Tag Archives: life

Tears to Overflow

Don’t be ashamed of your tears,

For they are not made remotely from you in the clouds,

But are the uttering of the soul within;

Turned to vapour and urged by emotion to rise,

Steaming up the windows,

Before streaking down;

It shows you are brimming and overflowing with life,

More in touch with everything around you,

Than words can possibly describe.

Wool & Fishbone


Home-spun wool, looped through fish bone, can’t sow your clothes now ;

A meal of suet and gristle stew, with hard bread, no longer makes your mouth water;

Chasing lambs, knocking cattle on their sides, tumbling down grassy hills ‘n’ vernes in fits of giggles;

Simple games of your youth and humble beginnings forgotten on the incline,

Uncomfortable truths give way to more comfortable prose, when the summit is in sight;

Never realising that the summit is a harsh, inhospitable and baron place;

With so many trampling over each other for a foothold, it’s home to none for too long;

And, courtesy and  humility are not character flaws to be ashamed of, or embarrassed by;

For, a pioneer with the much-envied ‘ace gene’ once said of their corollary- humbleness:

‘There is no act too small, for a truly big man’.

Alcove

 

An alcove in the pulsing heart of chaos,

A conclave of sanctuary against all the ‘visititudes of life’;

A place where you keep a firm grip on sanity;

Of who you are;

Gain a sense of reassurance from that singularity;

Calm the mind from restlessness, if nothing more;

Shaking off all the ill-will and distresses of the moment;

Then incrementally draw yourself into a state resembling calmness-

Much like awakening from a vivid dream, come the morning-

An infrequent exercise, most days;

Or, a few times a day during particularly challenging times;

It serves to prove, we all need a ‘fortress of solitude’,

A place to feel sheltered to recuperate;

From this present calamity, if not from all forms of harm;

Though we’d be the furthest thing to superman as you’ll likely find!

‘Baby’

 

Don’t call me ‘baby’,

I’m your inspiration,

Your guardian, protector, carer and teacher, when you need me to be;

Steering you onto the right course if you veer off,

Your greatest creation;

The best investment you’ll ever have,

I’m your footprint in eternity,

And, your precious legacy;

Until my hour however, I need you to be mine;

And, i’ll come to call you ‘my everything’ in time!

Mr Whistler

Mr Whistler, you’re like the pied piper of Hamelin,

Except you’re a hard-hatted scaffolder whistling a jonty tune on a sunny day, in modern day Camden,

Your tune carries far and wide: like a pinball, bouncing from ear to ear of every person that passes by,

Some search you out, while others hear you long before they arrive;

A few recognising the tune, others hearing it for the very first time,

Oblivious to all of this, you concentrate on testing the bracket and brace,

While the tune may seem like magic to the gathering crowd below,

To you, it’s a subconscious hangover from a musically-obsessive youth,

Manifesting itself of late into a unconscious habit accompanying your work;

The audience can be an occupational hazard at times,

For, you get so caught up in your work, you forget they grow quite animated and carried-away,

Integrity of the structure is what truly matters to you now, Mr Whistler,

And the applause at work’s end, you treat as appreciation for a job well done,

Rather than a false catalyst for re-hashing a past chasing rockstar dreams, that is in truth are a false economy,

For beauty and fulfilment are in the eye of the beholder;

What you want and need has many layers in-between, and to appreciate the differences, takes time and the dawn of maturity;

And, Mr Whistler, has evidently learned that chasing some dreams (no matter the temptation) are not as fulfilling as he once believed them to be.

Fields of Your Youth

 

Standing in a field like any other;

Similar to the ones you ran through as a child,

Care-free giggles, laughter and screams of glee, permeating all around;

So delightfully excited to be among your peers, playing at war, tag or what-not;

Punctuated by a stern reproach to ‘get back inside’!

Triggering an involuntary squirm echoing out into the distance before fading away;

A distant whistle precipitates an explosion, like lightning shattering a moment of reverie;

The child is a child no longer but a soldier with bayonet-fixed-rifle in hand;

He stands on a field less green than muddy, a drenched swamp that’s more bog than anything alike;

His karkey greens caked in wet, cold, mud;

Reflecting on memories when he played war as a child,

The adult version of the game (he grimly observed, taking shape around him) is more stark, morbid and visceral than could ever be realised;

A charge will soon be called by bugle horn,

And, he will run through this muddy marsh with bayonet thrust out;

Artillery shells, explosions and gunfire will ring out;

Shrapnel will take turns to scar, maim and shred you and the lads around you into mangled messes;

All of this you must confront head-on;

And stop only to cut through obstructing barbed-wire before continuing the onward charge,

Y’see: your own side will shoot you dead on sight for desertion,

Ahead of you lies the only bloody salvation available;

You have no choice but to move on;

Not all your friends will make it whole or at all,

Including you, if not for the grace of God;

So, make your peace with your maker for you will not get another chance,

The games you play are games no longer;

And memories of happier times-

Made so long ago, you can be forgiven for feeling you almost imagined them-

Are all you have.

Divinity of the Dancer!

A goddess on the dance floor;

Rhythm is her divinity

If this place be the cradle of life;

And music is the root of all self-awareness,

She is the first to experience the beat of the drumming and mimic her body into motion,

Inspiring all to answer her call to arms by standing-up-right!

Many millennia may have passed since that fateful moment,

Is it still any wonder these rhythms and movement resonate within you and I?

Her acolytes still gather to watch her sermons;

Her movements are the orator,

And her body is a testament to her dedication and artistry;

An idol worthy of worship, forged with grace and favour;

Are we not all misfits in comparison?

Looking on at this exquisite creature for answers,

With prayers and offerings for salvation;

A shadow dancer of old, making contortions in slow-motion ;

Leaving all that befall her fanatics enthralled and slack-jawed, even after all this time,

Belying the truth: we have not evolved as much as we’d like to believe;

And remain mesmerised by the beauty of movement given life!