On the Crest of a Wave

There is a spot where spirits blend
And friend with fellowship meets friend,
Through fluctuating smiles and tears
Like screaming waves to our deaf ears.

And constant is the ceaseless beat
Of water lapping round our feet;
Then sinking back from whence it came
Once more to rise and fall again.

Each crested with white crowns of glory
They leap ahead before their time,
And seem to tell a different story.
As they crawl back to the brine.

Like the unheard beat of time
It is continuous for who can stop it.
A noisy, surging sea of tears,
A miracle or a dream that rotted.

Then it advances on our years
Where we play with words for there's nothing to say;
It grips the shingles, and claws and tears
As its finger-like rivulets melt away.

In the beginning was the word
But the word had been said before;
So now we assume time is, time was,
But time shall be no more.

Where Rivers Run To

Her face was pressed against the waiting room window, looking for the cloud of steam from the train. She was to meet him at the other end. The journey had been a brief one, and as she watched the country side fly past, recollections of all that happened until now filled her mind.

It had all seemed so simple before, but in reality fact changed their appearance beyond their recognition. Everything has been meticulously planned and organised. Nothing had been overlooked. She looked around her at all the homecoming sights and wondered how long it would be before she would feel the pain of their loss. She thought of what was left behind her to gather dust which seemed to come from nowhere, ceaselessly carpeting any available surface, the dust of her mind clouding the memories it held. She thought of him.

Her parents had never stood in her way before, always given her the freedom to live the life she had chosen. That all changed after she met him. It was strange how protective her family suddenly became, and the hostility they showed only brought them closer together. Now it had come to this. It was the sort of thing that happened in cheap love stories and always seemed to work. Real life people didn’t just elope simply to show the world that they loved each other and could overcome whatever troubles came their way by the power of the bond between them. Such things were not possible and she knew it.

The train pulled into the station. He would be there soon. She moved like a ghost between the crowds, hoping no one she knew would be there – already an unlikely possibility. She felt herself swaying gently as though in a sea of turbulent worries which she knew little or nothing of. Voices rose around her ears. The pressure she was under gradually increased and she felt herself sinking beneath the strain. Once sitting, the haze around her began to clear.

With a great clang on her heart she suddenly realised the enormity of what she had done and the impossibility of it all. It had been decided on impulse. But she now didn’t know if she had the strength to carry it through. She felt him seize her hand.

‘Come’, he said.

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them; he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing by the platform.

‘Come’.

No. It was impossible. Her hand clutched at the railing in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

He called her name.

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on, but still he called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Curl Up and Dye

As she rose that morning to yet again tread the same pavement to work there was an air of discontent around her. It was as though she had suddenly realised that this was what her whole life was coming to. There was nothing beyond this, as far as progress was concerned. She could go no further. This was it.

She stepped outside and shivered slightly with the crisp, untouched air. The streets shimmered with dew and the morning sun glinted on satellite dishes peppered across the estate. She did not lead an ideal life, and knew it. So much had once been expected of her that she really once believed she would walk into the world and make it better. Like everyone else, she thought she would make an impression. But had now realised that the world was too small for everyone to be great. Millions of others were in her position. Contented nobodys. Just going through the motions because it was what was expected of them and the thought of something better was quickly banished, the question 'why?' never asked. Until now.

She stepped carefully between last night's fish and chip papers blowing aimlessly in the fume-filled wind. She walked this road every day, devoutly following its path, blinding herself to the life it held. The people here had nothing left to hope for. For them life was over and had become a repetitive act rather than an individual performance. Sometimes things just happened like that and there wasn't much you could do about it. Well, she was going to. She had had enough, seen enough, done enough. She went into the small salon and took her coat off.

'Morning Mrs Jackson. What will it be this time? Just a trim?' She watched the snippets of hair fall to the ground in a pile at her feet. This was where people came when they felt down and out. They really believed they could be someone different by leaving some of their hair on the floor behind them. Or maybe it was just the feeling that this gave them. Confidence.

The hairdryer drowned her thoughts. The phone rang. 'Yes, two o'clock will be fine. See you tomorrow. Thank you Mrs Jones'.

She twisted the rods into the old grey hair. It was strange how different it was to the younger customers', so weary, dead and leaden.

She briefly looked around her. There were a couple of people waiting, other reading magazines under the dryer,  another having her hair washed. While she used synthetic air to dry fake coloured hair.

And always the smell of heat and shampoo. The time wore on, yet seemed to dangle on the minutes long enough to accentuate the weariness of her task.

It was a strange sort of life. Constantly having people come to you to be changed, be made into something different; and even she, having turned over the sign to 'closed' walked home the same person as she had been that morning. Perhaps a little more tired, perhaps a little older, perhaps a little closer to dying; but she would go back the next day and see Mrs Jones at two o'clock as well as the other women in need of a miracle. She couldn't work miracles. She was only a hairdresser, only human.

As she walked home she breathed in deeply so as to get the smell of shampoo out of her lungs. It was as clear cut as that, like black on white.

A Meeting of Minds

When brother fights with brother
And two people don't get on,
And what divides each other
Are the things that they did wrong.

When you see your sister smiling,
And you hear her loving words,
When you feel the pain of crying
You understand how much she hurts.

There's a place for the broken hearted,
There's a parent for us all,
And the miracle we've started
Is to tumble and to fall.

When the whispering stops you hearing
And the caller gives you up,
You meet your end at your beginning.
All that's left of us is love.

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.