nickcook

[nickcook]

Note to Torre 2025

Do you remember back,

back when I was the boy who blocked his own shot?

You were the happy emo

Sitting in your car till 3am talking and singing

Taking back Sunday at the top of our lungs "It's you I can't deny"...

Back before I went "Counting crows" and you went EDM,

There was "Sick puppies" (white balloon) and "Boxcar racer" (there is)

We were a couple of kids,

Who thought we were Cory and Topanga,

With no clue we would crash and burn later

Despite that we stayed close,

Neither of us wanted to become strangers

Now you're on the other side of the continent,

I'm still here,(making my own way) your biggest fan, separated

Only by distance,

I see you out there doing your thing,

And absolutely killing it.

[nickcook]

Seeing your face as I shut the door

Happy or sad either way

Untitled 2024

It kills me every time I have to leave,

Because I know what it's like

To be left behind, to sit there

And feel so alone,

I don't like the idea of time together

Being nothing more than simple

Messages on the phone, accompanied

By quick little chats about nothing in particular

Yet here we are, I'm on the road,

Heading away from our home,

And it's dark out here,

Headlights and rain drops in front of me,

But that's not what I'm seeing.

In every light filled droplet,

I see a memory, and a possibility,

You see, in the future selflessness

Is a must, it's not about me,

It's all about us.

[nickcook]

[nickcook]

I used to write as a way to fill this void.

This emptiness.

But now I write to feel it.

To put my hand through it,

grasp and bring back what I can.

It is my muse. This ever present

absence.

Pay attention. Can you listen

to the silence?

The mother to all music.

Can you feel it? The promise of

a birth.

An echo of a present

still unseen, still

unknown.

[nickcook]

Jean Cocteau to Jean Marais, 1939 / E. E. Cummings / A Warm Day by Louise Gluck / "Looking East" by Sara Linda Poly / "In the Stillness" by Sara Linda Poly / Debasish Mridha / Picture is from the Pinterest / Albert Camus / Bring Me The Sunset In A Cup by Emily Dickinson

[nickcook]

I've left love on the kitchen counter, next to the odd-shaped sink below the window, light streaming in, soaking warm and slightly rotten, soft and bruised from all the fingers can't help but feel the gentle flesh, imagine the taste and leave it sitting, waiting to be claimed. i'm sorry we couldn't keep it, fresh and ripe we loved like a promise slipped from lips to floor, saved just enough to be forgotten next to the breakfast dishes by the morning glass bright and still, life creeping in atop the bench, love left, I have.

[nickcook]

Good bye for now

I just started to text you,

The usual "good morning I love you"

Then remembered there would be no answer.

Three bad weeks, 12 hours in the ER,

A single 4:30 am drop-off,

And a few tears in my eyes,

In the parking after saying good bye

My body hurts, I've been up 24 hours now,

Empty stomach, and I need sleep.

Still, this is nothing,

Compared to what you're going through.

I cant imagine what it's like to be you.

Feeling broken down, and alone, tired of fighting.

Wanting rest, feeling like giving up,

Or giving in to your past, the negative thoughts.

No visitation, and very brief phone calls,

You're getting help though, proper meds,

And professionals to talk to.

I am still here, waiting, hoping for the phone

To ring, and your voice saying I can come get you.

I hope by then, this poem is buried deep.

So far down in you're feed, you never see it.

You dont need to see this,

Its just something I had-

To get off my chest.

It was breaking me down.

I think I'm good now.

[nickcook]

Anxious Beliefs

You could've left; you could still.

I was so busy convincing myself you no longer loved me, loved us.

I was actively building scenarios and capturing snippets of your guilt.

I looked at those around me and pondered thoughts of letting go, thoughts of leaving you.

I am not ready, nor should I ever be.

You have not only loved but blinded me with patience, illustrated recollections, promised me of healing.

True love is not romance. It is the insomnia of two hearts and intwined lives never sleeping.

You could leave, as could I, any day from here.

But no one would know me as you have known me.

L. Southard 12/09/22

[nickcook]

Almost Lapland I watch you work. Snow swirls outside. I brew coffee and open the tin of shortbread I made the other day. It’s so quiet, my thoughts are loud in my ears. Yesterday mingles with the almost-was and there is wonder in how we got here, with little worry of what may be. I’m too far south for the cold that often grips me. It’s terribly cozy just inside, so I move slowly, as if to hold onto a moment with you.

[nickcook]

I went walking with old friends today,

joking and laughing,

and remembering some of the good times,

back before all these crazy days,

and separated by distance,

just me and the guys,

having playful and innocent fun,

heading back to the old family home,

seems like I had found that place again,

when it was just my little piece of Heaven.

We headed off to the park,

the one with the swings and giggling girls,

we found an old football in the bushes,

and played around to impress the girls,

Tommy said, "I like to play by my own rules,

so, you guys go ahead,

I've found my piece of Heaven".

We walked down the old river embankment,

and a few solitary grey haired old men were fishing,

one old timer said to Frankie,

"Would you like a rod and reel",

Frankie smiled and said,

"I love the quiet and my solitude,

so, you guys go ahead, this is my Heaven".

We arrived on the busy and noisy high street,

and the old bicycle store was open,

we stared with awe,

at the shiny and new racing bikes,

with 10 and 15 gears,

Billy said, "I love racing and thrills,

so, you guys go ahead,

this is going to be my Heaven".

Next door was the old dusty book store,

we whispered about those scary old stories that would come alive in our minds,

I said "Don't believe everything that is written",

and Eddie replied "The real world has already

broken my mind and soul. I prefer to live within these pages,

so, you and Stevie go ahead,

my heaven is in every book".

At the end of the street stood the old haunted house,

we stared at the broken windows,

and it seemed like there was movement behind them,

Stevie said "I can hear them calling,

leave me with the ghosts of old and voices in my head,

this is my fate and I accept my piece of Heaven".

I was alone when I arrived at the old family home,

my father was stood at the old rusted gate,

his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were misty,

containing nothing but sadness and loneliness,

I said "I'm truly sorry for being away for so long,

when we are called to our Heaven, we have to go",

he smiled gently and nodded with understanding,

I asked, "Where is mother",

he raised his head and looked up to the sky and said, "She was called to her own place in Heaven".

[nickcook]

how did we come to lie here

how did we come to lie here? among the wet stones, rusted fences meant to keep us in or out of the world. either way they offend us. pick up a rock, I say, and we’ll play a game. 

how did we come to lie here on our backs, with eyes shut against the light? I feel for your hand. getting warmer, warmer you say. I am hungry and this hunger is a circle we can’t step out of. listen, I can hear the circle now it hums and far in the beautiful(beautiful) distance we hear our children, and we can go back to sleep for a little while longer.

[nickcook]

You don't have to say it out loud.

You don't have to wish on shooting stars with me. You don't have to drop me home on a lonely Friday night while I quickly run up to kiss you goodbye.

You don't have to think of funny pet names with me. You don't have to tell me things you love until we both fall asleep in each other's arms. You don't have to curl up on the sofa after another disastrous movie night. You don't have to grow old with me.

You don't have to read me my favorite books when I feel bored. You don't have to lie that you like it when I make you coffee. You don't have to gift me diaries without my birthday pages on them. You don't have to hold me close when we're walking across. You don't have to offer me your hand when I'm about to slip.

You don't have to cry on my shoulders when you get a little too drunk. You don't have to trace initials with me on a sidewalk. You don't have to say you love me all day long.

You don't have to come back home to someone you never loved.

But darling now all home can ever taste is every shade of you.

[nickcook]

Remember the present.

[nickcook]

You deserve to wake this morning to the blue sky, your inner horizon filled with sun and light, dappled gold on the walls and a timpani of colour bursting forth, show me the inside of your mind.

You deserve to get up and feel that little trickle of excitement, like a babbling brook, like when time was an easy metaphor, being a river when gaiety meant good cheer and joy, and the birds - their morning sojourn could rouse you near to tears with the simplicity of it all.

You deserve to smile at the smell of freshly baked bread, to wonder where your steps will take you for the day, to spend it easy on the earth of your home in the earth of your soul.

You deserve to create yourself anew… like clay beneath kind hands, to paint your world vibrant til the colours seep past your canvas.

You deserve the love of the sea and the stars and love, you’ve always been.

[nickcook]

Ambling, a ramble A return to aimless wandering is a surprising side effect of getting older. “Where” is not so important or even why; what is will be, and what will not be, is lost. Lost things can be remembered and treasured without touch. I will always remember something about you even if just your sigh or laugh or hands. So many storytellers swear by their processes: drink, stand, sit in quiet, sit in a cafe, travel, sit still, read voraciously, study, and most of all, listen. I stare at streetlights long enough and they split in two, leaving a vision of sunset straddling mountains and skyscrapers. I hear music that may be wind.

[nickcook]

and sometimes i write of heartbreak

the feeling of being so alone in this world that the pain overwhelms and consumes forcing me into a corner of my closet dark and dank and…

hidden

and i laid my head upon my pillow because i always have a pillow and blanket there and i cry myself to sleep wondering why you, no ~ everyone...

left me

what did i do wrong, what could i do that was so fucking wrong but i never get an answer in return because i’m all alone in this world and the smile that others see isn’t...

me

but a painted-on mask to hide the pain

at night i break into a million pieces...

just like you

[nickcook]

retrospect

the sea was… blue -maybe. possibly green, if i concentrate. i don’t recall the sky. obviously there was one,  but i don’t remember it. i know, we said some lovely things to each other. but it all runs together now, in a sort of soft blur. it feels happy when i try to touch it, that memory. that day at the beach.  mostly an impression now. i spend more and more of my time, sifting through the past, seeing what’s left.  where there is a hole, i rummage around its edges, trying to retrace the place and time, trying to find the missing bits. there is a song i heard once that reminds me of this. i can hum the tune. i’ll think of the title eventually.