Bean Talking

On occasion, it is desirable to reward yourself with chocolate.

Not obligatory.

If it were obligatory, I’d refuse.

If it were obligatory, I’d find reasons not to eat it.

If it were obligatory, I’d eat celery instead – at a pinch.

After having just scoffed a slab of daughter’s chocolate birthday cake followed by a peppermint Fry’s Cream – because who can drink tea without something? – I’m left mulling over this idiosyncracy.

Try to force me to do something, not a chance in hell.

I’d put the chocolate in the bin first.

Fortunately, no one is forcing me to eat chocolate.

And, bizarrely, because no one is forcing me to eat it, and because I don’t feel obliged to deny myself it either, I don’t feel compelled to scoff it all the time.

I feel, tonight, chocolate, in all its dark splendiferousness, has revealed some wondrous truths about business, politics and the state of the world in general. Not to mention my personal outlook on any notion of diet fads.

Or is that just the cocoa speaking?

 

For Just A Moment

If eyes close, for just a moment,

to see within the things too rarely seen

in everydayness passing by, those visions

obliterated by the abc’s.

Life in letters, writ by all must doings,

time that’s urged in get on, get it done,

if eyes close, for just a moment,

seen, the rising of a different sun.

A momentary knowing that, no matter, 

while life courses, inside opens wide,

if eyes close, for just one moment,

surging light, it whispers, deep inside

Sensing rays, from some source emanating,

channelling the lapse of time without,

a basking in the life glow sometimes missing

in visuals of a world that may bring doubt.

If eyes close, for just a moment,

suspended time in tuning what you feel,

just for that brief moment, transformation,

a world within that makes without more real.

Portal to distinct dimension,

eyes closed, for endless moments, held the dream,

if eyes close to see inside self,

just a moment colours everything.

 

This started off as a song, a hummed tune and a few words, ‘just for a moment’. Lost the tune in the musings and the words did what they wanted!

 

Birds On A Wire, Fish On A Spire

spires and aerials cropped 4

There’s a spire growing out of a chimney

on a roof

across my street,

there’s a fish and an aerial

atop them

where birds of a feather all meet.

The fish follows the pathway of currents,

head into the wind when it blows,

I see the wind’s movement in clouds there

and in twirling of fish for it knows

And the birds know too when it’s blowing

for then the aerial is bare,

home they must go to seek shelter,

I look then and no birds are there.

Sometimes the clouds are so gathered

that sky is a uniform grey,

no movement observed in clouds passing

but I look and I check anyway.

And there, on the spire where it’s lonely,

lives a fish that never goes home,

It guides and resides, forever turning,

in the face of all winds ever blown.

It strikes me then, spires and aerials

and fish and birds at their height

serve purpose beyond their creation,

I’ll keep looking and learn what I might.

 

Three Candles

born to be

three candles, restive,

splutter

aimlessly, in dance,

enclosed in red,

filter gloom within

one room,

still’d, silent

sounds below the level,

water-fed.

reflective balls

upon a surface

sounding

pops invisible,

they rise to air,

mellow’d

three-times

flutter’d darkness,

oblivion observed,

I wander there.

no one touches like

the touch of water,

submersion soft,

a sensual

soporific haze,

three candles, struck from one,

a scarlet wonder,

ending sweetly

waxen musings

on a rainbow’d melted day.

Lines Joined

Where joining matters most might be the skyline,

Heavens reaching down caressing earth,

Or maybe where the waters kiss the shoreline,

Tumbling home anew, each wave rebirthed.

It may be where the mountains jag to cloud line

Or in the merging of the roots with soil,

Perhaps where rocks and fissures meet at hairline,

Or where air and vapour mingle at the boil.

It could just be where lovers touch on timeline,

Combined in bliss consumed, extraordinaire,

It matters not a whit, it’s all a fine line

From conjoined separation, here or there.

Inhale The Heights

Now, I’m actually fine, so no smart-arsed comments about losing the plot. I had a wee conversation in the comments section with John over at JMC813. He wrote a fabulous poem called Silent Scream which rather put me in mind of a time I wanted to…well, never mind what. If you want to know, visit John’s. It’s all there in the comments.

Unspeak the words.

Unwrite.

Return to underground passages,

cavern deep,

where echoes scream

for certifiable silence.

quieten then

voice

into

nothing.

No asylum

in complacent,

knowing

nods.

But fear and terror

where madness breeds

among misunderstood.

So write then.

Speak the words.

Climb to the mountains,

unstrangle the scream,

heavy air freed

to thinning ether.

Inhale the heights,

expunging darkness

with light.