My First Haiku

My friend, Amy, asked for a Haiku, including the words Lie and Truth. I am a complete novice at all forms of poetry, but I decided to give this a go. I have no idea whether I achieved the ends required of this particular form, but I can say that I tried. Any hints or comments would be greatly accepted. 

True lie.

lie deep virgin snow 
without death can there be life
spring brings truth and light.

Deluge

Deluge

The storm arrived from nowhere, stifling the killing summer night. The huge pregnant drops beat a tattoo on the slates above my head, rising me from a restless sleep. The sweat, which clung to my body, was soothed by the cooling touch of the deluge. I woke her with a touch and suggested an adventure. 

We walked the midnight road in only our underwear, until the scent of pine trees hung heavy in our nostrils. Unseen, unknown, we made love under the trees, while rain cloaked our naked flesh. Droplets of heaven, warmed by the summer air, baptized our union, and made us one.

888

She seemed to have no issue forgetting the majesty of that night. Yes, I had done wrong, yes, I had been foolish, but had I ever turned my back on her. No, not ever, well not really. One tiny slip and she threw me to the side and moved on without a second thought. Oh, she had cried, she made all the right noises, but she still left me.

Night is not my friend, sleep eludes me, dreams plague me and worry encases me. On the worst of them, I imagine all the things she is doing with men that are not me. The carefree cackles of mirth in moments of abandon. I remember every crease of her skin and imagine those folds being massaged by strange fingers, fingers belonging to another.

Tonight I was woken by thunderous rain, cascading on the roof of my flat. I rub the sleep from my eyes and the first thing I think of is her, and the night we shared. Tonight is cold and the storm is full of ice and bile. I dress quickly, inviting the sting of the storm, I deserve its wrath. I walk the streets, the rain soaking me to the skin, my destination clear. I move in and out of the halos of street lamps, until I'm standing in the alley at the back of her apartment complex.

Hours I stand there, in the driving rain, in the shadows of a wall, watching her darkened window. I imagine her smell, the smell I delighted in, as I held close to her naked back. I imagine the tickle of the water running down my face is the tickle of her hair, waking me in the middle of the night. I'd nearly exhausted the depths of my memory, when the window springs alive with light. I checked my watch and it was nearly four. FOUR!

I watch as the shadows dance a tango across the closed curtains. Entwining and separating, again and again, until at last the window goes dark. I muffle a scream by biting my arm and gazing into the falling rain. I allow the drops to pound my open eyes, washing away the tears flooding from my pain. Rage invades my veins, and every ounce of my being quakes with the need, the need for vengeance. I glare at the darkened window and imagine what they are doing, I imagine what I might do, to both of them. I wash in the evil of those thoughts until I remember, I made this happen.

Tears of sorrow and tears of pity, mix with the rain on my face as I turn for home. I look into a street light and a black and white rainbow appears. That’s my life, now and forever, colorless. 

Five Little Fingers

Five little fingers, tiny and pink, slowly open then close. They search blindly for something to grasp in this world, so strange and so new. Five tiny fingers, circle my thumb, holding tight to the one thing they will always count on, me.

Five little fingers, never happy until they are ripping pots from cupboards or struggling to fit into electrical outlets. Fingers that can change any man-made substance into a gooey mess, at the blink of an eye. Five tiny digits, searching for anything valuable or dangerous, always stopping my heart for a second.

Five little fingers, that stroke my face while whispering ‘I love you’ in my ear. Five tiny fingers, balled into a fist, beating a tantrum on a supermarket floor, as an alien voice screams, ‘I HATE YOU!’ Both of which made me cry.

Five tiny fingers, addicted to making snowmen, who howl in protest when I encase them in knitted wool gloves.

Now, those pink gloves are stained dull by a thousand adventures. The cocooning strands of warming fleece, fending off the evils of the world. A glove that lies innocent and alone. I bend to pick it up. I stroke a grass stain, remembering the laughter that ensued at its creation. I pinched the delicate materiel and feel the stitching give under the pressure of my touch. A glove should never be alone, it’s made for a partner. Alone, a pink glove, can be an abomination.

Five little fingers, never to play the piano, or swim in a pool, or hold hands with a boy, or to be gripped in the midst of a tango. Five little fingers, destroyed by the hate that stains the hearts of men.

I sniff the glove hoping to smell her still, but all I can smell is smoke, explosive residue, and death. I look around at a wasteland of shattered buildings, and twisted metal. All color is bleached from the world, from my life, save for this tiny speck of rose. How could a single pink glove survive perfectly, while the five little fingers, which had fitted so snugly inside, died? 

Unclean

In times past lepers had to peel a bell and cry, "unclean, unclean," as they moved among the unsuspecting throng of people inhabiting medieval citadels. They were tainted beyond saving, they were cursed. I wonder what terrible things they did to draw such retribution upon themselves.

It's was a sickness you say, nothing more than a sickness. Those people were not cursed...just infected.

Well, cursed or infected, it matters little, because I am afflicted just like they were.

I walk the streets as those miserable souls did except I wear a Savil Row suit where they wore filth encrusted rags. They jingled their tiny bells...all that jingles when I walk is the coin in my pocket. They were horribly disfigured, but those who gaze upon my face feel nothing but envy.

All around me city workers strut their stuff, feeling invincible, deluding themselves that nothing can touch them. The arrogance of them. They crush people’s dreams...make money from disaster....rise high on an ocean of shit. People...they're all cursed, infected, like it or not.

Yes, I'm like them in every way. I won't even try and deny it. In every way but one, I know I'm doomed.

I walk these streets knowing it’s only a matter of time before the first lesions appear on my perfect skin, before I lose the feeling in my hands, before my nose drops from my face, because like the lepers of old, I am unclean. My sin is survival. I got behind the wheel of a car, pissed. My friends...my brothers... by my side. Only I made it out alive. 

Suspended sentence, said the judge, but that didn't matter. My sentence wasn't suspended, nor commuted, but forever dangling over me, and I deserved every second of it.

I glance sideways and see three shadows, cast on a building wall. That's the one good thing about all this, I'm never alone.

Soon guys, soon, I will be joining you soon.

Giveaway Draw

Teddy Bear's Picnic

If you go down to the woods today, you better go in disguise. If you go down to the woods today, you’re in for a big surprise.

Never a truer word was spoken. I like the dark, I spend most of my life in the dark, so it will come as no surprise that I’m quite comfortable in the dark. Working late most nights, my two dogs often have to wait well into the wee hours, for a walk. As it happens, where this photo is taken is right at the end of Ballyseedy Wood, one of our favorite spots for an evening stroll.  

One night (and it was night), I arrived home and decided to head out for an amble with my two little tearaways. We parked up at the Castleisland car-park and decamped. I was kitted out in black rain slicker, combat trousers and waterproof boots. I've a handy head torch for these nights, but knowing every twist and turn, I didn’t bother to switch it on, rather I aimed for the slightly lighter patches of night which faultlessly led me along the path, deep into the forest.

It wasn’t long before I neared the northern entrance to the wood and became aware of some unusual movements behind a large directional stone.  I moved closer and listened. From behind the rock I could hear voices, talking in whispers.

I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I looked over the rock, and said,

“What you at there, lads?”

The two men in their early twenties, crouching behind the rock, nearly shit themselves, and fell back into the bushes. At that time, I flicked on my head torch, and their huge moon-faces looked up at me from the dripping foliage. One of them managed to stammer “NNNNNN-Nothing.”

“Grand so,” I said, flicking off my torch and vanished into the darkness once more. 

By the time I came back that the rock was deserted. It was only a week or so later I heard the Guards had discovered a stash of drugs, hidden in the very same woods. Perhaps I scared them straight, who knows.

It’s a true story by the way    :O) 

Matisse

Jimmy picked up the phone on the second ring, despite it being nearly five in the morning. He'd slept with one eye open all his life, by now, it felt completely normal. The letters PB flashed on the screen, and Jimmy knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.

“Yea,” he said, holding the phone to his ear without raising his head from the pillow.

“More trouble, Jimmy,” said the rasping voice on the end of the line.

“Where,” asked Jimmy.

“Zoe’s, they hit Dave. Hard.”

“How hard?” asked Jimmy, sitting up in the bed causing Kathleen to roll over and turn on the bedside light. She didn't ask who was in the other end of the line, she'd lived this life long enough to know you don’t ask, unless you’re told.

“Hard, looks like he’ll lose an eye.”

“Where is he now?”

“They've just taken him into James, accident and emergency. That Scobi kid called me. I am on my way over there now to find out what happened.”

“What’s the point, you know who it was.”

“The Griffins.”

“Yea, the fucking Griffins. Text me tomorrow, we need to get this sorted.”

“Fair enough, boss,” said the gruff voice before cutting the connection. Jimmy hit the power button on the mobile and laid it down on the locker, beside three identical phones.

“More trouble,” asked Kathleen, turning off the bedside light.

“They hit Zoe’s,” said Jimmy closing his eyes. Just before he drifted off to sleep again, he heard Kathleen say, “Time to do something Jimmy.” As sleep took him once more, Jimmy knew she was right, it was time.

***

Pete, Pitt-bull, Byrne flipped his phone closed, and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked out through the rain splattered windscreen at the city lights, spread out like a blanket in the distance below him. The Jaguar purred as he negotiated the narrow turns of the mountain road, descending on the sleeping metropolis. He loved his car: its feline lines, its elegance. As he bore down on the city, he felt like a stalking cat preparing to pounce on its prey. The only difference being, a jaguar is hell-on-earth to a gazelle, but to the hordes of humanity, terror was Pete. Like any successful hunter, Pete understood he needed the weaker species to survive, it didn’t mean it he had to like them.

Slowly, the land leveled out and street-lamps began to illuminate the darkness. Pete eased up on the accelerator, letting the rumble of the powerful engine die away, until he could hear the hiss of his tyres passing over the wet tarmac. At this time of night, the streets were nearly empty, and the city was at its most beautiful. Light sparkled trough the rain drops, dappling his windscreen. In the distance, a couple walked hand in hand in the shelter of overhanging trees. To Pete’s eye, they looked like a stylised painting of Paris, by Matisse, or some other old master. Pete might well be an animal at heart, but it didn’t mean he was ignorant of the beauty the world held. He also knew the attack on Dave was only the beginning, the beginning of something that would rip this whole city apart. Jimmy might think the situation could be handled, but he was kidding himself. Pete knew that some people were destined to push things to the very limit, and the Griffins were just that kind, as was he.

Tonight a storm was brewing, in reality, and metaphorically. Dave was nothing but the first pregnant drops of rain, falling from a thunderous sky. Soon the very heavens themselves would open, and blood would run on the streets of Dublin. Pete felt his heart quicken and his mouth go dry at the thought of what lay ahead. His foot pushed down on the accelerator, and the tires bit into the surface of the road. If there was going to be a war, Pete was destined to be first into the breach.

Garry the Goose

I was home for a visit with my parents recently, which is always great. After spending some time splitting timber, and having tea, we caught up on all the news I've been missing. One of the highlights of the last few weeks seems to be the lighter approach, one of our priests is taking to mass. He ended a service, a couple of weeks ago, with a joke. I for one am fully behind this new direction and thought it might be cool to share the joke he told.

Mrs Delaney was an elderly widow woman, who had a habit of picking unusual animals as pets. For several years, she was seen wandering the highways and byways of the country, with a large white goose, waddling along behind her.

Very early one morning, Mrs Delaney opened her front door to see Garry the Goose, lying on his back in the middle of the yard, with his wings spread akimbo. She ran over to him crying, “Garry, Garry,” and scooped him up in her arms. Poor Mrs Delaney was beside herself with worry, and ran down to the village as fast as her feet would carry her. Very soon, she was hammering on Mr Gibson’s door, the local veterinarian.

Before we go any further, I should tell you a few things about Mr Gibson. He is a bit of a gruff old sod at the best of times, but first thing on a weekend morning, he’s sure to be positively grizzly.  Mr Gibson was also renowned for his sarcastic nature and fondness for brandy. When he eventually threw open the front door to see who the hell was trying to batter it down, he was amazed to see a frantic pensioner cradling a clearly dead goose in her arms.

Mrs Delaney, burst through the door and rushed past a frazzled looking Mr Gibson.

“You got to help Garry, Doctor,” she said, dumping the flaccid bird in the middle his kitchen table.

“I’m not a doctor and who the hell is Garry?” asked Mr Gibson.

“That’s Garry, do something,” said the woman, pointing at the bird adopting a Jesus style pose across Mr Gibson’s breakfast. Mr Gibson found a statoscope and pressed it to the cold breast of the recently departed Garry. Mr Gibson soon looked up at the fretting woman and said, “Your Goose is dead, Mrs.”

“Rubbish, he was fine yesterday, do some tests, just do something!” demanded the distraught pensioner. Mr Gibson rolled his eyes to heaven and draped the statoscope around his neck, before stalking out of the room.

A few seconds later he reappeared with a chocolate Labrador dog on the end of a lead. Mr Gibson pointed at bird, and the dog leapt on the table and began sniffing the goose from top to bottom. Within minutes, the dog gave Mr Gibson a sad look and shook his head, side to side. The dog climbed down from the table and plodded away into the back room in a state of near depression.

Mr Gibson left the room once more, this time returning with a ginger tomcat in his arms, which he laid on the kitchen table. Much like the dog, the cat sniffed and prodded the flaccid bird extensively before rising its tail in derision and walking away with a superior look on its feline face.

Once the cat was gone, Mr Gibson turned to Mrs Delaney and said, “It’s beyond doubt, your bird is no more, I’m sorry.”

“Poor Garry, I guess he’s gone to a better place,” said the old lady sadly, laying a hand on the birds bent neck. At last, she turned to Mr Gibson and said,” How much do I owe you, Doctor?”

“Again, I’m a vet, not a doctor. Let’s call it a hundred euro,” said Mr Gibson, crossing his arms in a superior manor.

“A hundred euro, why is it so much?” demanded the aghast woman.

“It would’ve only been twenty, if you’d believed me in the first place, but you did insist on Lab work and a CAT scan. They don’t come cheap you know.”

Mom said about half the congregation laughed and the priest looked slightly embarrassed, before adding. “I can see some of you didn’t get it, I explain it to you afterwards.  In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

Original Sin

Faith, yes I had faith: I believed in heaven and hell, I believed in good and evil, I believed in the Almighty and the Dark one, I still do. The only difference is, I don’t believe anymore, I know. The thing I liked best about my weekly trips to church, was the rousing antics of the choir. The way their voices soared in perfect harmony, their bodies swayed to a beat of their own making while they clapped in time to the hymn. There was something innately sanctified about the whole experience.

That day, when I stopped believing and started knowing, began like any other. I dropped my daughter, Ashley, to her swimming club while I went to K-Mart to do some shopping, it was our Saturday morning ritual. I was waiting in the parking-lot, as always, when a bundle of hysteria dashed across the expanse of concrete toward me. Her hair was still wet from the pool and flapped behind her as she ran. Ashley pulled the door open and dived across the back seat, while I started the engine.

“Dad, I beat Tracy Johnson!” she cried excitedly, as she pushed her head between the front seats.

“No Way! Tracy Johnson is unbeatable, you said so,” I teased, as I pulled out onto the highway.

“Not any more. I got my turn just right and beat her good.”

I turned my head, looking at the delighted cherub face beaming at me and wondered, not for the first time, what I had done to be so blessed. If I had been facing forward I would have seen the delivery truck stop, trying to take a turn he’d overshot. My foot would have automatically sought out the break, but I wasn’t looking. Instead, I drove straight into it doing over sixty-five. The last thing I remember is my little girl’s happy face, smiling up at me.

When I woke, I was alone. Nobody sat at my bed-side, waiting to welcome me back, so I swam into the darkness once more. I drifted in a world of half-seen shadows and disjointed voices until I heard my ex-wife calling me. I opened my eyes. Something was wrong, I couldn’t get my vision to focus. She told me there had been an accident, that I had rear-ended a truck. She told me that I had head injuries and then she told me I killed Ashley. Words cannot describe what I went through after that, but I deserved every second of it.

I got better, in every way but my sight. The fuzziness got worse and worse. The doctors said it may be connected to my brain injury, but I know better. I was starting to see people as they really are, I was looking into their souls. I know it’s true, because when I got home and took my first look in the mirror, what stared back was my true self. A blood drenched scull with black empty eye sockets, filled the mirror. Bloated white maggots wriggled in the empty nasal cavity and dead teeth stood like crooked headstones in my hanging jaw bone. It was the face of murder that I saw.

So now, I sit in this church, with my eyes closed, and listen to the wonderful voices reach up to the heavens. I know God can hear, because when I look at people, I see the sins they carry on their souls, not the skin on their bones. Yes, I know there is a heaven, but I also know that I’ll never see the inside.

I open my eyes, and stare at the collection of gowned gargoyles, clapping taloned appendages, as their horrific distended mouths, open and close in song.  

Sand, Sea and Sculptures

Hey…everyone needs a holiday from time to time. Me more than most. For a start, I'm thousands of years old, and only getting older by the second. Is it any wonder I get a bit cranky? I'd like to see you stand perfectly still for years, or even an hour. Go on, give it a go, and tell me that doesn't suck.

Here is a flash history course for you.

Pompeii was a Roman city. It was completely covered by a pyroclastic lava flow in the year 79AD. One-thousand-seven-hundred years later, someone found unusual air-spaces in the condensed lava. The spaces happened to be the only earthly remains of the unlucky Pompeian residents, who died when the lava hit. Some clever-clogs filled the spaces with plaster, and when it hardened, they produced near perfect replicas of people in the moments they perished.

Some of these casts are on show in the Garden of Fugitives, which is where you can find me. So, day after day, people shuffle past me, taking snaps of my nakedness to bring home to the kids. It pisses me off.

Today, I was standing around, like I do, when a bunch of day trippers appeared. Tagging on to the end of the line were two girls, (and I am being generous with that description), who looked like they’d just been thrown out of a night club.

"This is boring, Trish, can we go?" said the blonde one with the over-sized sunglasses and the undersized hot pants.

"I paid twenty-five euro for this bloody trip, there had better be a wine bar soon," said her friend, who was clearly hung-over and having difficulty walking in her cheap flip-flops.

"Trish, would you look at that one," said Blondie, pointing directly at me.

"Ugly little fucker, ain't he," said Flip-flop, chewing gum like a ruminating cow.

“He looks like he’s taking a hard dump," said flip-flop, who clearly thought she was hilarious. The blonde one snorted a laugh, saying, "Hard dump, good one Trish."

What a pair of geniuses, NOT!!

By this time, the rest of the group had moved on, leaving just Blondie and Flip-flop in the garden. Flip-flop searched her handbag, pulling out a phone. "Jump over the rope and I’ll take a picture."

Please, no!

"It says, Do not cross,” said Blondie, pointing at the sign hanging from the guard chain.

It’s amazing. She actually could read.

"Feck it, go on," said Flip-flop.

Faced with such blinding logic, who could argue? Clearly not Blondie, who stepped over the chain, nearly splitting the seat of her hot pants in the process. She bent down and put her arm around my shoulder, the smell of vanilla perfume would have knocked me over if I weren’t made out of stone. Flip-flop snapped off a few shots.

"Grab him by the micky, Sarah."

"Jesus, I can't," said Blondie, in mock horror.

You better not.

"Go on Sarah, you've played with mickys older than that one before."

"Mucky cow!" countered Blondie, but shockingly her head vanished between my legs.

Seriously, get away from my penis!

"It's bloody tiny," said Blondie, grabbing a handful of my crotch.

"Give it a rub and see what happens," laughed Flip-flop. Then, with a snorting laugh, the blonde moron started to vigorously rub my ding-ding. 

Flip-flop nearly dropped the camera she was laughing so hard, but I didn't find it one bit funny.

I warned you!

"It's starting to get hot." said Blondie, not laughing now.

"Are you surprised, Sarah? You could start a fire rubbing it that hard. No wonder you can’t keep a boyfriend for more than five minutes.” Blondie pulled her hand away from my crotch but kept the other one on my back.

"No, I mean it's getting really hot, have a feel," she said, and then did the exact thing she shouldn't. She grabbed my penis again.

When I caught her hand and pulled it away from my nether regions, she screamed. When I spoke, her eyes rolled back in her head, and Flip-flop fell on her ass. Seeing as I'd started, I did what a demon does best, and flash fried the two of them. The smell of charred skin hung over Pompeii once more and I was forced to scuttle back to the underworld.

So, there you have it, the story of how my holiday was ruined. The boss has actually barred me from going back to Italy anytime this millennium, and there's not that many places a little stone demon like myself can go unnoticed. Bloody tourists.