The unspeakable truth

Your words speak of your yearning to know every single part of me, 

And almost tempted am I to pour forth more

So many more secret parts I have played, lives lived

Than your eyes tell me to give freely to you. 

I eke out snippets here and there to ease digestion

Give you the chance to run which you will one day, I feel the chill wind

Void cajoling, pleading that I lie instead of giving truth 

If this can be escaped with honour and no honesty you will sigh

Content that your vision isn’t altered beyond reckoning

Blundering on as I do, the lie will not lay pleasantly 

And be petted , stroked into submission at your feet 

The truth they say will always out, so better now than …. 

Your eyes change from terror to anger as the game is spoiled

It is all of my doing, but rather the unspeakable truth 

Than a vipers nest of indigestible lies to bite me when they choose.
©Ailsa Cawley Poetry 2015

The dream of the end

Deep in the hidden cavern where no person could ever visit

Lay a pinprick of light, the tiniest spark 

It was enough 

No man, woman, child had entered because the doorway was hidden

Till the spark lit, like a match and sputtered

It was enough

Keeping the centre alive and warm enough to carry on hoping

That a day would come allowing her release

It was enough

She felt the turmoil as chains snapped and air rushed in unbidden 

Before she felt ready to execute change, escape

It was enough

Now it was more than just a wish, a needing to end confinement  

The very door barring escape burst it’s own hinges

It was more than enough

The dream of the end brought a new beginning 
©Ailsa Cawley Poetry 2015

Clever stupid words 

Don’t use them you say, grumble under your breath 

I look at you unsure what not to use even 

THOSE words, those damned stupid words, clever stupid words

The ones you pick up from who knows where 

They laugh behind your back don’t you care?

Not really 

Apparently I should because it makes you a laughing stock 

Are you kidding me? (Sarcasm dripping like spilled honey)

You make them up, but they’re not normal words 

Oh I get it, my fault you don’t know what I meant 

Too proud to ask? Only laugh like a hyena 

Yes really 

Embarrassed now because I’m not too proud to ask, learn 

I like to know, understand, even just a little 

Even down to clever, stupid words. 
©Ailsa Cawley Poetry 2015

Elevated beyond 

Their eyes met, as eyes tend to across a crowded bar 

She knew that this was right, well okay maybe on a Saturday 
It advanced and the glances became scrutiny 

Sometimes uncomfortable peering into her soul without permission scrutiny 

But then he’d smile taking her measure slowly with his eyes 

And she’d brush aside the doubts, put them in a trunk 

It grew to such a size you could have fit a body in that wooden casket 

Looking for all the world how she’d always imagined a pirates treasure trove to be 

There were glimmers at the corners where it was fastened with chains 

Yet still he peered at her with hooded eyes giving away nothing 

She awoke cold and in the dark of night , a welcome feeling 

Wondering why the moon looked so deliciously close 

Finding as she went to explore that her feet had become stuck fast.

Looking down she saw they were entrenched in stone 

And she stood atop a monument, a pedestal 

She shouted to him as he chiseled the stone below 

Help me down, I seem stuck on this platform, it’s pretty and all but…

I built it for you, of you after filing off the rough parts came an angry retort 

It was then she remembered the chest with the best of her in it 

She couldn’t reach so she willed those parts to come back 

Below he still frantically chiseled and polished 

Eventually the chest was emptied but the contents had altered 

Shoving them roughly inside with the chest shrinking to nothingness 

The chain turned to a rope and she reached the ground 

I elevated you beyond…..he said 

Yes but I wanted to stay here and not be an immortal impossible goddess 

She replied over her shoulder as she departed.

Lone Wolf

For a lovely lady today with love

ailsacawley

As you howl at the moon in unbridled despair
Don’t forget that promise I made
For the time you walk this starlit earth
Woods, glades and trees
I shall be forever there
You may not see or feel my touch
For I inhabit another realm
The veil between us is so thin
That I am but a whisper breath away
Call me as you need me please
Like you always would before
I am merely in a form upon a distant shore
So talk to me often, tell me your dreams
And any new plans
These things I need to know
It wasn’t a choice to stay or to go my dear
But I am always close to hand.
When you howl I howl with you, my grief is raw too
We in time will get beyond this state
But give yourself time it’s ok to wait
Take your own…

View original post 22 more words

Art

From Chimera Poetry 🙂

Chimera Poetry

troll_bridge

Artist: one who creates art

art·ist

Spelled [ahr-tist

a person who produces works in any of the arts that are primarily subject to aesthetic criteria.

2.

a person who practices one of the fine arts, especially a painter or sculptor.

3.

a person whose trade or profession requires a knowledge of design, drawing, painting, etc.: a commercial artist.

4.

a person who works in one of the performing arts, as an actor, musician, or singer; a public performer: a mime artist; an artist of the dance.

5.

a person whose work exhibits exceptional skill.

{}{}{}{{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

I am an artist.

It has taken me a lifetime to say this without blushing.

Without looking around for someone sniggering.

To not say it in an affected voice or to make light of it. An artist is one who creates art.

Not only great art. Not only popular art.

Not…

View original post 579 more words

Nightmare 1

ailsacawley

You think you’re one of the beautiful people.

Dare to imagine you can be one of us!!

No didn’t, never once

hadn’t contemplated that until you said

and still the answer was no

Not like them. I read books, so it made me odd, stood out

imagination marked me different, the reject in the factory

they commonly called school.

Made to stand in the bin, where rubbish belongs

voice of a cackling medusa like creature

who was purported to be an oracle, of knowledge

how could any child learn kindness

from a teacher who showed only childish cruelty?

Like pulling the legs from an insect to see

how long till it dies

You’d watch your victims, waiting

I could have made you stop I know

but damned if you’d ever see me cry, no matter

what you did, mind or body

words, jeers, slaps, pinches, no tears.

Granted, I could…

View original post 167 more words

%d bloggers like this: