The Cave

Once
When I was a young boy
You yelled at me

Objectively
It wasn’t much
But it was enough

That night
I built a cave
Inside my mind

One that overlooked
A lake
Whose water
Perfectly reflected
The beauty
Of the nature
That surrounded it

The cave was secret
And strong
And safe

The lake was still
And soft
And serene

I quickly learnt
To hide in that cave
And to gaze upon the water of the lake
Loosing myself
In the reflection
Of a false reality
Made real
By fear

You never yelled at me again
In fact
We never really spoke
At least
Not about anything that mattered

As you pulled away from me
I found solace
Sitting in the cave
Whose creation you inspired

I’d look at the lake
Wishing
You’d appear
Wishing you would
Say
‘Son, won’t you come swim with me?’

But you never came

Later
When I left home
You didn’t fight for me
You didn’t speak or even acknowledge
My absence

But you did leave a mark on my mind

That cave
Is now haunted
By the silent screams
Of the words
You left unsaid

And that lake
Still has ripples
From the rocks
We never thew
Together

The beauty of nature is obscured
By your indifference

And
I no longer
Have anywhere safe
To hide

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This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

All I See

all I see
when I look inside
is the hole
where the memories
of my father
should be

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This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

Anger

My shame
At having you
As my father
Has become
Anger
Directed towards myself
For failing my children
In the same ways
You failed me

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This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

A Requiem For What Could Have Been

Last night
I dreamt
Of my father’s death

The slow pathetic decline
Of a worthless man
Was reformed into
A noble sacrifice
A resilient stand against oppression
An act to be proud of

I knew I was dreaming
Yet I preferred to remain
Bamboozled and blinded
By the beautiful facade

In the dream
I wept freely
For a man
I understood
Cared about
And loved

In my memories
I grew distant
From a man
I didn’t understand
Care about
Or love

I woke conflicted

Are my dreams
Telling me
That my memories
Are fiction?

That the feelings
Felt in the facade
Are more fact
Than the fear
And confusion?

Or perhaps
I’m only questioning
Because
My reality was retched

And that dream
Like others of it’s kind
Are a requiem
For what could have been

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This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

Scrying Thoughts

Bong hit
smoke eyes.
See life
fathers’ eyes.

Different pain
new disguise.
Hot take
fresh lies.

Core aspects
I despise.
Diverted focus
Stoned highs.

Scrying thoughts
child cries.
Look close
perpetual demise.

Broken dreams
sharp knives.
Self-worth
clichéd rhymes.

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This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly