Exits and Entrances

Inspired by the prompt ‘The Exits of the World’, this poem leaped into being. I have Stephanie at BeKindRewrite to thank for the inspiration and I hope, that according to her philosophy, you get as much from the reading of it as I did in writing it.

Exits and entrances,
One door swings open,
Another breaks your nose with a sudden slam.
Such are the fates of life,
Each of us walking like blind men,
Wondering why we all have broken noses,
That can no longer smell the fresh air,
Beckoning from forests and fields,
And the clear mountains calling out their siren call,
To a people who have long ago forgotten to listen to its patient power.

 

Perhaps today things will be different,
Perhaps today the adventure will begin,
And I will not know I’m me anymore,
Until I wash up tired and happy,
Smoking jacket and slippers,
With my feet roasted before the roaring fire,
And my back to the final whispering exit,
As the shadows creep and beckon,
I know no fear,
Armoured with a life spent,
Fully and well until the very moment,
The curtain falls
Exit stage right.

No A for Astronaut

The boy who never learned
The folly of his childhood dream,
Is the boy who never grew.
If only that sacred youth could have kept his eyes shut tight,
His mind bound up on dreams that shone,
Without need for sun or sky,
But the boy who in his mind
Wielded an epee and travelled to Paris,
To be a musketeer,
Was one day told the musketeers were all dead,
Dust and bones
In the grave of history.
 
And the boy who put down his sword,
In the inventiveness of the desperate
Looked outwards to the furthest shore of space,
And longed to be an astronaut,
To place his feet on land so high
He’d never be the same again,
And yet the careers computer
Had no A for Astronaut.
 
There is nothing sacred in human life,
Nature abhors dreams that do not change with circumstance,
Only the pen can wield a power that does not dim,
Breaking through the barriers of birth,
Going were no man or boy can imagine,
Tapping the well within that never dries,
But spurts higher with every gulp,
An artery cut under the skin of life,
It hints at depths we will never know,
Drink up my life force as I perish, It says
There is no such thing as rationing life,
Drink deep, dream deep
And as your heart is sundered once again,
Drink deeper still your grief,
And pen another world with your tears,
Until it too ends,
Even then the pen will never stop.
 

An Answer to Gaia

Mankind…we have long ago past the turning of the tide. There is no going back to a virgin world amongst the beasts. The laws of the universe compel us onwards. Our only option; to reach the other side, to harness this insane rush to become better than we are.

Only in complete mastery, in the humility that comes from hard won understanding, can we find the wisdom to save this world. We are not yet the finished article. This world, and all her wondrous gifts of life have hope yet. We must place this hope in ourselves.

And if this answer, so assured in human arrogance fails to satisfy, to ring that fateful bell of final truth, try this instead…In years to come, perhaps tomorrow, or in a million spins around the sun, we shall join that vast and worthy majority, silent in their halls beneath the earth, where almost all that ever swum, crawled, walked or flew over this world have their final rest. There we shall at last know peace, and as our shadow shrinks from the surface of the earth, a new dawn shall rise in blissful ignorance, the howl of the beast shall echo in the wild, and none shall know we ever were.

In that she may find some justice, or maybe not.

The Well of meaning

A building impatience,

Like a brook trembling free

Over boulders and stones,

Ever seeking a new path,

If not directed, its rage tempered

By strong banks,

It will dissipate itself over the landscape

Of possibility,

An endless bifurcation of chaotic meanderings,

An adventure of pure chance,

Great in extent,

But not deep enough to trouble

Even the sole of a shoe,

Let alone the soul of man,

Universal truths generalised to mere banalities,

Truisms exchanged like pleasantries,

What is needed is the deep well of meaning,

Mysterious in its dark depths,

Plumbed by an ever spreading light of consciousness,

Which grows wide and diffuse in its search,

And then sharp on features

Looming in the void,

Art on cave walls,

Ancient beasts once more freed to charge,

A wilderness unchained,

And let loose upon this tame world,

Changing all,

Or changing just one thing-

Profoundly

The Sparrow

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The sparrow floats above the flowerbeds,

Borne along by a stiff breeze that ruffles her feathers and sends her skimming over the springtime bloom,

The sparrow is warm, and she is well fed for there are insects aplenty.

So why does she leave the safety of her nest and risk becoming prey for some diving hawk or pouncing cat?

The sparrow flies to feel the air between her feathers, and the sun on her back.

To sail through the blue sky like a ship at sea: bound for undiscovered countries.

The sparrow flies because she loves to.

What do books know?

A few books (15-4-2011)

What do books know?
They are a menu that will never be eaten,
Blood too dry to offer nourishment,
That is why my pen never stops,
Its words may speak to the soul today,
But tomorrow their best use may be toilet paper,
Humour or cynicism –
There can be little difference here,
So let’s share a beer and laugh,
At our misfortunes,
And keep the pen moving,
The blood flowing,
Our hearts emptying,
For to fill a thing we must first empty it –
Hope, yes take that if you wish
And hear my laughter,
Its interpretation changes day to day,
Up to down and left to right,
Let me be a poet, a scientist, a warrior and a womaniser,
Until the roles fall away,
And the pen bleeds out its cartridge upon the world,
And inky night claims us all,
Till then, write on

Living-Dying

Ever new and ever bitter,
Is the cut of mortal acceptance,
live like you were dying (Tim McGraw)
Not only are we  bound to die-
But we are already dead.
The narrowest of edges is our path,
A fate permitting no wavering,
Save the plunge into madness,
That steals consciousness and self-knowledge:
The painful cut of the blade is forgotten,
But not the finality of its end.
*
Such is the fate of the mind,
That lingers on ends and beginnings,
Never on the eternity in-between.
Let me be an inbetweener,
No longer intoxicated by scent of spring,
Nor the sweet decay of autumn leaves,
But ever basking in the summer sun,
Till winter’s morning steals frozen breath,
From lungs that never knew their end.
*
We are not living,
We are not dying,
We are living-dying.

Rebirth

I was inspired recently by Elli Write’s Monthly Writing Contest , which asks for submissions on the subject of Rebirth. There is something really special about being given a simple brief, without direction, and asked to open your creative wings.  A writer will often have numerous ideas buzzing around his or her head. But in my book, a writer proves their worth only when they have to adapt and flow with the inspiration of the moment, without relying what they have done in the past. So without further ado here is my effort:

Rebirth…
To be everything you dreamt and more,
To have the aching void of what could be,
No longer a painful absence in your chest,
But full with bursting joy,
But then again…
Without the void,
There can be no light, no star of hope or twist of fear,
No human world in a spin,
At this mad game we call a life.
So stay on a while dear emptiness,
Linger on my friend discontent,
To fill my pen with bitter fruits,
Of loves lost upon the wind of this neglect,
That carries stories whispered as if in dream,
Of what was and what could be,
The ever lasting strife for better life:
Rebirth…

There’s always something to write

There’s always something to write
When life is always going on
in all its varied forms
The wind through the feathers of an eagle
A mere thrush darting between the bushes

Or a fish fleeing the sharp tuna’s teeth whilst seeking out the next tidbit
Life’s in fast-forward
The pen cannot capture the articulation of thought
Even the gaps are filled, the pause to draw breath
Full of billion images
Sights, smells and touch

Like a vagrant boy darting through the market
Though he has nothing
The world is open to him, everything is possible
Because everything is ahead
And in those forward looking
Adventure filled eyes
There are no limits to what can be

These footprints on grass
Will be remembered

The feeling of the sun setting over the mountains
Like a shiver down your spine
in the cooling bath: delicious
Oh yes, there’s always something to write.

Concentration

A thin umbra of light,

All beyond is darkness, irrelevance,

There is only the now,

The fist, the blood and the pain…

And the joy, the unbearable, unbreakable joy

Of living,

In pure concentration,

This poem –

All that’s left behind

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