The Light and the Dark

When the wind was howling

And fever was high,
And flickers of lightening
Cracked the sky.
When the full moon was beaming
And a werewolf was caught,
In the still of this fury
She heard a knock at the door.

When the answers to questions

That had never been asked
Suddenly divided
The light from the dark.
When the thunder from heaven
Ripped the air far and wide,
It was then that she heard
A scream from outside.

In fear she turned on

Every light in the house,
As if somehow trying
To lock darkness out.
She turned on the radio
To deafen the rain,
She looked out of the window,
Saw his face in the pane.

With a faint cry of terror

She ran from his stare,
Heard the smashing of glass,
Felt his breath in her hair.
The ice in his heart
Cooled the heat of her dread.
But the headlines next day
Were ‘Girl Found Dead’.

Happy Birthday

Like an apology unheard
Falling slowly on deaf ears,
Or the never written word
That someone special longs to hear.
Like existence of two kinds -
Is there some other life than this?
Or just a meeting of the mind
To be sealed with a kiss.
Like feelings left unshared
When emotions must be shown,
When you wonder if they cared
And whose care you really own.

Do you worry when there's thunder?
Do you go when someone calls?
Will you let life pull you under -
Be another one that falls?
When your term of life is over
And the memories are gone
We will recall forever
All the things that we did wrong.
I can't go on pretending
Though it's cutting me in two.
My end is my beginning
And it all began with you.

Front or Back, It Makes no Sense

Preconceived opinion. Not matter what side of a coin you look at you only see silver.  You always hurt the one you love - the one you love is always you. We are our own self interest. Behind the image of our minds that is revealed in our eyes is the reality of all we want to be. We go through our lives trying to hide what we really  fee, caring only about ourselves and all that we stand for; centre our interest on ever changing worldly objects knowing nothing is forever, except what we leave behind. We are biased towards ourselves, of things that are beautiful and never were, of things that are lovely and never happened and of things that are wonderful and never should be. Our need for self elevation causes us to find fault when there is none, accuse and misjudge. And reason no longer is the master of our days. Instead we rely on detriment towards us to govern our reactions. Equity plays no part in life, only in a sick sense of morals which we believe the possession of is a blessing. After all, we learn much, hear little and practice less.

And sometimes, in the context of things, we believe ourselves to be right, are unable to find ourselves blemished or marred by the crushing weight of life and the burden of a prejudiced conscience. But you can talk and still say nothing. For words are all we have in the tautological phases of our lives. And yet, beneath it all is the feeble structure of our mind, the only thing we care to preserve, the sole possession we wish to treasure. And what is our mind other than a representation of ourselves.

We are concerned with death, its existence and its meaning, when our attention should be turned to the elucidation of life itself. For death is nothing other than an existence lacking in life. And life is unfair in its dealings and treatment of people. We are unable to conceive the capricious friendships we develop, eyeing the affair with a view to bias. We cannot choose our family yet are not capable of selecting friends from the world's great ocean of children. The reason being simply that we are the most important person in our lives. We cannot be replaced, we cannot be forgotten. Some insignificant corner of the map may prosper from our existence, some churchyard become heavier with the weight of death.

And we pass away still caring for ourselves and all we own, handing it on through time and generation rather than letting nature take its natural course on what is stolen from time.

In life, in death, there seems no point, no destination. No pinnacle to aim for, no height to attain. And yet we cherish ourselves, sway rules when applied to us so that the wound is not so deep.

Self prejudice makes no sense. But in the end it isn't a matter of win or lose. It's not up to a single chance of make or break, but it's what you believe the reason to be, your own opinion regarding preconceived opinion.

So when you look beyond the colour of someone's eyes there's something to be seen there, something unwritten, something unspoken and that something there is all of you.

Abide with Me

Of the father's love begotten,
Ere the world began to be,
He, the Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending He
Of all things that are, that have been,
And the future years shall see,
Evermore and evermore.

Darkness was approaching. Shadows were gathering thick and fast around her. In the distance they were singing carols, now and then the same words from the same songs drifted over to her as they rose heavenward.

Silent night, holy night;
All is calm, all is bright.

She thought of them, suffocating a feeble fire of hope, singing about events that only conscience told them happened, whispering the words which are repeated year after year. Adding neither thought nor feeling, barely understanding, placid faced hiding their true selves, seas of identical masks, a painted image of their soul.

Below her was a valley of light, but it was dark where she was. Only the moon and the starts made a polite gesture towards to the gawdy replica of daytime.

In the heavenly country bright
Need they no created light;
Thou its light, its joy, its crown,
Thou its sun which goes not down.

Threads of wind whistled between the chimneys sending the wrangled clouds scudding across the dirty sky.

Words are all we have, sacrifice them and you have nothing, rendered incapable of expressing yourself and you are nothing. She shivered at the realisation, and looked towards the morning which at the moment was nothing more than a greyish blueness on the horizon - a distinct division between earth and sky, a purposeful division. Never more was anything so deliberately severed and so positively one.

Strains of music still sought her ears and played their sweet bitterness in her hearing.

Holy child, whose human years
Span like our delight and pain,
One in human joys and tears,
One in all but sin and stain.

It didn't take away the pain or mend her open wound. That which the mind informs the body soon shall the body inform the mind. Hard, cruel, bitter, like frost upon a stone that time has mistreated was the thought which softly filled the cavity of her mind.

How cold the world around her suddenly seemed, how want of hope and love. They could sing their feeble hearts out, yet neither remember nor believe a word they've said; and breath is better wasted on idle gossip and useless chatter than in the chant of disused hymns.

In the bleak mid winter
Frosty windy made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone.

How aptly it described her dismal surroundings that drowned all goodness and beauty that may once have existed there. Now there was nothing left, only the few memories with which misery chose to illuminate her mind.

...the world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven clouds they come
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats,
O'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lonely plains
They bend on hovering wing ...

She looked up, half expecting to distinguish angels wings amongst the clouds. But there was nothing to be seen there, except miles of dreary emptiness.

O ye beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow.

The moon, hidden by clouds, appeared to be a torch in the sky, searching for faces on the earth below, picking up the movement of whatever was caught in its path. The rays of silver light tumbled out of the sky to this unworthy planet below.

And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.

Now it all seemed so far away, the reasons, the questions. And yet when she stopped to think about it, it was all still there, just behind her, laughing over her shoulder like a mocking devil. Every move she made someone was there, watching, laughing, hoping, waiting, anticipating. Whilst outside she seemed so peaceful, within her soul were raging storms of anger.

And below her the lights still shone.

O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie.
Above they deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.

Still all lay quiet, a whispering world with scratchy fragments of music filling the gaps. She glanced again below her.

Soon will come sorrow with the morning,
Soon will come bitter grief and weeping
Sing lullaby.

All it took was one slip, one false move, one unplanned step and it would all be over. Then they'd jeer no longer because then and only then would they realise that the subject of their mockery was indeed themselves. And then who would have the last laugh.

Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.

It came suddenly and unexpectedly, like sun after rain. She felt the wind rushing through her hair, life passing through her. She was only aware of the roof rising higher and higher above her, faster and faster. Then it disappeared into darkness. And still the singing went on, ceaseless chants, devout murmurs.

Abide with me,
Fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens,
Lord with me abide.

Poetry in Motion

Like a photograph that moves
When you pin it on the wall,
Like the whispered words of love
Which seem to rise above them all;
Like a dew drop on a petal
And a smile on blushing lips,
Like flakes of snow that never settle,
Letters sealed with a kiss.
She is every one of these,
As continuous as the ocean.
But to you
She's poetry in motion.

She can whisper sweet goodbyes
And smile her farewell smile,
And though the tears still flood your eyes
You just can't cross those miles.
Her perfume lingers in your room
And word echo in your head.
You know she said she'd be back soon
But don't believe the things she said.
She will leave you as she planned,
You can't keep her by devotion.
But if you knew you'd understand
That she's poetry in motion.

Growing Pain

Somehow education misses out what’s most important. The subject on which no book has been written and studied in no lessons, cleverly  omitted by a network of excuses, like a spider web around the real answer. There is no comfort for the pain some children bear, no solace for their pitied state. It makes us feel so useless and so helpless. At such a loss, trusting all we have to life’s destiny.

 

I will never forget that room, the artificial light, darkness seeping through the window. His bed, no more than a careless heap of bedclothes, appearing like a storm tossed sea, the way he felt inside. His face was glowing and damp with tears which touched me somewhere deep inside, somewhere painful. And I knew then that no power of mine, no knowledge of conquerors and kings, no wisdom of animals and plants could help me now. He trusted me, loved me, looked up to me and in his moment of pain and fear I could not reach out my hand to save him from the force which pulled him under. Something in the stillness of the night made the silence too loud for me to bear. His hand still rested somewhere between his stomach and his heart.

‘She hurts’. The words still echo in my head like the constant beat of time. I could not relieve that pain and being in that situation I developed a pain of my own, something which hurt so deeply inside me, in the depths of my mind which I had not known existed. It did not throb, it did not ache, it was not unbearable, but reminded me of all that lay between us and all that we had in common. It brought back haunting memories of my own dark days at school. The rivalries, the bitterness which stood in the way of friendship. And for a moment there I was taken back twenty odd years to experience again the first effects of school. I could smell the polished floorboards of the classrooms which creaked at every step, I could see the white walls, hard and cold as blades of knives, the books with their time stained pages and text that had dimmed from years of use, dull and depressing. I have never needed to do algebra since, never needed to know the anatomy of humans because the underlying things that go on inside of us cannot be taught.

So in the end no one wins or loses. We are all equal in that respect. In all the years of my life no experience has been able to put words to his lips, words to comfort my child in his years of pain.

Evolution

For every day that ever dawns
Or smiles upon this unloved hell;
For every dream and every thought
That lies forgotten in our hearts;
For every story left to tell
We symbolise the start.