the heart laid bare

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the curse
Under seige
Beyond the blues
Introspect
Balloon
push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
OUTSIDER
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

FIRST LASTS

There is blue in the sky today.
Blue, and warmth,
And the sound of birds.
These are the things that I can focus on.
 
The thing about lasts
Is that you don’t know them at the time.
They have always just been there...
... until, suddenly, they’re not.
 
I am living in the time of first lasts.
The last time he tied a tie, rode his motorbike, climbed a ladder, fixed a tap.
The last time he could run his fingers though his hair.
All the lasts we never thought we’d see.
 
He spends his days reading silently now,
Or staring at the television,
His sense of humour fading in the face of the last, the last, the last.
 
And knowledge lies coldly upon me like the night
Twisting its lover’s hands painfully into my hair.
It falls thickly on my limbs like sheets,
With the memory I carry like a too-heavy coat I cannot shed
Of the last time that everything was going to be okay.
 
It seems unfitting
That there should be blue in the sky today.

© mjc 16 August 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.