Day 19: Little Hand, a poem by Adam White based on a photograph by Ashley White

Visit Ashley White's tumblr at http://mranegative.tumblr.com

and follow him on twitter at http://twitter.com/#!/mranegative

Child,

Just delicate bones,

Wrapped in perfect skin

So desperate to escape

The only home you'd known, and

How you reached,

With a little hand

For the light of the world

I made for you to live in.

Child,

As I am, you'll be,

Growing endlessly,

Size and understanding,

Hearing that I love you,

And learning

That tears are for joy,

As well as for sorrow,

And the thrill that life can be.

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Day 16: Embers, a poem by Adam White, poet

Once, you lost your concentration,
And embers fell from phoenix form.
We who walked in your blessed wake,
Were burned. Blinded. Reshaped. Reformed.
Left to trail in panicked darkness,
I kept faith I'd find my way back,
But night is endless. Sunlight faded.
My world is grimmer, faded, black.

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Day 13: Untitled, a poem by David White (my dad)

The fullness of time has knocked some doors, with tidings of great sadness to those behind,
Though expected, the pain of reality strikes hard and sure, seeing, but still we wander blind,
We all know the cycle of time is linked to life and all that live, eventually die,
A blade of grass, to a giant Oak, to Kith and Kin we wonder why,
The reason, I think, time is a thief, ever ticking on and on, stealing life from those we love and leaving us with pain and grief.
Does time give back, I believe it so, How? by renewing life after the Winters show,
The Springtime bringing forth new life, but a new life we may never know.


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Day 10: Anger Cycle #1, a sonnet cycle by Adam White, poet

Two breaths, thirty depressions, and that's it.
I wait for the pick up, drowning in stew.
Pallid, blue lips hold no more cigarettes.
Who can I blame for this shadow of you?
"Fucking paramedics" I say out loud.
You will not respond. I pull my own hair,
And reach out to touch you, broken and bowed.
And how is this justice? How is this fair?
Two tender knocks and here comes the fury.
I pull on the door and swiftly it fades.
You're taken in moments. Taken from me.
Taken by cancer in all of it's shades.
Now the guilt gathers for your failing health,
I stood by for years while you poisoned yourself.


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Day 8: Beef Burgers, a poem by Adam White, poet

To make them right,
You crush the crackers to dust,
Add a nice, hot mustard,
Some diced onion,
And then the meat
(The best ground beef you can find.)
Squeeze the contents together.
Add an egg for binding and,
With wet hands,
Form the mixture in to perfect little balls...

What shape would you have me?
You brought me in with smashed sight,
Burned my naivety away,
Left only blood and tears to drink.
You blended my heart
(Your cancerous blessings,)
And made such a thing,
You recoiled as you opened
Those crimson hands.
What else did you expect me to be?

If you exist, answer me.
I watch through steaming glass
As flattened patties brown.
Toast the bread and cut the cheese.
The blade is quite sharp
(But it won't open skin.)
Sauce of choice? Ketchup.
I tell myself I'm fine.
Add salad as a side.
Must stay healthy. Must live on.

Day 7: Superhero Haiku Overload by Adam White, poet

Here are some silly, superhero inspired haiku. See if you can identify the subject of each haiku. First person to identify all five wins a no-prize.

1. The dark is your friend.
My fists your bloody saviour,
Wrapped in the night's cowl.

2. My will unbroken
Since the twilight of my life,
Where fear destroyed me.

3. Damned, the fire still burns.
Eternal soul sacrifice,
For the sake of one.

4. A great man knows loss,
And hides more for their safety
Than for humble cause.

5. I gave all my days.
Cruel fate returned me as this,
A man out of time.




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Day 6: Exiles, a poem by Adam White, poet

Sacrifice,
What a sweet symphony you play for me,
As I go to my sparking, blood-lit grave
Where, for my friends with great finality
I will burn, scream and gratefully contain
Destiny's misguided and abused will.
Sacrifice,
I am an exile from my only home
Filled with deep regret for my blind actions
And the work of my wandering, childhood hands.
Sacrifice,
You stare me in the face and ask little
But my life to protect those I'd spit on,
Turning their skin to solid and bright steel
It's mirroring surface more beautiful
Than the life that created it's gaunt shape.
Sacrifice,
How you would happily sacrifice me,
Forget me, replace me so easily,
So it's like I had never even been.
Sacrifice,
I halt my rage and gladly die for thee

Day 5: Denial Cycle #1-5, a sonnet cycle by Adam White, poet

#1
The truth not cresting my own skyline yet,
Though I can sense it's awful fingers touch;
Not cruel, not evil, not unkind as such,
But creeping in to dye my thoughts unset.
Cascading light illuminates your face,
My memories warm, though you are cold to touch;
Not distant, callous, not selfish as such,
You've left me still, though, lonely in this place.
Sleeping, pallid, you're covered, then you're gone,
And soon I may forget your tender touch;
Not lost, abandoned, not spiteful as such,
Just pushed aside so I might soldier on.
Oh, my lost love, my swollen eyes are sore.
Our meagre home your coffin evermore.


#2
What crushing burden pinions me here,
While summer light plays merrily on glass?
Midday. you're at work. Hours slowly pass.
The tick of our old clock grows more severe.
The clock. The fingers on your slowing pulse.
The medic looks up at the lens-like glass,
And shakes his head at what has come to pass.
And then the knife, the rope, the dark impulse.
It's one P.M. You're not at work. You're dead.
The Ankou's fingers tap on window glass.
There have been days like weeks in how they pass,
And dreams of you bring lonely, waking dread.
The tricks I play on my own reeling mind,
Disintegrate and leave me left behind.


#3
Warmth unfound in the generous shelter
Of each poor souls that I would call my friend.
I smile and laugh and like a pro pretend,
And ignore the voice, the eddy and the blur.
So kind, akin to nothing, much like her,
In equal parts of sweetness and of dust,
With no sign of spoiling, though I know she must,
In her cot asleep and nevermore to stir.
Ashamed of how I weep in public light.
It's brightness makes me weak, and I collapse.
That I could have a moments grace, perhaps,
Or see the end of this protracted night.
I long for her to carry me downstream,
To join her in some never ending dream.


#4
Blush petals shine at the edge of your lips,
And your marbled skin has turned cold as stone.
Your body all angles and twisted bone,
Jagged trees show out where the flesh has ripped.
You're fine, as am I. Thirty depressions,
Two breaths. They say you are cold, so I leave,
And fetch the blanket which I'm sure you need.
A shared look. I watch an act in session.
Late. I imagine being here sooner.
You sit upright. We go to hospital.
I bring flowers and a scarf made of wool.
It's red, and it is like some grand treasure,
Cascading round your slender, pulsing nape,
Alive and perfect in our drab dreamscape.


#5
His words are dim. My ears ringing, I'm faint,
But emotionless, unfeeling and thin.
Inside me, I sense the invaders taint,
Small and solid, formed of all my best sins.
I stand. I leave. Discussion is pointless.
Nothing has changed. My way home is the same.
My bed familiar. Tired, I undress.
Three in the afternoon. I feel no shame.
Agony wakes me. Painkillers popped dry,
Followed by six hours glued to the box,
Kind company for a man such as I.
Morning comes. Coffee, and the front door knocks.
My grandchildren tear round the kitchen untamed
Nothing has changed. My life is the same.


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Day 4: Denial Cycle #5, a sonnet by Adam White, poet

Read Denial Cycle #1 first

His words are dim. My ears ringing, I'm faint,
But emotionless, unfeeling and thin.
Inside me, I sense the invaders taint,
Small and solid, formed of all my best sins.
I stand. I leave. Discussion is pointless.
Nothing has changed. My way home is the same.
My bed familiar. Tired, I undress.
Three in the afternoon. I feel no shame.
Agony wakes me. Painkillers popped dry,
Followed by six hours glued to the box,
Kind company for a man such as I.
Morning comes. Coffee, and the front door knocks.
My grandchildren tear round the kitchen untamed
Nothing has changed. My life is the same.



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Day 3: Piston Legs, a poem by Adam White, poet

Your piston driven legs drive through my heart
And I am pinned to the floor uncaring.
You gleefully rend my tired form apart,
But destroyed, I go on blankly staring.
You smash my features with great iron fists
But you can still feel my eyes inside you
Unfaltering, your mind would bend and twist
As the liquid on my pain drips on through.
That's right. Feel me rusting your dying gears.
This is where I've always been. In your head
And comfortable to keep residing here,
Picking at your wounds as you lay in bed.

Day 2: Denial Cycle #4, a sonnet by Adam White, poet

Read Denial Cycle #1 first

Blush petals shine at the edge of your lips,
And your marbled skin has turned cold as stone.
Your body all angles and twisted bone,
Jagged trees show out where the flesh has ripped.
You're fine, as am I. Thirty depressions,
Two breaths. They say you are cold, so I leave,
And fetch the blanket which I'm sure you need.
A shared look. I watch an act in session.
Late. I imagine being here sooner.
You sit upright. We go to hospital.
I bring flowers and a scarf made of wool.
It's red, and it is like some grand treasure,
Cascading round your slender, pulsing nape,
Alive and perfect in our drab dreamscape.

Read Denial Cycle #5


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Day 1: Your Voice, a poem by Adam White, poet

I bring you an oldy, remixed for your reading pleasure. For Tara.

Your voice in my mind
Your lips to my ears,
And I cannot forget you;
Your reaching, errant fingertips.
I cannot forget your love,
Cannot forget you.
You're like an ache, see?
These pills cannot crush
And sleep cannot cure
And time, so slow, cannot mend
As it uselessly tries to tick by
Utterly penetrating
With each sombre click
Of you hanging up.