I look as I walk by
You smile back
Walking ahead
As our souls scream out
Frantically reaching hands
The same eternal longing
Throughout
…five thousand lifetimes
Pulling at us
To please
…give in
How deep is this ocean of feeling
we have set our hearts in
Yet here we are
…Pacing the shore again
Pretending with nods and smiles
While inside
The thunderstorm of connection
has knocked all the power out
Maybe no one would notice
…if I reach for you in the dark
Standing at the station
reading the news of this nation
I became conscious of birds.
The words
I was reading
the thoughts they where feeding
seemed irrelevant.
This earth we are leant.
To much time is spent
lost in thought.
Additional hours can not be bought.
Oh listen to the birds
not the words
And learn to be
Free!
—
Being blind I have software on my mobile which enables the content of the screen to be spoken aloud (http://www.nuance.com/for-individuals/mobile-applications/talks-zooms/index.htm). Several days ago, I was reading the news at the station when I became aware of the birds singing. This prompted the above poem.
What is behind the façade
of those who live it large?
A girl on the make.
She takes
what a poor girl can.
He has no plan
apart from fun.
Together they run.
The sun
will always shine.
The band will always play
and the hay
will be forever sweet
as they dance with nimble feet
without a care
upon the air.
Old Father Time
clears his throat
as the band strikes a sour note.
—
(The reference to dancing with nimble feet upon the air is a reference to Oscar Wilde’s “The Balad of Reading Gaol”. “it is not sweet, with nimble feet, to dance upon the air”, which is, of course a reference to men dangling from the hangman’s rope).
‘Tis long since over.
We are know longer in clover.
In truth we never where.
I stare
At the screen.
The dream
Is gone
And life moves on.
I can’t answer for anyone else, but for me writing helps to combat the insidious effects of long time PTSD.
There is a frame of mind
that says “leave as you find.
Let the great oak alone
and spare the ancient stone
for they serve a purpose
if one looks beneath the surface
of things”.
Others bring
to bare a mind
which no beauty doth find
in oak and stone
“for they stand in the way
Of a brighter day”.
“But if you pull the tree down
what then supports the ground?
For the roots go deep
and people weep
when the oak falls
on ancient halls”.
“Let us wield the axe and be glad
for the old ways are bad.
New seed we will sow
The past must go”.
They are arguing still
As the sun sinks
o’er vale and hill.
The restless wind
calls to the unquiet mind.
I see a swan upon a lake.
A serene
queen
she glides through the water
as some daughter
of the gods.
A man hidden in the reeds
scarcely breathes
for fear
she will notice him near.
The swan sings.
Her song brings
sweet melancholy to his soul.
The whole
scene
he dreamed
awakening to the restless wind
that calls to the unquiet mind.
A cold fire burns.
She turns
And looks.
She struts
Her stuff.
Her desire for cash
His decision rash.
Two souls zooming out of control
Down the primrose path
To hell.
All appears well
Then, smash!
I do recall
many a trip to Speke Hall.
The trees have seen it all
kingdoms rise and fall.
The old house stands
guardian of the land.
Now the airport has come.
and planes run
where once the squire walked
and talked
or perhaps shot
game for the pot.
Old books
one can not touch.
A family’s past preserved
behind rope.
Would the squire choke
at the sight
of the National Trust shop
where jam can be bought by the pot?
Do the dead
shake their head
as I gaze on their four poster bed?
The past conserved
In stones and words
As featherless birds
fly
Through troubled skies.
—
The construction of Speke Hall was started in 1530 and ended in 1598. It is one of my favourite haunts and is situated a few miles from my mother’s home in Liverpool. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speke_Hall).
“The world is a bleak place” I said.
You took me into your bed
kissing away
The words I did say
and strange to tell
All did seem well.
K Morris - Poet 