The Jigsaw

     I didn’t feel right at all.  Too idyllic.  That’s what it was.  Everything was far too perfect; far too flawless.  The pristine colours of the countryside passing by blended fantastically; so much so that I knew they couldn’t possibly be real.  It was as if I was staring at a jigsaw puzzle put together by the hard working hand and eye of some higher being.

     ‘Start with the corners,’ I could hear them saying, ‘then gather the edges.’

     I almost replied to the imaginary voice in my head but I was too fascinated by the soft pastel pinks and oranges that had been gently brushed in between the wispy strands of grey and white clouds.

     I stared some more.  Was that a thumbprint I could see…surely not?  I concentrated again, this time on a cluster of quaint cottages that backed onto a smooth, green slope that gradually grew steeper until it met the faint blue of the sky.

     The hill was pocked with rabbit burrows and as I sped along the train tracks, a shadowy group of fir trees came into vision. 

     Standing tightly together in military formation, something was amiss.  In the centre, a white square-like shape with semi circles jutting out from two of its sides, and one semi-circle cut in stood out from the darkness like a shining tooth in a mouth of disease.

     My head began to pound.  More and more deathly white voids began to appear; their designated pieces still had to be located and placed carefully to consummate this peaceful scene.

     The landscape eventually turned to nothing as I neared what should have been the bridge.  The pale white grew brighter and brighter and brighter until I had to shield my eyes with my hands in pain.  I tried to scream for someone to alert the conductor that we were heading into a river of never ending loss but my tongue had turned to ash.  My eyes began to burn and my tears evaporated into nothing.  Finally I collapsed into a deafening silence.

*

     ‘How is he today then?’

     A hand was lightly placed on my shoulder to go with the hushed question.

     ‘Nothing as usual, Doctor?’

     ‘Still no name or address either?’

     ‘We’re still checking our records but it doesn’t look promising.’

     ‘Ok…well make him comfortable and keep me posted with any progress.’

     ‘Yes, Doctor.’

Tomas Bird - A Meadow Like Path 2018

A Month or so Past 35

I stare at the bearded

reflection in the blackness

of morning.

We’re well into October

and soon footsteps will crunch-walk

instead of just the usual PLOD PLOD PLOD.

Of course, I’ve written about all this before;

probably last year I would guess.

This poem is a never-ending cycle.

All poems are.

Like a seasoned year,

the words hunker in the cold,

then bloom in spring,

bask like vipers in July,

and then reflect heavily

as they all begin to die off;

ready for the winter emoji’s.

Tomas Bird - Peach Embers 2019

Questions and Quantum Insecurity

I stare at your blood pink skin,

merging into the structure of a face adored by millions (2.9 at least)

and I think you look almost perfect

against the Google image that caught my eye. 

Self-styled and sweet.  Unique and chic;

the toast of Instagram;

a fashion reich of love heart likes,

but now I wonder if perfection

can be measured in a moment?

So I stare some more at your blood pink skin,

and punch your name into Google

again, and again I think you seem almost perfect

against the definition of “success.”

Self-styled and fair.  Threadbare prayed-prayers

sent upwards from the couches,

and train carriages,

and restaurants,

across the land;

wishing only to be a modicum

of your infinite splendour.

AND then the questions flood

from my mind;

they bleed from my fingers;

what is perfection scaled against a lifetime?

So I stare once more.

I STARE hard at your blood pink skin,

and I light cheap expensive cigarettes,

and I ask myself “is this my best work”,

and I mourn the death of confidence;

and I yearn for validation;

striving to be self-styled and brave,

un-slaved and to pave

paths, righteous and true,

to un-stick pages of glue,

release works of note to un-bloat this bleak-freak world

of dopamine crazed stooges

and affiliates of the time wasting machine

of social media.

I stare at her blood pink skin,

now content I’ve selected the perfect filter.

Tomas Bird - Apple Fire 2018

Begging For Nothing

     The man sat in the same position as he had the day before, and the day before that.  There was no change to posture and the sombre look he wore on his face reflected the same thoughtful pose.  There was also no begging cup which struck me as vaguely interesting.

     The next day my curiosity got the better of me so I left the fruit market as quickly as I could and made my way to the side street where I knew he would be.

     He sat as he had the day before, and like the day before, he stared at the same spot on the dusty, chipped wall of the small coffee shop.

     There were three small holes that were not part of the natural wear and tear of the building and it was these that his stare seemed to be permanently fixated on.

     I lit a cigarette and watched him.  He remained silent and still blinking only when his eyes desperately needed to.

     The day was hot and sticky and it showed through his grubby clothes.  Even from the natural shade of where he sat, damp patches still appeared like mould on a rotting wall.

     I crossed the street and stood by his side.

     ‘Cigarillo?’

     He said nothing.

     ‘Naranja?’ I asked as I opened up my bag of oranges in front of him.

     There was no reply.

     ‘Tienen sed?’

     Beads of sweat were forming where his grimy hat met his furrowed brow.

     Still there was only silence.

     I crossed back across the street and entered the coffee shop.  You could tell that it used to be a bright and cheerful place, but years of what looked like unsteady custom and of course whatever troubles the area had seen had reduced it to a dull and lifeless shell.

     ‘Dos botellas de agua por favour.’

     The waiter looked up and it took a moment for him to recognise that he was being called into action.

     ‘Sí, por supuesto, señor,’ he replied as he clumsily placed the two bottles of water on the counter, ‘habrá algo más?’

     I asked who the man was sitting across the street.  Instantly there was a wave of sadness that clouded over the waiters face.  It was a look that said this story had not been told for some time and to tell it would require a great deal of effort and composure.

     I knew he did not have it in him and appreciated him switching to broken English to appease me.

     ‘He was owner…he was neighbour…he was friend.  His woman…his…his wife killed…he sit now…all day…I look after here…he is broken…he is…’

     His train of thought was interrupted as a customer brushed gently through the beads that covered the door.  There was nothing more to learn anyway.

     I stood outside and once again felt the searing heat bear down on my skin.  Knowing that I couldn’t stand to be outside for much longer, I went down on one knee and positioned my camera in a way that wasn’t intrusive.

     When I stood up I knew that I had taken one of the saddest photos of my career.

     As I walked past, I left a bottle of water by his side.  There was still nothing of note to see; just a pock marked wall and a faded pink streak.

Tomas Bird - A Meadow Like Path 2018

Lost in thought

as if my mind were some vast

plain of tall weeds and burly thickets;

as if I’m unable to hack any new paths.

I know I’ll need to navigate

to the soft moss and open clearings;

others will be looking to me for strength soon.

But still I find myself stumbling

in a bleak-beer haze,

legs tired from circling;

eyes sore from back-doubling;

machete blunt from allowing

problems to grow through once more.

Tomas Bird - Apple Fire 2018

A Morning Reflection

I wake to the dark world, count hours of sleep

both slept and lost in pools of madness deep

as I decant myself down wooden stairs,

spilling mumbled dreams; thoughts like burdened wares;

commodities unfit for trade or keep.

Braced for the kitchen-cold, I slide my feet

and flip flop to the pot, then quietly heap

the bitter grains to steam the saddened air;

            I wake to the dark world,

my thumb slides reveal the tricks, cruel and cheap

by western regime.  Lies! Bombs! Souls to reap

in dusty streets, souls with blood matted hair,

souls to save with social media prayers;

            I wake to the dark world.

Tomas Bird - Apple Fire 2018

Influenced

     The mud had spattered on my jeans like droplets of brown blood.  The summer rain had eased off, but the shaded woodland path still squelched softly underfoot as we headed in the general direction of my home.

     ‘It’s hardly raining now, man,’ I said, ‘do you fancy heading back to the main road?’

     ‘Don’t know, mate…could see what is just around this bend…no really up for traipsing all the way back eh?’

     ‘Fair enough, man,’ I said, ‘hopefully it brings us out to just behind Coaltown as then we’re only ten minutes from the house.’

     Turning the corner, we stopped and saw an old, ramshackle farm cottage up ahead.  We stood and listened.  The birds chirped periodically and long since forgotten about sheets of rusty, corrugated iron creaked gently in the moist breeze.

     ‘This is the soundtrack of murder, man,’ I said, ‘c’mon mate, let’s no stick about…I don’t like this at all!’

     ‘Eh, what you on about, mate,’ Frank replied, ‘it’s just someone’s house…I bet that road there gets us back home in no time.’

     I stepped back and crushed a faded pink coca cola can with my foot.

     ‘Here, what’s that smell?’ I said as I pulled the neck of my Fred Perry jumper over my mouth and nose.

     ‘I’m guessing that’s the outhouse, mate,’ Frank jokingly replied.

     The wind began to pick up causing the strips of heavy plastic sheeting over the bottom level windows of the cottage to ripple violently at us.  The surrounding barren landscape spread out motionless by our sides.

     ‘Don’t know if I’ve watched one too many horror films, mate,’ I said, ‘but I’m telling you this now, there is no way I’m going any further, man!’

     ‘Couldn’t agree more by the way…looks like they may have dogs as well judging by all this foul excrement lying around,’ Frank said pointing to the ground.

     ‘Right, mate, let’s just get back to the main road and take the long way home,’ I said.

     ‘Sounds like a plan.’

     ‘In fact, scrap that, let’s go back to Milltown for a pint, and then get a taxi.’

    ‘Even better, mate,’ he said nervously.

     We took one last look about before slowly backing away to retrace our steps. 

     A child’s mitt lay half submerged in a pool of stagnant water within an old tyre.

     The birds had stopped chirping.

Tomas Bird - A Meadow Like Path 2018

Second Hand Opinions

It’s been a year – maybe more – since I’ve turned to the poem.

Many things have changed; many more have not.

Black coffee still stains my teeth;

still kick-starts my eyes to life with its fair trade boots

as I wait for the sky’s pastel palette to yield hope.

And as I wait, I listen to Miles Davis

as he blows and blows smooth jazzy madness

over and over and over,

and my ears covered feel fuzzy-warm

and suddenly…YES SUDDENLY

I understand

how it offsets the mad irregular clicks

in my back bone as I hunker awkwardly over keys,

as I tap tap TAP and reconcile stale and fatigued portfolios,

as I blind myself into the dark of night over masked taped

paper trying desperately to capture the image before me;

determined to bolster my profile across all mediums.

I’m trying to teach myself patience; trying to dissect

what is really before me; trying to make sense of the numbers or the image;

trying trying TRYING,

always trying to understand the souls

that weave uncertainly into my life like mad clowns

on oval-wheeled machines.

I get to set the rules of how to wow the paint,

of how to bow before the colours as they land,

absorbing the beat, my feet tap the rhythm of the strokes brushed;

I let the music help me and guide me and woo me.

I listen eagerly!

Each piece ties into one constant,

into a singular pulsing thought,

onto a hook, pierced and throbbing

and then I pull and pull and reel and pull

whatever it is I’m searching for in towards

me so I can grab it and club it into submission

with a resounding dab or stroke or full stop of finality, 

and when it is over,

I let the wooden eyes of life

splinter a glance over my work

and say good job.

Tomas Bird - Apple Fire