Cynthia Sharp has been published in Toasted Cheese &
Haiku Journal and was nominated for the XXXVIII Pushcart Prize & Best of
the Net Anthology. She enjoys the beauty of nature on the Canadian west coast,
where she is at work on a series of fantasy novels for tweens and teens.
(18 July 1918 - 5 December 2013) "Courage is not the absence of fear - it's inspiring others to move beyond it." Nelson Mandela
Raise the colours to half mast.
Bow your heads in benediction.
Angelic chorus is weeping.
The world keeps on going. Look to the person deep within yourself, and look at the person you hate, you fear, despise the most.
Are either of you really that different from each other?
Do not allow the trains to run, shut down the schools, ground all the flights.
Stop the traffic.
Suspend the stock-exchange.
Cancel your trip to the plastic surgeon. Stop all the killing for just one minute…
For a great man sleeps eternally now.
Not a man raised in privilege or sort, stardom, wealth or fame…
A simple man, an angry man, freedom and justice his only aim.
A generation he sat in a vertical tomb of stone, hatred, oppression buried him—patience and love, eventually freed him.
A man of violence and struggle, who found wisdom, inner-peace.
Do not let his passing go un-noticed, do not let his sacrifices, just become legend and myth.
The world’s become a little colder, the stars just a little more dim, for tonight he sleeps in eternal reverence and we’ll be all the better, all the wiser, all the more loving, for having shared the world with him.
The touch of your hand in the darkness, the longing for hope in our kiss, the chill of the bedroom, in your absence oh, the way you light up the room is bliss. The fear in your eyes in the morning, the echo of our own, and shared past, his shadow over the bed, haunting; every embrace ends too fast. But, look inside yourself, Quicksilver mercury girl, twisting, road all around us, decisions, revisions, fear and solitude forever consume our hearts, but lust is a constant. Lust is so clean, Lust doesn’t hang up mid-conversation or see either of us, seething green.
Is there anybody there? Lofty, lonely, mad on that diamond chair. All the world is cold, all our love is old, nothing compares to the sunshine we once shared. Now, I'm floating in this vortex, this rushing wave of fear, standing in front of my reflection, just one thing remains to be clear... Yet in this world full of ugliness, just you, just you know how to reach me by that tenderness in your touch. That death watch beetle, stalks me tonight, that death watch beetle of the soul. Twisting everyway, no clear path. No clear way of getting out of here. I'm the middle man, of the three in the cave, light and shadow, puppets on the wall, is suffering an illusion, is there nothing left for me at all? (c) James WF Roberts
(An ode to John Donne's Ode to Death (ya shrouded prick)
And the skin with which within I hold myself will fail
like my bladder and my faith in the immorality
that hides behind youth as a disguise
and if I'm lucky I'll have memories
and if I'm lucky ones I'll remember
and if not at least be remembered
but of all the terrors hidden in my cellular decay
that could potentially manifest
and replicate and replicate without my say
until I'm riddled with deaths reign on my parade
the only fear I'll struggle to swallow
the only thing that keeps me awake
is that I treat every day the same
and become as weak as my body will
by not remembering I have will
and not just doing with it what I may
but doing something, something
being someone, an individual can be defined no other way
“I never want money for art because I believe that is what eventually leads to the destruction of your desire to create, you create art, to me, because you need to, because it helps you and you hope that at some point what has helped you create that art, the things that have inspired it may help somebody else… saying that I would still love to know what’s happening to the stuff I create, if it’s read out loud or just emailed to somebody, I’d like to think that my art is created because there has and always will be a desire to express not because of what you gain but what you can change”. John O'Rourke. Dublin.
Hello there, the angel from my nightmare. This shadow of my life’s despair, omnipresent, perpetually you linger, my tainted destinies harbinger, lurking, those empty eyes, that burning, piercing stare, a window to my own demise. Through my eyes I see you, but are you ever truly there? Or are you just the figment, of a twisted minds imagination, a deranged manifestation of my crippling despair.
These manipulative voices in my head, only I can hear as they jest and jeer, never willing to just evaporate, to just disappear. As these voices, through this tormented mind they swirl, and right on time, like clockwork, you appear, but still I can’t tell if you are really here.
Nothing works, so numb to the world, no respite do I ever see, just the strings you use to contort me. These knives, these pills all feel the same, just another twist in your torturous game. And this hatred, anger which burns inside, this destructive flame, no longer can tame.
Alone and scared, no more pain upon myself can I inflict, these open wounds, these searing slits, trying to expel, this creature stirring, devouring me from within, my personal hell, I look at you now , this angel of sin, those jagged teeth form, a menacing grin. Your presence, a dreary cloud, over my dawns every sun, and my spirits at every chance they try to escape, they try to run. But these walls of despair you conjure, trapping them, a massacre of hope, slaughtering every last one, nowhere for me now to run. And that empty expression, you always assume, my sickness obsession, the devils own son.
My life consumed by this constant fear, to my eye comes but the last remaining tear, no longer am I able to cry, and alone in this empty room I lie, no longer will I try, Against your torture, I will no longer stand, and into this pit of dark and hopeless plight, reaches, no helping hand, no piercing light, no salvation, just an exodus, fated, to walk alone through this endless night. And as I lay, my heart devoid of warmth, of life, my soul bereft of light, and no longer your temptation do I choose to fight, I slip into my final sleep, this final tear now I weep, and for the final time, alone, I cry, this angel, now its hand I take, my eyes they close to never wake, and like a blossoming flower, stripped of light, I wither, I die.
at the point of breaking, this
pain forsakes me.
Flat, I lay, my consciousness it slowly slips, seeps away.
Murmurs, hushed, their tones unerring, messages of bleak despair.
Still I lay, my mind not there,
it has deserted me, trapped, a slow decay.
Encircled, these figures, silhouetted, faces which have washed away.
Faceless, these people, a world away.
And still I lay, my heart, my mind, my life astray.
Engulfed by the blinding lights the figures fade, this light,
this light, has it come to guide me away, content to go, and still I lay.
I plummet, the light swept away, falling,
hopeless, sinking and still,
I lay. spiraling, darkness creeping in embracing me,
a beeping, beeping, beeping,
slowly but surely fleeting as the darkness penetrates my soul,
this rasping breath, a tear,
a muffled scream, then silence, darkness... nothing more.
Alone and still I lay, this room, a sombre shade of grey,
so clearly different, yet strangely, the same.
So alien, so different, this room in a way,
wanting to run but my fear drifts away.
And still, on the floor of this strange room, I lay.
Nothing, no windows, no doors,
the silhouetted figures stood over me no more,
just these expressionless faces etched into each wall.
A sound, breathing, a whisper swirling like air,
a single phrase, several letters just lingering there.
These words evaporating, as if never there, and the room,
again it feel silent, as it had just been.
The faces they faded, and the room now the same,
except the lingering whisper, which echoed, my name.
Silent, I lay, a thought on my lips,
but unable to say.
And in this room, alone,
I would stay.
And still through it all with my fate all but sealed, no weapon,
no thought and no hope I could wield.
As again my mind distant, my thoughts in a vice and my spirit torn away,
I lay, I lay, and I lay.
But suddenly, the walls start to change,
as they shift, and they crack, my fear kept at bay,
as there in the centre, rigid I lay.
Distorting, these walls,
before me they blur, and by some force to me unbeknownst like paper, they’re
The mist it grows thick like haze before dawn.
Slowly, softly, the darkness, returned.
Beep, beep, beep, alone once again through this darkness I surged, in this whirlwind of chaos I
feel like I’m a bird, though my wings are of paper,
which is shredded and burned.
And again I’m thrust into this blinding light my
wings now drifting, my body a kite.
This rasping breathing, this pain subsides.
My heart, mind and body as one they re-surge
and above me from these all consuming shadows, these faces emerge.
From this life, almost torn,
A phoenix from the ashes now reborn.