the heart laid bare

Archive

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

the sky we thought we knew

The sky we thought we knew erupts above
Like some crazy mirror raining down fragments around our ears,
Tumbling over and over in the dying light,
Showing us glimpses of our reflections as its pieces turn end over end.
 
We crouch shocked and staring at the burnished face of judge, jury and executioner looming overhead,
And tremble at the thunderclap of the gavel
As he declares us guilty of such heinous crimes;
Female… poor… person of colour… educated… freethinker… liberal.
We are sentenced for these unforgiveable sins
And the bailiffs drag us away under the watch of those narrowed and suspicious eyes,
While he stands atop the wall idly grasping shotgun in one fist and manhood in the other.
 
In these tiny fallen specks of shattered world we see our faces pale and fearful,
Pressed roughly against the bricks as the shirts are stripped from our backs.
We lie crushed and crying in the dirt,
Our pleas unheard as large white hands laughingly loosen ties and push back sleeves.
They wield the whip with savage carelessness,
Then slap each other on the back
And clamber over the last corpses of our naivety,
While the final tears run from the corners of our dead eyes,
Staring blankly up at the remnants of the sky we thought we knew.

© mjc 9 November 2016

return to home

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.