John
They say that John won’t get out Never to be let out the box Sat working at supermarket checkout He lives alone, no phone in his place, they say it’s plain in his face He’s too safe to stick his neck out Or even speak up and In the weeks that lead up to his 29th Birthday Nobody knows He rides the bus home in the rain And the windowpane holds the whole world in it’s frame Most days look the same People at work call him ‘Whatsisname’ and talk under their breath His head leans to the left as he thinks And as he’s stacking the drinks the bottles clink like they know best
Gillian stares at everything, from how light plays through raindrops to how rain drops through light for her, the night releases reality so fiction comes to play as the bus sweeps through wet city streets her mind begins to sway -she sees raindrops falling lengthways and storm clouds lined with gold so when lightning comes it comes sun coloured so storms never seem cold she sees a man whose head leans to the left and this secret should be told, -a man whose head leans to the left, this secret should be told.
He talks with Miles Davis
and the spaces between notes hold enough gold
to float in confined spaces
on the faces of strangers
he sees the range of possible dangers
and while angels need faith
inner devils appear safest
certain places hold meaning and whether he sits reading
or indeed simply feeling the wind breathing
his reasons are his
and as sure as cuts bleed he just keeps feeding
the birds
with no words interfering with
his reason to live
the post hits the floor
and before he can get to the door
there is more light in the flat
than there ever was before
she’s a cross between a wide-eyed window
and an open door, all that bear breath
are welcomed to her floor
while scars of heart- torn
are surface-skin visible
the blue battered John seems
this side of reasonable and
hope has a habit of making
cold hearts seem warm and
the rain splattered window sitter
sparks a tiny flame on
- all Gill does is wish
that her scattered small thoughts-
forming a list of movements,
will gather, gain form,
start a fire in the mist…
the kettle begins to whistle,
there’s a stirring in the quite
miles from here Davis welcomes
the light fall’s form–
Once a year a card arrives
a well-known note posted to a broken life
it says she is almost five
and that they hope old cold feelings
can grow warm and learn to die
strange how it can burn to cry
and how in concrete shoes old news
can make him yearn to fly
he won’t try
to find them, long time now have they picked up any breadcrumbs behind them
the faded postmark tries to hide them
but truth be told he
let go hope long ago
and hot burns every knot
of the rope turned inside him
Outside schemes scrape
inside hymns, she bides her time right and tapes
a smile to her seams; brims bursting
to welcome John to come sing,
on a grey day when thunder claps ring,
a chance park passing and a casual glance’s seen
spots him on a bench, clothes and eyes drenched.
over light conversation and under dark clouds
Gill speaks in such conviction to make a braver man proud
- I’ve known no wall-breaker greater than a gentle ear
and John speaks, Gill listens, like a breath kissed his fears
New laughter – old smile reformed,
John’s voice song fuels that tiny flame’s burn
The clouds break formation and light comes stronger
A goodbye handshake held a small second longer
and Gill’s John hunger is quenched a little bit.
…
Where silences were once golden
wooden words have taken fit
perhaps the future unfolding
will speak with love’s wit…
It wasn’t supposed to happen
but deep down dreams like rabbits run fast
given a chance to dance after you trap them
a tap on the shoulder, a smile
unspoken token
sitting next to this girl who seemed to come
out of nowhere
from closed ended questions
to split second mental undressing her soft lines
reminded him of a long forgotten lesson
old eyes and every single gently dealt gem
made him melt into a park bench
for four years his best friend
he knew her
at least it seemed so and without
meaning to he forgot to put a lid on
the pieces of feeling he gave to her
stop.
the voice told him
and behold the cold ghost he knows
well can hold spell over every last hope
that was once chosen
never again. we can’t do it
you’ll open and show her
your corn soul and she’ll
throw her torch to it.
walk away
forget her mouth and the way
afternoon light played
with the back of her hands
and the strands that frame her face
safe
cos nothing is worth the hurt
of a blurred recurring day
knowing all you had to say
was stay
They say John won’t get out
never to be let out the box
sat working at supermarket checkout
he lives alone, no phone in his place
they say it’s plain in his face
he’s too safe to stick his neck out.
Copyright 2007 Polarbear & Inua Ellams
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