the heart laid bare

Archive

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

time

I guess I never thought before
That time can be an enemy.
 
It marks its passage on the faces of the people you love.
Steals memories
Withers strength
And fades dreams
Until the passion once inspired is nothing more than a vague recollection.
 
You think, in youth
You have a grip on time
That you will never grow old
Never die
And that the good times will last forever.
 
But the days become weeks
Weeks become months, years,
And you realise that time has a grip on you
And where it grasps,
Its fingers bruise your flesh
Until “I want to” becomes “I wish I had”,
“I ought to” turns to “I should have”
 
And all your tomorrows become yesterdays.
 
The crowd around you thins…
The clock ceases to mark time and instead merely counts down.
And like a movie-montage of calendar pages torn away by the wind
Time paces steadily onward, dragging you in its fist.

© mjc 16 April 2005

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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, random shit-slinger, 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.