A lot of wisdom packed into this book.
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Archives For Life
It was hard,
Watching my Dad
Staggering home from the pub,
Up the dark
Orange lit shadowed Street,
From our dusty greased window,
Two stories up,
Looking down,
Knowing,
When the key slipped into the lock
And he came through the door,
Into the house,
My life would never be the same,
Again.
When I experience hurt
I indulge
In magical thinking.
Very annoying
For others,
Unfamiliar with the technicalities
Behind my tricks.
He or she
May say,
That “I” am mistaken in my observations.
But with the wave of
My magical thinking wand,
I create mystical anagrams,
And hey presto,
I pull a bunny
Straight out of
The top hat.
Sadly, the rabbits
Only live as long
As the delusion,
And I find it draining
When they keep coming along
Day after day after day.
Ode To Social Anxiety
Sitting opposite my wife
With my napkin
On my lap,
I gripped my fork and stabbed the duck,
Marinated in weird oriental sauces, so I thought,
Served with a smashed potato,
As I was crushed by an
Intensifying anxiety,
Aware (or thinking) that the two diners
At the next table
Were watching me.
My mouth was as dry as the skin on the bird,
My stare as steely as the knife by the dinner plate,
And the guy with the beard and glasses grinned
And whispered something to his wife
Who turned around
To look at me.
And I chewed on the meat that was as tough as nails
Between my teeth,
And I knew I was not only fighting a losing battle
With my culinary skills
But also, the people around me,
Who I knew,
Found my side profile odd,
And disconcerting.
That was the only explanation I could find.
We were on a ship and had no choice,
Our seats were allotted arbitrarily,
At the reception desk,
And my fellow diners, complete strangers,
Now had to contend
With my presence,
Having spoiled their evening
With my glancing and scanning
To see who was watching,
And guessing that they must be thinking
What I knew to be true,
Without validation.
I do look odd from the side,
So they say,
And the duck, was really quite tough.
When the diners had gone
I asked the waiter
“What was the sauce” and he said
It was plum puree.
Plum.
Puree.
And the ship sailed along
As we finished our wine
A man sang a song
We were both feeling fine,
And the diners had gone
To their cabins to sleep
Outside there were stars
And waters so deep.
But I didn’t go back
The following night
To our table
Beside
The strangers.
The inherent dangers
Of projecting our fears
On each other
Can be put aside
Because
We will never see
Each other again.
I recall a short story I had written in school back in Scotland looking out of our window at the whirling snowstorm blanketing our streets, roofs and gardens. We were young. My teacher said we could reach for the stars. I questioned that statement.
It fell fast and hard as we threw snowballs at each other in the back green. We stopped and together the three of us made a snowman. Over five feet tall with chestnuts for its eyes and baby carrots for its lips. I was so uncomfortable, perspiring as a chilly wind blew through my thick wooly jumper specifically made to keep you protected from the elements.
When completed, I stepped back to admire my work. The snowman’s expression was not one of joy but fear. I rearranged the lips physically with my fingers turning them into a smile. But as the snow fell faster the expression changed once again and looking into the chestnut eyes of this inanimate object I knew there was nothing else I could do.
There was nothing he could do either. He had no brain, therefore no courage, no heart therefore no pulse, and regardless of my desire to alter this thing I could not change, I watched helplessly as its physical appearance morphed moment by moment into something I had not created. A thin crust of ice had formed around the body. There was nothing left but a large lumpy pile of snow as icy blasts shot through our garden.
And they told me I could be anything I wanted to be. That’s what the teacher said. Anything. Reach for the stars. And I guessed it was all a lie. I knew at the end there was one ultimate truth. Whatever we were here, we would all disappear, regardless of our understanding of love and hate.
I walked towards the snowman and systematically pulled it apart. I swiped, punched and kicked as the wind blew harder and the fierce biting wind attacked every fibre of my flesh. I crushed this thing until it was gone. The water was still water, the ice was still ice but the man was no more. Because, quite simply, he had never been in the first place.
I looked up at the dark grey clouds and felt thousands upon thousands of snowflakes swirling around me, melting on my lips and blinding my eyes. I was awake and I knew I was not dreaming. I knew I was alive and I knew in my heart I would be spending some extra time in space on this little planet.
I try to think
Of happiness,
As a concept
Encapsulated in its own image.
And laughingly believe
I’ll be happy,
Just by bringing to mind
The thought,
That thinking happy thoughts
Would then follow
Without effort
And all would be well.
But happy thoughts only
Materialize ,
Not by concentrated effort,
But by avoiding,
All these wicked
People From hell.
Image from Beliefnet.com
Through orange heights,
Through turtle doves,
And through the alleyways,
I see the love
That hope enshrouds
Descend and take away
The thoughts I had of one I love
A city far but near
And in its grasp
A homesick dove
For whom I shed a tear.
The air is still,
I feel no wind
Inside I feel no sorrow
Upon my hope
My faith is pinned
The dove shall fly tomorrow.
I woke up tired today.
Hot sweet
Expressos
In tiny white cups,
Stirred me a little.
But lethargy,
And the heat,
And the crushing humidity
Made me anxious,
Gave me palpitations,
Made me light headed
And confused.
I had no plans today
So I sat at a pavement café
Sipping expressos,
Staring at people.
And when the dehydration
Brought on
Panic attacks
I was no longer tired,
And even though
I had absolutely
Nothing to do,
I was terrified
And saw quick stars
And white lines
When I closed my eyes.
And I just cringed
At the thought
Of the nightmares
Just
Waiting.
Image from medical daily.com
My signature on a Valentine’s card
Will fade over time.
But the aching intensity
Of my love
For you,
Will never
Be destroyed
By moments.
How much more can I take
From the weak, petty and jealous
Propping up their frail egos
By draining me
Of my peace
Of mind?
How will this end?
Their ego and character will sit unsteadily
On a dry faltering castle of sand
As my mind
Will become even more focused
And rid of the trivial,
Glowing like real solid gold
As the froth from the sliding ripples
Crawls
Towards an already
Shaky fort.
And the happiness
Drained from me
Was not enough
To save the castle
From crumbling
Back to the sea.
