A Symphony of Peaches and Pinks

holding hands hospital        K. Barratt

I open my eyes, looking how the stars

and the horizon meet. Sky and land.

A kiss. And I think. Of you. Of me.

Of the touch of our hands, that first time,

on our way to Amsterdam,

the full plane, the snoring lady

of gigantic arms, who kept

pushing you to me.

Our beautiful fairy godmother.

And I see the first rays

of the sun and breath.

The beep, beep is still going on

and you live, made it through the night,

the doctor busy, doing his thing.

My lips bite each other, in hatred, in fear.

In hope. Then Mr. I-don’t-smile doctor

shows all of his teeth.

And it’s no longer a dream.

You live.

You are alive, breathing,

heart pumping, here, with me.

I weep.  I laugh. I hold your hand,

The sky turning into a symphony

of peaches and pinks.

And my heart beats.

Again. Once more.

You and me. One more chance

To defy the dammed stars

And be.

And you open your eyes.

 

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Thirteen

R in autumn close up 2a                                                                                        K. Barratt

To be thirteen again and cry over scuffed shoes. To laugh, wildly, at a friend’s joke and then cover your mouth, to hide the braces on your teeth. To be thirteen. To run with the pack, sometimes lead. To love and loath boys in the same minute, to pretend you don’t know that he’s looking at the back of the school bus. To hate the teacher, just because, and then to adore her when touched with a little of her grace, in a math test. To ignore your parents and then frown, because you have gotten your morning embrace. To speak nonstop with your bestie; to just want to be alone and mourn some unmentionable tragedy that no one understands. To adore the world. And find it a bore. To play cool, wanting not to be daft about life’s questions and answers. And deep down cross your fingers, and hope for happy-ever-afters. To be thirteen and have a heart like the sea. Innocence, walking with barrowed stilettos to school, only to change them fast as you reach the gate. To wanting to play with Barbie again and wishing to have all the money in the world, to buy everything in the girl section of Next. To be thirteen, once more. And to live it from afar, reflected in the brilliant beauty of your daughter’s eye.

 

Hades

hades_and_persephone_by_rgveta-djw2ov

Image by rgveta

 

K. Barratt

So, I finally held the

Knife to my neck.

The bloody mess

That exploded

From heaven and hell

And everything in between,

As my husband screamed,

(Not much of a negotiator, he)

Things about our home and

The sleeping kid, the dog,

The parents, the old, lady Guinea pig,

The dreams yet to achieve,

The places yet to see, lies all

Lies! Except perhaps the

Part about the love, the child,

Him. The parents. The dog and

The old Guinea pig. It’s for

Them that I held the knife,

Between my neck and my cheek.

But he did not see it.

I did it to free them.

From the madness, the invisible

Racoons hanging from the lamps,

The loser they are tied to,

The waste of space that I am.

But not, he cried and cried.

As if people did not die

Every day, all the days,

In all the times,

Babies and grannies and cats.

Whole towns and lonely

Homeless men on a bench.

We were born to die, and I’m  just

Spitting at my destiny’s face,

Doing it my own way.

He listens to nothing I say.

He just begs.

Looking at me with the

blue eyes I have never 

Been able to say not to.

I weakened and demand:

No doctors this time,

No hospital beds.

He promises just a hug in exchange

For the knife; the key to the door

That’ll let me escape this hell.

And I give in.

I give in.

And he lies, of course.

‘Cause he loves me,

Scorns the voice in my head,

With a sing-a-long tone.

And there goes my

Happy ever after.

Cerberus is grabbing me

With all his heads,

Pinning me, in the name of love,

 into the Dantesque

Darkness within myself.

The silly doctor asks all

His ridiculous questions,

As he watches.

My personal Hades.

Sitting on the other

Side of the bed,

Light and dark, small and grand,

Holding his Persephone’s hand,

With all his godly, loving might.

 

Rain

Paris raiinK. Barratt

 

It rains when I come to Paris.

It always rains, no matter

The time of the year.

It rains in that Parisian way

That is not quite here nor there,

Like a fleeting kiss from

A mischievous kid, that

One feels, kind of, and when

Turns around he is gone.

There is something about

The rain in Paris. Something mellow

And demure. Elegant even.

As those girls walking on flats,

Who seem to slide in stilettos

Of shinny, patent leather.

Something Fitzgerald-y and Zelda

Like. Something soft, alive,

Each drop a caress I don’t run from.

Wet from Parisian sky kisses.

I sit in a café, shivering, delicately,

The last notes of the piano

At the blues bar.

And I see the grey and blue and violet

World around me, the silver

Streets, the people leisurely

Walking by. And I know I

Am not the only one

Being worshiped by the rain.

In the misty, drizzling interlude.

we all are making love to it.

In our own, very personal way.

 

ON A SPACE CALLED LAND

woman-walking-awayK. Barratt

 

And so it happens that we are all walkers:

Runners, joggers, skippers;

Trail blazers, some of us.

Path finders.

And that is the answer of the ages.

Of the “who am I” and “what am I doing here.”

We are machete wielders, creating

The path unique to ourselves,

To our laughter and our tears.

We are charterers of the unknown

Jungles that our lives are, similar

To many, yet different in every sense.

We do not travel the road less travelled:

We create the way.

We build the bridge, draw the maps,

Write the memoirs that the

Next generation will forget or

Misunderstand, because I am not

You, nor you I, and my yellow

Brick road is  blondish, buttery white,

Whilst yours is coppery gold.

And so, like the Spanish poet

Said dear walker, there is no road.

The road is rendered by your feet when

You start your walk.

And that is life. And who you are.

A walker of dreams on a space called land.

 

 

 

Liar

K. Barratt

woman pill

 

At night, she pretended she was one of them. She

Did her oms and chants, anchored her feet behind

Her ears, shared the organic rice with pure, cold-pressed

Virgin oil and laughed, with them, about

The rest: the junk food eaters and murderous meat

Eaters; the zombies attached to I-phones and I-pads;

And the junkies getting high in the poison Big

Pharma had convinced them to buy, to be well,

To think well -oh poor dears, not seeing the truth

That only came from a dedicated life of oms and chants;

And cotton weaving and whale watching from a kayak.

And she would remember the whales watched

From a tourist catamaran. And the hamburger shared

With Mike when Mike was still around and she

Was part of ‘Jenny and Mike’, and there was no tombstone,

Somewhere, polluting the earth, saying ‘Mark’.

Mark with no Jenny. And on and on they spoke,

About all their wisdom, masters, gurus, shamans.

One even swore he had seen a fairy and no one doubted it.

Yet she dared not to confess about the gorilla

In the kitchen, the child in the corner, how she

Knew she belonged to another dimension, and

There was a planet where fish behaved like men

And they came and visit, some times,

Through the multi-plane hole behind

Her fridge door. She breathed deeply

With them, a communion of air, someone

Said, and she heard the noise in her head, the

Voices pulling left and right, and the anger

Raging, her heart pounding, like a giant

Drum in a slave galley, and all she wanted

was to scream that she wanted to go home,

Wherever home was; yell them out, to get out,

Shriek them out existence,

Tell them to go, that she knew not

their names, their words meant nothing

To her, nor did the hated green

Smoothies and raw nuts, and she just wanted to

Vanish, disappear, and find that quiet

Place inside of her, to which no prayer, no

Meditation, no gong bath or drumming session

Had ever taken her before.

She was sweating, panting, but not one noticed.

They were deep, inside  their holly, hallow selves.

She tipped top to the bathroom

And took her magic pot, her miracle

Pill, velvety white.

Swallow it.

And waited, until upside down became upside right.

She was out of the hole. She could breathe.

She could slither back to her place

And joint the meaningful silence,

Just in time. In time to smile, beatifically.

In time to adjust her saintly mask.

In time to lie, again, to lie because

She did not know what else to do,

Where else to go, who else to turned to.

And as they left, one of them commented

She had not finished her smoothie. She said she would

As she close the door. And then threw the

Green concoction down the drain.

The gorilla handed the cola as

He faded and she sat in front of the TV,

Drinking her coke, eating her chips,

Watching her game show, at peace.

Accepting herself completely just

As she was: a pill-popping nut

Case wanting to fly. Like an angel.

Like a saint.

And for today, that was okay.