blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

individu[al(one)]

man sitting in cell_Free-Photos
Free-Photos via pixabay

He is at work. Wednesday comes.

Hey, we’re off to the pub. Coming?
Sure. Why not.
Football scores. Office politics. The girl in the corner wearing blue.
Nothing to say. Sips a beer. No response to desperate glances.
Must be getting home or there’ll be hell to pay, right?
Right.

He is at work. Friday comes.

TGIF, am I right?
Right.
She’s got my weekend booked up, shopping and a BBQ, groan. You?
Nothing much.
I wish.
Three beers and Netflix. Pizza delivery. Quiet bed.

He is at work. Monday comes.

So busy this weekend, didn’t have a minute to myself. How about you?
Oh, you know. Quiet.
You’re lucky, time to yourself.
Yes. Lucky me.
Friday can’t come quick enough, am I right?
Right.

He is quiet. No trouble. No drama.

No sun. Engulfed by eternal cloud, muffled, numb.
Rain drips icy fingers down his neck, freezing his bones.
Invisible, lost, a lone wolf.
Teeth ripping at his own heart.
A final scream, choked. Unheard.
None to sing his elegy.

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Echoes

 

boy-dirty_Mohammad Moin Ulhaq
Mohammad Moin Ulhaq via pexels 

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

George Santayana

listen: 

The lessons of the past are clear to see
on pages dripping with blood shed in vain
and still we can’t escape our history.

When no-one questions how we come to be
repeating ancient wrongs, one truth remains;
the lessons of the past are clear to see.

A genocide becomes legal decree
some disbelieve an innocent’s refrain
and still we can’t escape our history.

When facts are fake, debased commodity
and Orwell’s warnings are chillingly plain
the lessons of the past are clear to see.

Complicit, distant, blind to misery
we turn away and shrug, not this again
and still we can’t escape our history.

It’s too easy to say it wasn’t me;
I’m not responsible for all this pain.
The lessons of the past are clear to see
yet still we can’t escape our history.

audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Tell me a story

book_butterflies
Alexas_Fotos via pixabay

listen: 

Tell me a story. Give me tales of a thousand nights, warm scented breeze on my skin, sand in my shoes. Take me to the farthest pole, blue-green fire dancing in the sky, breath clouding in crisp night air.

Tell me a story. Let me taste salt sea tang while sun beats down on wooden decks. Show me dolphins, flying fish, whales breaching white-topped waves. Let me glimpse bright eyed merpeople watching deep under the surface, waiting.

Tell me a story. Carry me on red and silver rockets to vast silent space stations where the stars never go out. Show me galaxies born from cosmic dust. Bring whispers from strange aliens and stranger, once-human creatures.

Tell me a story. Lead me up the mountain, rocks skittering away under exhausted feet, lungs screaming for oxygen. Describe that joyful promised land seen only from the summit, take me there on wings of faith.

Expand my horizons. Play my emotions. Cloak mindless chatter, soothe unthinking wounds, only with words. Let me shed this skin, be someone else, somewhere else, sometime else. Give me distance, just for a while. Let me lose and maybe find myself.

Tell me a story.