Failure To Transmit

Media,

Main job,

To question and inform.

Methodology almost immaterial

In raising awareness.

Religion,

Only job,

To manifest love in the world.

Methodology immaterial.

One failed in its task.

Reasons immaterial.

Both fail regularly.

Excuses immaterial.

Failure to transmit.

Optimism

More than enough occasions of failure to whistle a tune when it calls, but

Enough understanding that when it rolls round again,

I know I’ll rise up after the fall.

 

Too much experience with sadness and grief when it comes to pass

But enough to know that time heals like the cliché.

Unending grief does not last.

 

Too many times of depression to wish it on anyone, even a foe,

The dearth of hope and gladness of feelings

Leaves you with nowhere to go

 

But spiralling down to a sunken abyss where creatures of night fill the dark

And reason and joy depart for some time

While you wait for the song of the lark.

 

Nothing in life is unchanging and that’s the way it should be.

No stagnating pond where fish circle endlessly round,

That’s never a life for me

 

Or others that feel the persuasion, the prompting of spiritual fire,

There’s only one way, the direction is up

Soaring ever higher and higher.

 

That’s just the way it is with some, optimists I believe they are termed.

Nothing in life completely fazes us,

No matter how many times we are warned.

 

It’s a testament to either stupidity or an eternal longing for hope,

It’s viewed by some as unreality

And by others as somewhat of a joke.

 

But it’s a damn sight better than moaning and groaning for what lies way behind.

I’d rather be looking to stars and bright linings

Than staring blankly around.

 

It may be that others are doubtful at intelligence married with mirth

But there’s nothing to be done with nature’s benevolence,

That’s the way I’ve been since my birth.

 

If all of the world was a reality or pessimistic fuelled by the dire

And nothing of hope filled visions ahead

I’d jump straight down to the fire

 

Of hellish depression with no end in sight, just a yawning cavern of dark,

Nothing would make a semblance of sense.

No, I’ll hang right onto my spark.