5 posts tagged “life”
Black and sleek and quick as fire,
Lively as electric wire;
Sparking in the sun.
Leaps and walks the towering fence;
Imperious, in every sense
Queen of her garden.
Creatures cower, become her game;
Lazily she earns the name:
Dispassionate killer.
Yet time escapes her wicked claws,
Never feigns death in her jaws -
And slowly takes her.
Angular bones in a moulting sack,
Matted fur on her bent, ridged back -
Frightened eyes plead to me.
Slowly struggles to her feet,
Anytime is time to eat -
Always, always hungry.
Today she’s too tired to be fed,
Stumbles back into her bed
Pleads again, fights to breathe.
Weeping flesh and sores that run,
Time to sleep, my darling one -
Goodbye, Jess. Forgive me, please.
‘I’ve learnt so much, please listen, son:
Don’t waste your life as I have done,
And don’t lose games you should have won
Because you weren’t prepared.
I fooled around, I missed the bus
And failed to do the obvious,
Now time is up for one of us…
I always was too scared
To put my neck upon the line
- to err was not a mode of mine -
I ummed and ahhed without a spine,
Now learn from my stupidity.
I lacked the nerve, shied from the fight,
I frittered days and squandered nights,
I did what’s easy, not what’s right
And blew each opportunity.
Oh, God, I wish I could go back -
Regret’s a huge ungainly sack
To carry ‘round upon your back,
Especially when you’re old.
Mistakes are light, evaporate
With every new success. Don’t wait
For other souls to choose your fate -
For once, do as you’re told.
I was young, like you, but life is cruel
And hard and quick - I know that you’ll
Not be a disappointment to all
Your family. I’m so sorry…’
‘Thanks, Dad, but it’s too late - I’d be
A better man, but don’t you see
That, Dad, when you die, I do too
For I’m the boy inside of you.’
Haiku
I never before
Heard the word; what's the meaning?
Found it with Google.
575 it says;
Can't see much about rhythm -
Thought I'd have a go:
Death's raven-black thread
Spun with life's brightest colours -
The tightrope I walk.
I haven't written anything for ages. I've wondered why, because only a few short months ago, and for many months before that, I wrote something every day. Not only that, but I shoe-horned the calloused and bunioned lines into the badly fitting, poorly constructed, pedestrian market-shoes that form my sling-back-catalogue of songs.
Now I know why: after hobbling along for so long, crippled by my musical limitations, I had finally sunk to my knees under the weight of tired chords, worn out drum loops, and deaf-lugs production. How wonderful to be barefoot then; skipping through the soft, cool, dewy grass of poetry... just a few lines, sketched down quickly, with no thought for an intro/verse/chorus/middle 8/auto-panning/sweeping filters/pitch-fix/mastering... with no thought for anything but thought, really. No wonder I used to feel creatively paraplegic.
Anyway, this jolly, pithy, Gothic little number came to me in about 3 minutes. Now add your own accompaniment, you lazy bastard! ...and if I die before you do, could you please get someone (preferably Anthony Hopkins, though I doubt my estate will extend to his fee) to read this by the windswept hole in the ground before they consign me to it. Thanks.
When I wake
When I wake from this life
And face the cold, hard reality of death,
Will the dream evaporate
And be blown away
Like the mist that covers my Pennine grave?
Will my bony hands grasp for threads
Of an imagined existence,
And fail to catch a single strand?
Or, with their frantic, frenetic fumblings,
Tear the fabric of my life,
Into atoms, into dust?
Every kiss and word,
Each thought and deed,
And touch...
The beauty
Of sunset
And moonlight,
Familiar faces
Captured and framed;
Unique moments,
and meanings
Of a thousand songs;
Shared sadness
And euphoria -
All this man has seen
And tasted...
All erased,
Swept away
Just beyond
Memory's
Reach...
Will my remains cry out!
An anguished wail,
Muffled by the shale and clay,
And, disconnected and forgotten,
Sink broken and defeated
Into my dark eternal isolation?
We chatted about it - he never gets tired of that - he said it was for sale; I looked it over and was stunned by its hands-on simplicity, and its classic beauty.
I looked up the country lane we were standing in and it suddenly looked different to how it had 20 minutes before, when I arrived in the van... I envied him the wind in his thinning hair, the oil down his nails and the grease on his overall. He drives simply for pleasure. He isn't going anywhere in a hurry - it's the journey, not the destination - a hackneyed phrase I know, but here was the proof of its truth.
He'd rebuilt her and cared lovingly for her for all these years, and was now getting ready to let her go. The garage was to give its final rubber-stamped OK, then he'd take her out for a last spin or two, tune her up ready for the sale that I kind of imagined he hoped would fall-through. I got back in my van (it passed: unbelievable - yippee!), waved him goodbye, and drove off, singing a song. I realised later that it was one of mine (how sad is that?) and thought I'd post it here - I haven't heard it for a while. I even took a picture of the old girl; she sort of demanded it.
'Life is an open road, fill her up and foot to the floor; life is a one way street, there's no coming back for more...'. Happy driving - Al
