three of swords
some say all that suffering
leads to something better
than sand flowing through
broken-hearts…….going forward
finally grasping…….love lacking depth
is no love at all
thunderstorms pierce my heart
pouring tearing grey clouds
and I count myself lucky
for there is no white bull
to charm me or climb upon
reckless abandonment
snared an emotional trap
that…….other…….love
and I’m still snivelling sadness
shedding loss…….lamenting
loneliness…….howling heartbreak
grievingly grieved…….healing upheaval
embracing destructive love
by letting go…….lessons from
an unknown…….third party rush
this shallow gal got hooked on
pain lacking patterns missing depth
because I didn’t see a clearing
path ahead…….true love
isn’t really encouraged
or even understood
making my eyes flood
down on me like rain knowing
there are jewels in teardrops
loves-superficiality verses nurturing
togetherness…….deep longing
didn’t work…….and we tried
fluff attracts like lint
on cloaking and we’re
all sold on addiction
romance addicts
not truly hitched
insecure romantics
bewitched with objective affection
he knew…….knows all that
old material…….things died
rekindled…….rebirthed deepened love
and its darned hard work
some don’t work at
unpleasantly getting through
readjusting disappointments
moving closer together
new ways of loving…….far removed
from neurotic love enshrined
in movies
I closed that door…….looked ahead
crossed an ocean…….rented a room
with a view…….for me
and didn’t look back
because my love…….is…….too thick
Ruby McCann
after all prayers for safe travel
to those departed creatives
bring straw and clay
and corn dolls to mould
for souls need a vessel
to emerge from death
and not all songs have melodies
or refrains holy rites ease
poor souls of art heavier
than the white feather of truth
to reach eternal paradise
when admitted to the academy
one has to criss-cross cosmic pomposity
underworldly lordy
justly dead judgy creators
mauling two-truths waiting on
weighing up pros and cons
feathered birds flocking
unruffled art absconding
hall of judgement
rowing Lily Lake piercing
veiled eternal nirvana or not
where loved ones wait
if riveted enough
when enlightened art wakens
masses queue-in pearly gates
steer your masterpiece
seek out a jackal-headed-man
named Anubis
God of all mere mortals
and time is fleeting
ask him what is right in the balanced
order of creation?
does art live eternally?
by streams
beneath trees
in fields of reeds
he will intentionally ignore you
reference page numbers from souls handbook
even if you didn’t receive a copy
absorbedly spellbound over last night’s lover
trapeze tricks swinging in his head
thrown on peaks precise timing
too long ushering afterlife artistic musings
attending limitless golden scales balancing
soaring heavens glass ceiling
sky-high-ing short horizontal bars
hung by ropes with metal straps
for support follow him
he will escort you
to hall of truth
where long haired artists
vent snobbery in smouldering sacraments
smoke endless cigarettes
loaf around smearing walls
styling petty profound profanities
in one-dimensional font
fuck infinity
perpendicular geometric patterns
awaiting opinion-ed
sensitive Anubis’ ear
re-marks a riddle
is it possible to have art
lighter than a feather?
leaving you puzzled
overhead winged darting voluptuous
wind-swept Goddesses
bear fresh fruit and water
proffer overflowing wine goblets
hearten gratified confusion
alighting golden scales
in the way one alights a train
from Edinburgh at Glasgow Central
tallying harmony and balance
twerking to Beethoven’s Symphony
no. 7 in A major
dazingly dazed
42-judges consulting
three eternal fates
staging close measured side-stepping
squatting twerks harnessing power
blindly auditioning musicians behind a screen
eyeing art devoid of context
blending bias in performance
and should your art prove too heavy
whilst destiny’s gyrating booties distract
it will be thrown to the floor
gobbled up by an armoured
scaled beast with great crocodile jaws
far more sensitive than fingertips
legs bent and head low
rosette camouflaged front
marking you like a preying leopard
and a rhinos’ leathery lumpy broad-backed
loose piano-keyed vertebral column
teething fatality in those towering
thrusting hip movements
once devoured cease to exist
there will be no jet-black drays
drawing carriages
hearses or baroque floral tributes
no obituaries writ
because no art
decomposes death in real time
quite like an unbalanced feather
Ruby McCann
Jim and Pat’s West End Chat – Pat chats with Ruby McCann, poet, writer, creative writing tutor, editor, publisher and playwright.