Spectre At The Table

ghost

(source)

wrote the book you live by

 

every chapter

 

versed the violent

lived the calm

 

the unknown angst 

that haunts at dinners

 

asks for answers

 

knows you are

for every claim of

I’m

 

 I am

 

I am the you 

you are the me-ness

the other side of we

that works on pause 

and wonders why

 and guesses

 

am I doing this 

just

fair

or alright

going with what comes naturally

with flaws

 

identical in sin and saving graces

alternate side of wishes

wants denied

the spectre at the table

soon diminished

when questioned

who are you

and who am I

 

I am the ghost of 

here

and after

 

the filament of

light that blesses

blinks

 

the saving thought that questions

shall I

shan’t I

the conscience 

that demands

forever

think

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Penny Revelations

anansi-magicmirror-tameka-empson

(source)

For a penny

you can gamble your reflection

veneered reverse of silver

invites bronze

Revelations pending

for a penny

nominal persuasion

tempting, come

Caretaker of the looking-glass

awaits you

beckons, whispers 

her compelling song

Listen to hypnosis

for a penny

shall you risk the void

a penny scratch, you’re gone

 

Crystal Visions

He had the look of sailor

Bushy trim, inbled ink

Lips to liquid elegance

Gave me cause to think

I saw his soul


People passed in passing

As they passed and passed on by

I was caught from passing

By reflections in his eye

I saw his soul


In vino told his verity

Crystal goblet crimson stained

Identity invisible

Absent but for pain

I saw his soul


He mused of distant lands, he spoke

Of places he had been

Of service, home, his children

And a wife he’d hardly seen

I saw his soul


He told of losing hope and faith

Of wishing death’s release

Of deepest well he’d ever known

Of falling to his knees

I saw his soul


I asked him frankest questions

And he did not balk from truth

He analysed and after thought

Depicted foolish youth

I saw his soul


He did not ask, I never said

His wine was eloquent

I lived a little of his life’s

Redemptive glass, a gent,

I saw his soul


He gave me food for future

In the telling of his tale

I gave him gloves and scarf, a coin

And wished him fair thee well

I saw it all

Where Angels Weep

Is it better to be absent when you lie upon a bed,

Presence close beside you, somewhere else inside your head,

Turning all the buttons in the channels of your brain,

Is it better to be all alone when absence causes pain.

Is it better to be silent when walking on the street,

Negating conversations with the lonely that you meet,

Turning face away from fears, frantic running fast,

Is it better to be silent when lonely people pass.

Is it better to be buoyant when spirit urges fall,

To try for more resilience when backed against life’s wall,

Pretending to the lonely heart that silent power wins,

Is it better to be buoyant while you flail to sink or swim.

Is it better to believe in dreams than curse the darkest clouds,

Surpassing all tempestuous with images around,

Fleeing to the hinterlands where dreamers send their prayers,

Is it better to believe in dreams than cry down oaths on never theres.

Is it better to be born a fool that never makes a plan,

Wisdom in the let it be’s instead of better than’s,

Painting pictures of their own while others purchase theirs,

Is it better to be born a fool and peddle varied wares.

Is it better to be born deaf, blind, all senses out of reach,

No touch, no taste, no scents, no sixth, distant from life, speech

Indifferent, heart of stone, oblivious to all,

Is it better to be born senseless than to feel the pain withal.

Is it better to suppress the self when angels beg their need

Though silent on a lonely cloud where usher’d tears fall, bleed,

Dripped upon the bed space where the absent hear, don’t fail,

Is it better to suppress the self when angels weep and wail.

 

Year In The Fire

The fire glimmers softly at this time of year,

Dulled with amber glow and vague reflection,

Crusted embers fused in furnaced carbon tears,

Mingled joyous sadness and dejection.

Beginnings of the ending of another passaged year,

Vault of mem’ries scanned in observation,

Stockings hung, as adults, anticipating all good cheer,

Pros and cons on mantelpiece selection.

Twas once upon the last day of the dying of each year

That I gazed into the flames of self-perception,

Feather to the balance of the heart, reviewed with fear,

Weighted gaze, self-analyzed confession.

Distanced through the haze in the glow of burnt-out year,

A summary of days passed in completion,

Banked one upon the other, at life calendar I peer,

In moments quiet peaceful introspection.

Some coals that I have gathered in the bunker of this year

I’ll store in baskets woven for retention,

Others I will burn to warm and I’ll hold dear

The treasures earthed from pits and recollection.

Spirit of History

In about three hours time I should be ensconced in OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA ready to partake of the privilege of The Men They Couldn’t Hang.

(source:-   caitlinmccuskercoursework.blogspot.com )

Hopefully, ‘cos I’m ever hopeful, :), listening to this. Spot the bit that’s just ace.

England, 1936.
The grip of the Sabbath day
In London town the only sound
Is a whisper in an alleyway
Men put on their gloves and boots
Have a smoke before they go
From the west there is a warning of
A wind about to blow

Like Caesar marching to the East
Marches Mosley with his men
Dressed in their clothes of deepest black
Like a gathering hurricane
This is the British Union
With its flag of black and red
A flag that casts a shadow in
Berlin and in Madrid

So listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

So mile by mile they come on down
To a place called Cable Street
And other men are waiting there
Preparations are complete
Mosley comes so close
They now can see his outstretched arm
A hand raised up that way
Never took the future in its palm

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

The battle broke as the fists and the batons fell
Through the barricades came the sound of the wounded yells
Jack Spot burst through with a chair leg made of lead
Brought down a crashing blow on Mosley’s head

And so we learn from history generations have to fight
And those who crave for mastery
Must be faced down on sight
And if that means by words, by fists, by stones or by the gun

Remember those who stood up for
Their daughters and their sons

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists … stones … batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

 

Funny thing,

that we get far enough away from events

we call them history.

Then we look at it

and get a new perspective.

Or more than one.

No one says we have to look at history.

Everything only happened yesterday.

Yesterday is upon us every day.

Marching.

Demanding action.

The pendulum swings

to extremes,

all sorts of extremes.

If we don’t learn, we repeat.

I’ve repeated this song a lot.

Funny thing is,

I’m a pacifist.

By choice and persuasion.

And a coward..except.

Most of us would fight – in some shape or form – for what we believe to be right.

If only we could learn from history what that is.

Separating the myths from the legends.

We’re not obliged to learn.

It’s simply desirable.

To keep the music flowing.

To keep life going.

To keep on keeping on.

Let the spirit of history live.

 

May Music, Day 25 – Slainte To The Music.

When I love a song, or a whole album for that matter, I quite often listen to it on repeat. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone has requested, for the love of god, that I change the music. And they’re not talking about me having a moan. Although that happens too.

I kind of sicken myself to songs after I’ve done that and then might not play them again for some time. Twindaddy’s 25th and final question for this music challenge is asking which song I could listen to all day and not tire of. Well, even among my favourites and those that are in recovery from over-exposure, none would fit the category of ‘all day without tiring’.

There is always a limit to how long I can listen to any one piece of music or album. My family might disagree but it’s true.

One such album was ‘Sunny Side Up’ by Paolo Nutini, another Scots singer/songwriter. So Scottish, in fact, that some people from outwith these parts often find it difficult to make out what he’s singing. Obviously, I had no such problem and sang along to this whole album for several weeks – but not all day – and now haven’t listened to it in some time.

Today though, may very well be the day, on unearthing this CD, that I enjoy it all over again.

The video below was captured at an annual charity event, ‘Cash For Kids’, run by Glasgow’s local radio station. The kids involved in this event will no doubt remember it forever – one in particular who got to play acoustic to Paolo’s impromptu performance.

‘Candy’ was the song that made me buy the CD.

Here’s the professional version. In case you can’t make out what he’s singing.

As a parting farewell to this music challenge I want to thank Twindaddy for running it and for inviting participation. It’s been fun to reflect on music that has meant much to me although it’s also been quite emotional – something I didn’t expect at all when I signed up for it. Music does indeed permeate every part of our lives. I’ve never really explored why I favour some songs and choose not to listen to others. Musical preference and tastes obviously play a large part in that but so too do the memories and associations we have with it. One thing it is, though, is universal. It crosses all divides and can touch even where words are not always understood. And it makes us want to dance -sometimes. Some people have even made a lifelong career out of it. Lucky buggers. To music and dancing, Slainte. And cheers to Twindaddy and all the lovely blogging participants I got to meet on the journey.

 

Unplugged

Drawn from deepest recesses,

Risen from dead to haunt,

Levered occasions long buried,

Memories suppressed yet taunt.

A song, a whisper in spirit,

Voices exhumed from the past,

Post-mortem’d questions reflected,

Power unplugged with a blast.

Eyes In The Shadows

shadows

engage

with corners,

escape,

roam,

trailing insignificance

like a threat,

a warrant

for delusion,

deeming death

a choice.

breaths held

too long

pant,

shadows turn

to leer,

location revealed.

steadfastly forward

they wend 

idle way,

brandishing darkness,

banishing hope,

eyes revealed

a reflection,

one glimmer 

to see