All that is left behind.

All that is left behind.

By David Milligan-Croft.

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There is a ghost

of a cherry tree leaf

in my notebook,

from where I pressed it.

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A memento

from a happier time 

that I wanted to cherish,

no doubt.

.

The leaf must have 

fallen out at some point –

how careless of me

to have lost you.

.

There is a faint trace

of red residue

left behind on the coarse paper. 

It is all 

that is left behind.

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Kintsugi Heart.

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Kintsugi Heart

by David Milligan-Croft.

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To have truly lived

Is to have your heart shattered

Over and over again.

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But, as with the art of kintsugi,

After each painstaking repair,

It blazes, resplendent with golden light.

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I shall scour the universe.

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I shall scour the universe.

By David Milligan-Croft.

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Where did you go? One minute 

you were here, the next, you were gone.

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There is a hole in the galaxy, the exact size 

and shape that you used to occupy.

.

It is now empty.

Devoid of your presence.

.

Surely, you are somewhere,

You can’t just disappear.

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There is a finite amount of energy

In the universe, of which you are an intrinsic part.

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Perhaps you are in the soil, as nutrients 

for worms and bugs and fungi.

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Or delicate forget-me-nots

luring honey bees to do their bidding.

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Maybe you are pollen

carried upon the summer breeze.

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You could be anywhere by now.

But I’ll keep searching,

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in the trees and in the streams,

in the flowers and on the wind.

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I’ll shall scour the universe for you,

even down to the cracks of my hands.

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What’s the big idea?

.

The idea.

By David Milligan-Croft.

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I am an idea.

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A series of electrical impulses

between the synapses

of one mediocre mind

among 8 billion others.

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I become words scrawled on a page

or uttered from a mouth.

I gather components 

to make me manifest.

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From the detritus 

of long-extinct species;

rotting food, plant life,

faeces.

.

Animal, vegetable and mineral;

I am composed

of the decomposed taxonomy

from the graveyards of landfill.

.

Fridges and flatscreens,

mobiles and tablets.

(The type you swallow,

and the type that swallows you.)

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Atoms and molecules

converging and coalescing

like mercury,

until I am born.

.

Perhaps I am a rocket ship,

that can traverse distant galaxies.

Or the long-dreamed of child,

or a little fidget spinner.

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The form of the concept is irrelevant.

What matters is,

I exist.

When once, I did not.

.

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Look at me!

LOOK AT ME!

By David Milligan-Croft.

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I was cradling you on my left hip;

Absentmindedly swaying from side to side,

As I talked to a fellow parent

In the school playground.

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Slowly, you reached across

And clamped your hand over my mouth.

Your tiny fingers felt warm and sticky. Then,

Gently, you pulled my head to face you.

.

I looked down into your sparkling eyes,

Your perfectly beautiful face. And,

That was it.

That was all you needed.

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Landmine – new poem

Landmine

By David Milligan-Croft

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There is a type of landmine

That only detonates

Once you have taken your foot 

Off of it.

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It spares you

Instant disintegration – 

Instead, it gives you

That split-second realisation

Of the impending horror that is about 

To ascend upon your hapless body.

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Of course, if you are fleet-of-mind,

You may realise the error of your way,

And keep your weight

Pressed firmly down on the detonator.

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In the hope that someone

Might come to your rescue.

That they collect rocks

And sticks and boulders – anything

They can lay their hands upon

To replace the downward pressure,

That is you.

.

And that is how it feels

To be in love with you.

To have two choices:

To wait for you in vain,

Or to accept fate

And lift my foot off.

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για τη δέκατη μούσα μου

Critique

By David Milligan-Croft

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Don’t give me

That look.

The one that says

How disappointed

You are

In me.

I see it

All the time.

It’s your default

Expression.

Maybe try

A little positive

Reinforcement

Every once

In a while.

You never know,

It might just work

On you too.

Rather than being 

So judgemental.

.

Sometimes,

I wish

I’d never bought

That damned

Mirror.

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A Moment Like This

By David Milligan-Croft.

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I picked an old poetry book off the shelf.

It was ‘The Art of Life’, by Paul Durcan.

Something about its spine caught my eye.

I hadn’t read it in years.

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I flicked through a few pages and a photograph fell out.

It was of my daughter and I when she was a baby.

I’m wearing a front-facing baby harness

And she is strapped to my chest,

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Wearing a white, winter bunny onesie.

I’m holding up her bunny ears 

and beaming a smile to the camera.

We’re in Dunham Massey, I think.

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* * *

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I go to my daughter’s bedroom – she’s 16 now –

And show her the photograph.

She laughs and we reminisce. Well, I do.

She was too young to remember, obviously.

.

As I’m leaving, I say, ‘Do you want it,

Or shall I bin it?’

Without looking up from her phone,

She says, ‘That doesn’t work, Dad.

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‘I know you would never do that.’ 

Then, she looks at me and smiles.

I don’t know why I put the photo in the book

In the first place. Perhaps to use as a book mark.

.

Or maybe, for a moment like this.

.

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Dandelion Clock – new poem.

‘Nebular’ by Maria Popova.

This poem was inspired by an article I read on The Marginalian by Maria Popova about G.K. Chesterton, called ‘The Dandelion and the Meaning of Life.’

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Dandelion Clock

By David Milligan Croft

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I searched for the meaning of life

In philosophers’ books.

I looked for a reason for being

In great religious texts.

.

But I could not find anything

To assuage the frustration

As to the point

Of my own existence.

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The sun dimmed

On the page I was writing,

As the Earth slowly rotated me away,

Into the shadows.

.

And there it was, shimmering

In the fading light of dusk.

A dandelion clock, swaying

Gently in a summer zephyr.

.

Its seed pods lifting off 

Into the atmosphere,

Like the universe itself

Exploding into life.

.

The wind would carry it

To its destination –

It did not need to worry what it should be

Or where it might be going.

.

I searched for the meaning of life,

And found it in a dandelion clock –

Either, it is all important,

Or none of it is.

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I was looking for heaven,

And realised I am already here,

For the briefest, most glorious

Moments in time.

.

And the point of existence,

Is to have existed at all.

Motes of my Mother

Motes of my Mother.

By David Milligan-Croft.

As I popped open the lid of the cylinder, 

A faint cloud of ash escaped from within. 

Motes of my mother floated in the morning sun. 

Drifting off into the atmosphere to settle who knows where.

Perhaps somewhere sunny, like Tahiti, she’d like that.

Or maybe just the bookshelf.

As I spooned some of her ashes into a small ceramic jar – 

A keepsake for my daughter – 

I felt the sudden urge to sneeze.

I froze momentarily, unsure whether to deposit her remains

Back into the large urn, or continue with my task,

And risk dropping some of her in the sink.

Or, worse still, blowing her onto the window.

I twisted my face to my shoulder

In order to stifle the impending sneeze

And lessen any resulting tremors.

It was while I was looking down

Into the larger urn that I wondered just how much

Of this ash was actually my mother. If, in fact,

Any of it was. How would I know if we had someone else’s ashes?

Would the remnants of her dna still cling to these dusty particles?

And, how much of the ash is human, and how much is coffin?

Do they take the brass fittings off first? Whose job is that?

If I dig deep enough, will I find a piece of shoe, or tooth, or bone?

So many questions.

Then I thought of my mother rolling her eyes and laughing 

And saying, “Silly bugger.” Or something like that.

Then the urge to sneeze disappeared.

And I carefully continued spooning the ashes 

Into the ceramic pot and gently closed the lid.

She’ll be safer with my daughter, I thought.