Leverage

could he row back time through ancient channels

oars heaving on the drag where stillbirth weeps

splinters edged their way, his leathered hands held

damp muscles moaned and begged unending sleep

the doldrums drugged him, nudged defiant nuance

come rest, they said, forget and bide ye here

amid false calm to dark tumult hereunder

relax, lay back, your haven it is near

mesmeric waves of stillness poured upon him

narcotic song of sirens far beneath

to drift in waves of opioid rhythmic cadence

temptation in surrender, weapons sheathed

yet he rowed, in shards of pain and fury

the rasping on his skin a testament

endurance, no mere word, in life’s still waters

muscled memory hoved though strength near spent

miles or more he moved in arcs of fruitless

or so it seemed as fog around still lay

plied, exerted, all he had within him

lone figure, chloroformed, in shadowed day

a mirror watched his progress, paid his passage

unknown to him, it glanced on waters dark

slivers sliced and pierced his skin, world weathered

weary palms saw nothing of their spark

determination drove his lone resistance

persistence plied in dogged dips and heaved

cleared the stagnant sludge that hindered leverage

worked his way towards something he believed

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Pep Talk

I believe that most people who write feel they have a purpose in doing so. Whatever that purpose may be we can, at times, be doubtful of our ability to communicate. We may doubt the words we choose, our technical capabilities, the methods we use, the subjects of which we speak. Worse, we may doubt whether any of it makes any difference to a single soul other than ourselves.

To love writing, to want to communicate something, anything, and to doubt whether it has any meaning or to find ourselves in a place when the words just won’t come is an awful place to be for any writer. Over the last few weeks, or perhaps longer, I’ve experienced some of these doubts and it has come to my attention that a number of other bloggers, of whom I’m very fond, have been experiencing some or all of the above.

I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in amazing connections, ones that sometimes blow me away by their synchronicity. Not for the first time here I find myself renewed by reading the thoughts and feelings of others and the honesty with which they share them. I also god bless email and friends across the ether. Some of the allusions in the following poem are born of reading others’ posts, comments and emails. And listening to an enlightening Ted Talk. One that makes the excellent point that I, courtesy of that beautiful synchronicity, will adhere to – I can do better. In all areas of life. I just have to try.

it’s too early to be calling me

or too late, I’m comfy

and you know that I can’t rise

your bugle pierces

no respite, it hollers

get up lassie, seek the prize

 

I bleary eye my boots on

and I splash my face

and question silently

who’re we kidding, what’s the point

battle’s over

all a waste of energy

 

but I’m trained for long haul

war and peace

and justice just the same

and tired is no excuse, you’re in the army

you’re a soldier

not a number but a name

 

and it matters that you uniform

and polish spit

and stand up ever straight

you can’t lie abed

and give up ghosts

they’re at the gate

 

there’s a battle to be fought

and in conscience

can’t object

for to not to try, surrender all

to give the field to hate

how keep respect

 

so get up soldier, silence voices

don the boots and arm yourself

and fight another day

ennui, attitude

and poor perception

out the way

 

these ruminations

round and round they go

we rue, beget

pivot points, dissatisfied with somethings

round and round, encircling, draining and despairing

in a helix of regret

 

get the little boots on

you are awesome

and you know you are

believe it soldier

you’ve a purpose, we’ve a purpose

we still orbit that same star

 

para nuestros ninos – For Our Children

 

 

it begins

 

 

slowly

 

 

his fingers

by voice

caressing

 

on repeat

 

one song

threading my hair

with warm honey

 

poured

by ohm

 

a balm

 

blessed

poesy

in song

 

words

carved

 

 

left

for our children

 

para nuestros ninos

por amor

 

 

 

By Purpose, By Joy

it is time

to gather

to filter and reduce

to expand

upon the joy

that ministers

to see wih clarity

free and freed from tumbled

thoughts and things

time to simplify

with touch of loving kindness

to self

to what has served

time to pleasure art

to clear the path

to creativity

it is time

by purpose by joy 

Operational

Lend, for a moment, your heartbeat,

Unfettered by casing of skin,

Unbidden to work for its living,

Unhurt, untouched by all sin.

Listen as heartbeat pounds softly,

Desirous of body around,

Pendulum longing for spirit,

Soul seeking heart to be found.

Watch as they merge close and closer

Enmeshed for the time that it takes,

See how they work out their passage,

Together for goodness’ sake.

Take back your heart while still beating,

Breath it with spirit you’ve known,

Flesh it and, when moved together,

Give it a life of its own.

Excise your heart with incision,

Pare it to beat at its best,

Timepiece of rarest precision,

Gifted for life and no less.

Examined now, proper procedure,

Surgeon and scalpel remove,

Operational, heart with a purpose,

Heart given back, fit to prove.

 

Halfway

This started off as one thing and ended as quite another. I’m afraid I have politics on the brain  – even when I’m trying to be romantic!

Halfway to our destination,

Chances still to meet,

Ticket ride from separation,

Journey at our feet.

Risk of worth to end frustration,

Ready for the heat,

Central hope of consummation,

Halfway to replete.

Letter’d Lives

Though we don’t write the endings to our stories,

We’re bound to tell the passages between,

Letters written, words too oft confounding,

On life’s parchment, scripted scene by scene.

Underlying themes and sub-plots merging,

Combined, refined, relate the years we’ve seen,

Central characters all pulled together,

Writing book of life and where we’ve been.

Sometimes story plot becomes confusing,

Characters won’t say and do all that they mean,

Deletions happen often though they hurt you,

No one likes to lose the plan they’ve weaned.

Conflict often rises though unplanned for,

Resolutions too, when hope it seemed

Had fled the prose and left an empty page there,

Tale renews and onward goes as schemed.

Standing back and viewing sometimes helps here,

Perspective on a scale too rarely seen,

Judgements made, a brand new tack is taken,

Weaving all perceptions that we’ve gleaned.

No, we don’t write the endings to our stories

But try to polish them to worthy sheen,

Chapters running, coming all together,

Life lines written, speaking volumes in between.

 

Credits Rolling

Movie’s almost over,

Time to open eyes to life again,

Credits still rolling,

Giving time to make a choice and then

Sink back to sleep,

In coloured pictures – existence formatted – digitised on screen

Or live the dream,

The life you’ve seen and recreated time again in dreams.

Title music’s fading and the links are on,

Continuity, same voice

Designed to soothe and keep you prone,

Empty mug,

Discarded wrappers at your feet,

Soiled,

Comfort formed,

Patronised,

Token’d treats,

Then off to bed,

Arise,

Begin the same.

Controlled,

Encaptured,

Configured.

All for them.

 

Switch off, tune out………………….

 

Turn on. Tune into life, let’s dare again.

The Thrill

It’s a wide sky to fly out on your own here,

Kinda lonesome in a lovely sort of languid, lithesome way,

Like distance is no object on a clear day

And wings are happy just to flap away.

It’s a long time I’ve travelled on this journey,

Kinda ages since I roosted for a rest,

Like someone’s moved the landmarks without warning

But I’m happy doing what I do the best.

It’s the flight, you see, that really is the main part,

Kinda shooting breeze and riding currents fair,

Like flying without falling is my skill set

And nothing in this world can quite compare.

It’s the way I am, you know, I’m off the wire,

Kinda restless when I have to stay too still,

Like motion is my purpose and my meaning,

It’s a gift of wings and head for heights that thrill.

The Quaich – a loving cup

gifted, fashioned, crafted from a tree trunk

exquisite in its usefulness and shape

hollowed in the centre for the purpose

of holding liquid for our thirst to slake

gifted from the giver of the airy

fashioned for liquidity of life

crafted by the hands of man in union

with sources and the gifts for which we strive

no need for gilding or adornment

its beauty lies in purpose and in form

simplicity from complex matter

life- holding from life-giving

lovingly borne

(image http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quaich)