The Keeper of Time

I swear to God, I am not proud of it,
this wishing and unwishing,
and the wishing and unwishing of more,
as if that could make these things be something
or nothing, or take them all away,
or even add a maybe to them all.
This wishing and unwishing are killing me.

If I could go back and take it all back,
or change it all I would,
God help me, I would.
There are so many things I would change
and so many things I couldn’t,
and wouldn’t, and would never want to,
but if I started to change one thing,
I would never stop.

I would wish to be the keeper of time
to whisper my secrets to you,
and we would sit beyond time and I would tell you

You can change this. I have kept your time.
I have kept your seconds.
I have kept your wishes and your memories
and your love here, in this notebook,
and I give it back to you now
with an eraser and a pencil.
And I would look there, on your notebook,
on its dog-eared edges and its faded cover,
and I would wish for brighter colours and
I would say to you,

Here is the notebook of your life,
the notebook of your time,
and I am giving it back to you.
I am giving you this one pass,
as the keeper of your time
and the keeper of your sins,
I give them back to you.

I give you back your dreams,
rewrite them.

Write it all, and don’t write it
as if you were afraid

of what people would think.

Don’t write it as if
you haven’t been given a second chance
upon a first chance,

because you haven’t.
But still, write it.


I, as the keeper of your time,

and the chronicler of your memories,
give you this page and this pencil,
and I ask you to write without fear,
without consequence,
without hope or sorrow,
I ask you to write, so write.

I can not reset time,
I can not make things right
as you see them be,
because your right is wrong
in everyone else’s eyes,
in cosmic eyes that stare down at us all.

Don’t read the rewrite,
and I will keep you secretly,
and give you this page and this pencil to write
all of the things you wanted to write,
all of the things you wanted to keep,
all of the things you wanted to change,
all of the things that are time and are not,
and will not or never be,
and I ask you to write it solidly,
without despair, without guilt, without question.

Write your rewrite that I can never grant you,
and sign your name to the bottom of it, proudly.
For there is nothing wrong with a rewrite,
in this life or in others, there is nothing wrong
with wanting a rewrite, even if we love
our stories and the way they began
with a once upon a time and ended
with a happily ever after,
because you are many stories.
You are a great book of love, and loss, and light,
and the wisdom of your pages, between your pages
could never be rewritten into the stories that are.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Under Your Bed

I have loved as I have never been loved,
and in loving as I have never been,
I have held the hands of gods
and laid weeping before the closed fists
of disappointment dripping with my own blood
and barely skimming forgiveness.
Perhaps it will come to me,
this love, a love, beneath your bed,
behind the curtains or under you mother
and her Sunday night dinner,
the one I was invited to
before the devil tickled my back
and your angels scorched my belly.
I wear these marks well,
my kisses from heaven
and my brushes with hell,
yet here I am on my knees again,
looking for the love you dropped under your bed.
I know it’s here somewhere,
amongst the monsters and the memories,
making friends with the lonely socks
missing their mates, and reaching
inside the crumpled wrappers,
the pink ones that burst the stars
upon your tongue before he broke the door down
and taught you all the ways you should never love.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Among The Stars

It was colder than usual that morning,
the way the wind was blowing just so,
I heard the sun weeping her love,
into the moon and its fading glow.

And I watched the stars as they flickered
to the beat of my broken heart,
as if someone was dancing across them
turning goodbye into a work of art.

I have heard there was a man
who walked among the stars.
Legend says he was a teller of tales,
how he could write his soul into ours.

I have heard this very man
also walked among the weak.
Legend says he whistled the truth
and encouraged those voices to speak.

I have heard  this very man
also walked among the strong.
Legend says he carried a tune
with the weight of all, they had done wrong.

I have heard this very man
also walked among the missed.
Legend says he whispered his love
and sealed it with a kiss.

I have heard this very man
also walked among the dead.
Legend says he penned lullabies
to sing those souls to bed.

And so the story goes
about this man and his many stars,
and how he no longer walks among us
but he hasn’t gone very far.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

In Memory of Gord Downie

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Mind Fuck

oulled2

Perhaps it wasn’t
only my hair
he had knotted
in his fist;
for upon my release
I found my mind
had been pulled
as if it had knees
on which I would beg
as I crawled toward him,
neck deep in a pool
of silver and my name;
reaching to cling
to the tip
of his forked tongue.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The echo of our intent

Our voices are powerful.
Our words hold energy, and when
we release them, we cast our energy
out in to the world to breach seawalls
and break borders. Make no mistake;
it will be our words that leave
the echo of our intent.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Scar – Michelle Schaper

scar

The remains of the day
softly settled on her skin
She sat reflecting while
her heart let stars come in
With these stars
came dark of night,
twisting all her thoughts
A crescent moon scarring black canvas,
a reminder of her flaws
Staring at the luminous scar
floating oh so high,
she saw beauty shining from
this little tear up in the sky
And from that moment on,
she understood how true
We need the perfectly imperfect
to bring all the light through

© Michelle Schaper 2017

michelle

Michelle Schaper is a single mum of two beautiful daughters from Australia.
She began writing poetry as a little girl when she was raised as an only child by her adoptive parents. At age eight she wanted to write her own book so her dad brought her a typewriter and she taught herself to type and made that book by hand! Michelle has overcome many hardships and considers herself lucky to be alive. She was attacked and beaten near to death by two rapists at age fifteen, then encountered a series of violent relationships. Her dreams of writing were put on hold for some time as she studied counselling/psychology for personal growth and has worked for the past twelve years supporting people with disabilities,(or as Michelle likes to say ‘enhancing people’s abilities’.) Michelle is a mentor/advocate for disabilities and mental health, social training to support independence and inclusion within a community. Her own daughter has been diagnosed with anxiety disorders and much more but Michelle chooses to look beyond labels to see the person. ‘Soul Kissing’, Michelle’s first published book of playful poetry and prose is now available on Amazon and other online bookstores. You will find more of her musings on Instagram and Facebook.

Nocturnal Places

77024717-abdd-42ea-b83c-89bb1cbd1501

He lit my world up
and left me
stumbling
through darkness.
Find me
in nocturnal places,
feeding loneliness
into hungry hearts.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

My Tribe

I love the heavy ones.

I feel the loud ones.

And I am the chaotic ones.

The ones who scream

to be heard

over their own raging thoughts,

while the boring ones

tell them to hush…

Those are my people.

 

The Ugliest War of You 

Absolutely amazing. This is exceptional.

 

I live in a place where people say “faggot”  as causal as one would say, “hello.” A passing respectful nod from a stranger  is common, although just under his brea…

Source: The Ugliest War of You