves

on skateboards on the street

the yellow dresses swirling the white ford

Orions swinging green Christmas trees in rear view mirrors on

the past as babies laugh in back seat high chairs

with rattles of blue and heart shaped safety harnesses

that watches them sleep soundly as life flashes a second out as the pavement clicking with heels on asphalt.

Cloudy day

9 Celcius.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2006

Freedom

My Eyes shielded from the burning Sun,

The day of Freedom at last had come

I let you go,

But still you stay,

I pushed you

So you'd fly away

I took the rope,

Removed the ring

You screeched and lifted up your wing,

I'll love you till the day I die,

Be brave,

Embrace your urge to fly.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2004

Comments:

" Birds being representative of words you cannot directly say in a poem"

The Whispering

Sometimes I can still hear your voice...

I think about it whispering in my ear

But I can never make out what you’re trying to say

I sometimes used to pretend to be asleep

So I could hear you say

‘See you in the morning beautiful one’

But then, I’d always be thinking about saying that to someone else

And now

No-one whispers..

And with hindsight, I should have opened my eyes and smiled.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2003

 

 

 

 

Twenty Five Minutes

In twenty five minutes , I realised the door is capable of being closed.

The cup runeth out and the look of love fades into dust.

In twenty five minutes I came to terms with the error of my ways, not changing myself for those around me but settling into my own skin

And reminding people all around me,

That beauty comes from within...

In Twenty five minutes I changed my world, my ideals, my feelings and those I loved to be replaced with sturdier more methodical version s full of real depth and real emotion and reality

In twenty five minutes I changed the beat, the tempo ,the song...

In another five minutes i'll be convinced

That i'm right for me

But you my love, are all wrong.

© Marjorie Razorblade 02-02-07

 

comments: Realisation at midnight

 

 

Supernova

Stars are moving backwards

Time is standing still

People are frozen all around me

I close the shutters behind my eyes and live on fear

Blocking out the black hole in the event horizon of increasing velocity

Coming closer to ripping the fabric of my world in two,

A singularity in the chaos of my life appears,

A star is born,

That star is you.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2004