A bit of Light Fantastic

The Goddess of the milky way,
moves in ethereal splendour
scattering her radiant light,
illuminating all below,
bringing hope and clarity.

Nightly, she gives lovers play
with light so soft and tender.
May she aid you in your plight
for she will always see and know
and give you of her charity.

***

Black wingèd angel, creature of night,
locked in thine arms my heart takes flight.
Ah this, the ethereal taste of thy kiss...
no woman ever knew such bliss.

Take me, oh take me now,
oh black-winged creature of the night
nothing you do can me affright
for I have known the wonder of
your bright ethereal splendour.

***

 Oft, in dreams, I stroll in silent glades
and meet the one who stole my heart
with one brief kiss ethereal;
his arms so strong surrounding me,
his tender lips on mine,
the lightness of his touch divine,
his breath a taste of heaven.
Now, awake, I wonder if I dreamed at all
could this be real, this vision?
Is there somewhere a fallen angel
dreaming dreams of me?

***

In silent glades I wandered free
and never dreamed of such as he
until one day he captured me
with words so sweet and charming.

His beauty was ethereal,
his manner, magisterial
my qualms, quite immaterial,
his blandishments, disarming.

His kiss aroused such passions then,
more than I'd known with other men,
I begged him kiss and kiss again,
my boldness most alarming!

Till, sated, I could do no more,
and lay upon the forest floor
to rest a little while before
returning to my farming.

 ***

If you were he and I were she
and we two met for real
we'd know such times, inspire such rhymes,
and live out our ideal.

Angelic wings my lover brings
to meet me in the glade
and like some ghost I feel almost
ethereal in the shade.

But here we sit, and type a bit,
and share each others dreams.
A world apart, our words impart
shared fantasies, it seems.

***
Awake!  Awake!
Let this, my kiss, arouse thee;
asleep or dead, lift up thy head
for I would fain espouse thee.

Be not afraid, thy past shall fade,
cast off thine earthly sorrow;
come, fly with me, soar high with me,
awake and face tomorrow!

Take this my breath and flee from death,
let not the shades entice thee;
accept my love, join me my dove,
my powers shall suffice thee.

Arise, arise,
give death no satisfaction!
Return my kiss, and wake to this
ethereal transaction.


Locked in the warmth of his embrace,
cold flesh begins to soften.
The spirit, not quite yet departed,
pauses to examine
the promise made within this glade
of new ethereal life.
Will she accept his offer though
or go, mistrusting, to the grave.

***

An Old Tyme Valentine


As I live I could'st not speak a truer word than this:
A glimpse of heaven's glory I discerneth in thy kiss.
No star, however brightly it illumineth the skies,
Could e'er outshine the splendour I beholdeth in thine eyes;
And e'en the sun, which graceth thee with favour on thy brow,
Possesseth no more majesty or beauty than dost thou.

The merest touch of thy sweet hand, so delicate a thing,
Arouseth my emotions, maketh common sense take wing.
My heart awaketh in my breast, my spirit runneth free,
So utterly am I entranced by every part of thee.
If thou should'st only look my way, agree to be my wife,
There could'st not be a more resplendant moment in my life.

So come, beloved, come with me, I beg thee, from my soul,
Let us away to paradise where thou shalt make me whole.
My life shall be as naught if thou refuseth me in this;
Thy sweet agreement is enough to know a life of bliss.
Come, come, away, be mine I pray, suffuse me with delight
And I shall love thee much by day and fill thy cup by night.

© 2003

The Wedding. Humour in dialect.

The Wedding


Last weekend I went to a weddin';
the bride were a cousin o' mine
and this were a day I'd been dreadin',
well, I'd known her since she were nine
and she's never been one for't fellas,
her comments on men were obscene,
she'd drive them away with umbrellas
as part of her daily routine.

When she she told us what she contemplated
we none of us knew what to say
cause she'd 'ave 'ad all men castrated
if she could 'ave 'ad her own way.
Just why she were thinking of marriage
was something that nobody knew
to ask 'er required too much courage,
and she wouldn't give us a clue.

Well, me mother had ordered a taxi,
to get us to't church about ten;
what came was an old Austin maxi;
we'll never use that firm again.
The driver impatiently waited
as we all got settled inside,
'cause if there were one thing 'e 'ated,
it were owt to do wi' a bride.

It seems that 'e once had been jilted,
and left at the altar, poor bloke,
and now, well, his ardour was wilted.
Don't laugh, at his age it's no joke.
Finally, as we were ready,
we set off with some time to spare.
The driver, 'oo's first name were Freddy,
started to curse and to swear.

"I think I must have an infection.
It's awfully 'ot now in 'ere.
If no-one has any objection,
I'm goin' to stop for a beer."
Well, 'e stopped at the end of the alley,
it were just down the road from the church,
so I followed him, not to be pally,
but in case he left us in the lurch!

Just then my belief was supended,
as I followed 'im in through the door-
'cause there was our Molly's intended -
still drunk from the evenin' before.
It seems they'd been 'avin' a party,
a bit of a do fer the lad,
and a telegram girl, very tarty,
'ad arrived and were gettin' unclad.

Well, this got 'im over-excited,
which led to 'im acting the clown,
but the landlord was not too delighted,
so 'e'd then 'ad to cool himself down.
I felt very sorry for Malcolm,
I thought it were all a bit rough,
but that didn't alter the problem,
that 'e'd swallowed far more than enough.

I sent Freddy back to the others,
to get to the church a bit quicker,
then carried the groom to me mother's,
to sober him up for the vicar.
I stuck 'is 'ead under the shower
and got him to church, just in time;
'e were wet and 'e 'adn't a flower,
but I didn't think that were a crime.

Well, if you'd seen the face on our Molly,
you'd think 'e'd commited a sin;
if 'er bouquet had been made of 'olly...
but the service were due to begin.
'Twere the usual sort of a merger,
and it were all going off fine
until we all saw the young verger,
who'd found the communion wine.

He were stood on one leg on an 'assock,
and singing his favourite 'ymn
while twirling the 'em of his cassock,
you might say 'e were out - on a limb.
Malcolm just stood looking silly,
our Molly had burst into tears,
while Alison's great uncle Willy
just said it confirmed 'is worst fears.

We got round to throwing't confetti
wi'owt too much else goin' wrong
except for the soloist, Betty,
who'd forgotten the words of 'er song.
The vicar were looking quite shaken,
as all of us lined up outside
to 'ave all our photographs taken
along wi' the groom and the bride.

They'd persuaded a cousin from Warwick
to commemorate their special day;
the camera 'e 'ad were 'istoric,
but 'e said it would all be ok.
It were not the success of the decade;
I don't think 'e'd done it afore
cause 'e spent all his time with a bridesmaid
who were done up like ZsaZsa Gabor.

When 'e finally got round to takin'
a picture with all of us on
'e saw the mistake 'e'd been makin',
'cause most of the people had gone.
We were all of us fed up wi' waitin',
well, we'd been in the rain fer an 'our
and great aunty Flo were beratin'
the poor groom for not havin' a flower.

So we went off to 'ave the reception,
in the local community 'all;
and wi'out a single exception
we all reckoned on 'avin' a ball.
Our Molly were stood in the entrance,
to greet all 'er fam'ly and friends
though with somewhat more dogged forbearance
than the etiquette book recommends.

It were one thing on top of another;
young Malcom had started to bleat
'cause 'e'd noticed that poor Molly's mother
had gotten her shoes on't wrong feet.
The guests were all split into factions,
they 'ardly were saying a word;
and Betty were having contractions
but plodded right on undeterred.

Molly's mother 'ad laid on a buffet
and got in a barrel of beer
but grandad were gettin' right huffy;
'e said that the ale wasn't clear.
In between all the eatin' and drinkin'
we danced to a small local band
while the best man were busily thinkin'
about the great speech 'e 'ad planned.

When it got to't time for the speeches
it were gettin' quite 'ard to respond
and the men were all stickin' like leeches
to an underdressed buxom young blond.
It were Alison's great aunty Dolly
who committed't worst gaffe of't day
when she said that our man-hatin' Molly
must be in't family way.

Well, that almost started a riot,
great aunty Dolly got soaked,
then Alison's mum yelled fer quiet,
she said that her baby had choked.
Malcolm, that's Alison's brother,
was going quite blue in't face
and clingin' on tight to 'is mother;
of Molly there wasn't a trace.

I found 'er at 'ome watchin' telly,
and told 'er she ought to go back,
but she said she'd a pain in 'er belly,
and perhaps she should call fer the quack.
I summed up this dire situation
and tried not to get too distraught
well, maybe our aged relation
was not quite as daft as we thought.

I sat meself down next to Molly,
and thought while I lit up a fag.
She said "I'm not feeling too jolly,
do you mind if I just have a drag?"
"Molly," I said with suspicion,
"you don't mean that Dolly was right?
Are you in - a certain condition?"
Molly jumped up and went white.

"Oh heck," she exclaimed, "I've been rumbled.
Now what am I goin' to do?"
"Well, I really don't know, love," I mumbled,
"perhaps you had best tell me who..."
"You stupid great lumberin' lummock,
of course I'm not pregnant you clot.
Just look at the size of me stomach.
It's just indigestion I've got.

Do you think that I'm some sort of trollop?
Are you calling your cousin a whore?"
And that's when she fetched me a wallop,
and bundled me out of the door.
I wondered if she'd done karate,
well, I really weren't feelin' too grand
and when I got back to the party,
things had got quite out of 'and.

Then a couple of daft teenyboppers
got drunk and assaulted our Mick
so somebody sent fer the coppers,
who carted us off down the nick.
We all climbed up into the wagon,
the coppers were sat in the front,
one were a lass, a right dragon,
and the other, a miserable runt.

They stuck us all into the lock-up,
and left us in there fer the night;
the whole thing had been quite a cock-up,
and we all looked a terrible sight.
When the cops let us out in the mornin',
I'd an 'orrible pain in me 'ead
I stumbled home, stretching and yawnin',
and threw meself onto me bed.

Well, like I was sayin', this weddin',
we didn't half have some fun.
Malcolm is workin' in beddin',
and Molly's becomin' a nun.


© 2002

The Book of Books: Boring Fantasy?

I recently read this on a group chat: "The bible. I have read it about four times, a different version each time. and I keep thinking that THIS time, it will speak to me. IT DOESN'T. unbelievably boring fantasy."

People try to read the bible as if it were a modern book. It isn't. It isn't even "a" book. It is a book of books, many books, thousands of years old, written in a very different times by different people, from very different cultures who saw the world differently.  And also written across hundreds of years, not all at once by one culture, so it is bound to be confusing if you are looking for commonality.  

Here I should explain why I want to put a few things straight. I have an honours degree in biblical studies which involved reading it in the original languages, and the course was fascinating. It was actually called "The Bible as History and Literature", not theology as such.  I no longer read the bible as a matter of course and it is no longer my guide for living, although I still retain much of the ideals taught, but I would not dismiss it for being what it is. 

That person also said,"I think the fact that the bible has been written and rewritten each time, with a different connotation given to each story, with vague, subtle and not so subtle changes with each rendition that irritates me so much."

The problem with any literature is that reading is very subjective; we all read with our own agendas. Each translator has tried to make it relevant to to the time and readership for which it was being done. I'm not sure that ever works. Some years ago I helped an elderly man translate his Chinese poetry into English, and that was hard enough. It took us years of emailing back and forth to try to make his Chinese poems relevant to an American audience without losing the original meaning.  But to be fair, the bottom line is that most of the translations of the bible don't vary much at all from the original. They just use different words to say much the same thing, although there are exceptions for the reasons stated.

The next complaint was: "The first and fourth time I tried, I really wanted to be a 'believer'. The last time, I had a lovely pastor explaining things to me, it took a year! I think I will never "get" it. I prefer the Qu'ran and the Torah"

From my own experience I would say wanting to believe something isn't really the point. The bible is a book of many books so it can't be read as if it was one book.  As far as the Old Testament is concerned, some books are supposedly history, as it was understood at the time it was written, and should not be thought of as literally true.  The people of those times did not have archaeologists to fall back on, they were using stories handed down verbally, which doesn't mean they were fables, but also may not have been strictly accurate.  And again, as today, history is written by the victors, not the vanquished, who tell it from their own point of view.  How true does that make it? It is someone's truth, sure, but whose?

Some of the Old Testament is poetry, some books are prophecy. They should not be taken literally.  Even today poetry is not about literal truth.  And prophecy is never a literal concept.  Regarding the Torah, however, the five books attributed to Moses, are part of what the Old Testament of the Bible is. The Tenach - the Jewish scriptures - consists of the Torah (law), the Navi'im (prophets), and the Ketuvim (writings).  So if this person enjoys reading the Torah that's at least part of the bible she can't just dismiss.

The New Testament, or the Christian section of the bible, is again not to be thought of as literally word for word true. We can't even be sure who the real authors were. At that time there was no such thing as copyright. It was common practice for people to write in the name of someone famous, to give their words weight. In other words, to sell books, as it were. This was not regarded as reprehensible, as it would be today.  People knew about it, it wasn't done to deceive.  So it's important to bear that in mind. Most biblical study is made up of "best guesses".

These writers were trying to promote the teaching of a rabbi of the time, Jesus or Yeshua, of Nazareth, who spoke only to the Jews.  These teachings - not, incidentally, exclusive to Jesus, other rabbis were also saying similar things - were later incorporated into a new religion.  It's not for me to say whether they were right or wrong.  It was Paul who took the teaching of this Jewish sect to the Gentiles, and made it into what later became known at Christianity, which at that time encompassed both Jews and Gentiles and was known simply as "The Way".  There are Messianic Jews today who believe Jesus was the Messiah, just as Christians do. I have met these people in Jerusalem, and found it all very interesting.

None of this is new. It has been known among scholars for a very long time, but rarely strays outside the walls of the university or biblical college.  Most people never get to hear it.  Most believers don't want to hear it.  Most critics don't either.  Ignorance is bliss, after all. "Don't confuse me with the facts" is the cry of both those for and against, they both wish to cling to what they believe to be "true".  The truth can be uncomfortable, after all.

My point is this: don't look at the bible as a book with a single message, you won't find one. Even the Jewish theology varies over time.  The authors all had an axe to grind, an agenda to put forward. There is much wisdom and truth embedded in there, but it should not be taken as literal in many cases. Priests and pastors will tell believers not to '"cherry pick" but to take it or leave it, wholesale.  Often they then go on to try to make excuses for the inconsistencies, sometimes ludicrous in their inventiveness. They too have their agenda. They have their livelihood to protect apart from anything else.

But apart from all that, belief in a higher power needs to come from a personal experience, not from reading a book. If you read the bible, see it for what it is, and don't try to make it into something it isn't or dismiss it as fantasy, which it certainly isn't; those who wrote it believed that they were sharing something important. That way you may find something in it which believers of two thousand years, give or take, have found to ease their journey through life.

Reading the Small Ads.

SMALL ADS

Have you got backache or bunions or pimples?
Have you got cellulite, bulges or dimples?
Perhaps you are jobless or car-less or friendless?
Look in the small-ads, the options are endless.

Do you need some-one to unblock your drains,
dig up your weeds or inter your remains?
If you need a loan or your house is infested
look in the small-ads, someone's interested.

If you can't get out and your hair-do needs doing,
call up the girl who does house-call shampooing;
don't give up hope if your future's in doubt
the small-ads have someone who'll sort it all out.

There's someone to call if you need home tuition
or your apple or pear trees won't come to fruition;
if damp is a problem or dry rot has struck,
if you want a cat or a dog or a duck

look in the paper, there's somebody breeding
anything, everything you may be needing.
While reading the small-ads, try playing games -
look out for unusual, int'resting names:

For Showers, call Sharon; Get sharper with Harper,
but watch out for shysters like Bodgit and Scarper,
And how can you be sure, if you want to learn German
that that's all you'll get from a fella named Herman?

Are French lessons french, or only a cover?
Is a massage a massage, or a bit of the other?
When I call up someone to polish my chrome
am I inviting a maniac home?

If I answer the advert "can you make a candle"
will I end up in a blue-movie scandal?
Now that the old inspiration is soaring
reading the small-ads will never be boring!

What Is Atheism?

So what exactly is atheism?

The ancient Romans accused Christians of being atheist and, as the Greeks intended the term, that argument holds some weight. Monotheism had no meaning at that time.  If you did not follow their gods, you were obviously atheist.

According to one estimate, atheists make up about 2.3% of the world's population, while a further 11.9% are nonreligious. The problem with defining atheism though is how to classify it. The theist/atheist argument is far from simple. 

For instance there is practical atheism: pragmatic atheism or apatheism,  and theoretical or ontological atheism.

Epistemological atheism can be agnostic atheism or theological non-cognitivism. Also ontological are logical positivism and ignosticism/igtheism.

Then there are the metaphysical arguments such as logical atheism
and atheist existentialism.  Metaphysical atheism may be either: a) absolute or b) relative.

Then there are Theodicean atheists with views similar to the founder of Buddhism, atheist existentialists and humanists, axiological or constructive atheists.

Atheism can range from humanism to moral nihilism.  It all sounds a lot like the arguments between churches.

And some philosophers have argued that atheists should reclaim religion as an act of defiance against theism, precisely not to leave religion as an unwarranted monopoly to theists.

And what about the view of Nietzche, who stated that morality "has truth only if God is truth—it stands or falls with faith in God"?


It's enough to make your head whirl.

There are also atheistic or humanistic followers within Judaism and Christianity. How to reconcile this?

Maybe agnostic is a better term. After all, who can prove it either way?
"I don't know" would seen to be the most honest and least arrogant view.

Songs for Second LIfe. Maybe true for you?

The music for this first song is a traditional morris tune going back to the 18th century. It was collected by folk song collector Cecil Sharp, who in turn got it from morris dancer William Kimber. Australian composer Percy Grainger had a hit with a piano arrangement of the tune in 1919. Robert M.Jordan added the lyrics "An English Country Garden" in 1958.  I have added my own words to the tune. I don't expect it to make the charts. But you never know.
 
My Second Life Inventory.

How many items do I really use in my Second Life Inventory?
Most of the stuff has never paid its dues in my Second Life Inventory
Dances and a dancing floor, animations by the score
textures and sounds that called to me;
Years of hunt things I get I've never opened yet
In my Second Life Inventory.

How many objects do I really know in my Second Life Inventory?
I am convinced they multiply and grow in my Second Life Inventory.
Shoes and boots of many hues, outfits that I never use
sit in their folders patiently;
There are freebies galore from lucky chairs and more
In my Second Life Inventory.

How many snapshots languish alone in my Second Life Inventory?
Some in a viewer, others on their own, in my Second Life Inventory.
Photos of my avatar, looking like a movie star,
some with my boyfriend no one will see
There are even a few of of folk I never knew
In my Second Life Inventory.

Then there's the place I haven't yet explored in my Second Life Inventory
Lindens provided yet another hoard in my Second Life Inventory.
Avatars I'll never need, probably they also breed,
raising the total needlessly,
If I don't get it clear I'll simply disappear
in my Second Life Inven-tor-y…

© 2013

The second is my version of what became Bob Hope's signature tune, written as Thanks for the Memory, by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin in 1938.

Thanks For the Memories. 

Thanks for the memories
Of dancing so divine, of playing concubine,
The smooching and the skybox and the times that we entwine
How lovely it's been!

Thanks for the memories
Of starry nights and moons, and Michi Renoir tunes,
the arguing and making up, the countless honeymoons,
How crazy it's been !

Many's the time that we broke up
And many's the time that we made up
and even when Second Life played up
We sure had fun and no harm done

And thanks for the memories
Of lions, birds and more, of avatars galore,
You might have been a headache but you never were a bore
So thank you so much.

Thanks for the memories
Of lingerie and lace, expressions on your face,
And motor bikes and aeroplanes you crashed with so much grace
How funny it's been!

Thanks for the memories
the good times and the bad, the happy and the sad
and times we made our friends all think we'd gone a little mad.
How crazy it's been.

We said goodbye so often
Then I got as high as a steeple
But we are such passionate people
To be apart would break my heart.

So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, my darling how are you?
I guess we had a lot of dreams that never will come true
but I'm really glad I met you and I know that you are too
So thank you so much.

© 2013

Aspects of Depression. Updated.

Going Slightly Mad

She sits on the floor
in the corner of the room,
knees tucked underneath her chin
encircled by her arms,
rocking, rocking,  back and forth,
softly crooning some old song
eyes unseeing, fixed and glazed
lost in thoughts of long ago
escaping from reality
a life too full of pain to bear
too frightening to contemplate.

Somewhere in her secret soul
deep within her wounded heart
she knows she cannot stay here
Her family will soon be home
and she must pull herself together.
They must never know about
the secrets of her time alone,
the inner workings of her mind.
But just for now, this little while,
her mind lets go of reason,
flirts with momentary madness,
heeds oblivion's call.

And so she sits upon the floor
in the corner of the room
and wishes she could die.

Nov 2001

A Glimpse Into My Private Hell.


Like swamp gas from its foetid lair
that bursts forth into clean fresh air,
so my thoughts arise unbidden
from the place where they lie hidden
in some stinking mental midden,
bringing me to near despair.

These demons from their souterrain
now come to haunt me once again;
memories awash with sorrow,
love I only ever borrow,
fears about a bleak tomorrow,
percolating in my brain.

They seem so very saturnine
these dark and dreadful thoughts of mine.
Is some monstrous madness lurking
grinning greedily and smirking,
watching, waiting, slowly working,
making me it's concubine?

Why must my mind be so steadfast
and cling so grimly to its past?
Why can I not just cease this travel,
let my tortured mind unravel,
hear the judge bring down his gavel
giving me some peace at last?


© Nov 2001.

Drowning


My subconscious mind once opened,
like Pandora's box, releases its evils.

For Pandora, Hope remained
for consolation, mitigation, reparation.

My Hope, a mischievous sprite
lifts me high only to send me
hurtling back to earth.
A malevolent Tinkerbell taunting me.
And yet I cling to her;
like one drowning I cling to her
but my grip is weak.


© Dec 2001


Ride Out the Storm


Once again the mind descends
spiralling out of control

down

down

into a deep dark well

sorrow rises unbidden
filling me
till it overflows and runs
cascading down my face

unstoppable

unendurable

where does it come from
this grief
this sadness?
why won't it let me live in peace?
what reason can there be
for this sense of desolation
which tempestuously
overwhelms my reason?

Once again I must ride out the storm
stay hidden within
peer through the gloom
till the sun breaks through
bringing a new dawn
of tranquillity

© may2002


Sad and Pointless

Loneliness
a cancer
eats into the soul
extinguishing
destroying it
bit by painful bit

each passing day
is longer
emptier
more bleak

each sleepless night
is darker
quieter
and cold

all sense of being human
is lost within these walls
no voice, no touch,
no sight or sound
exists for reassurance

emptiness is all now
all vacant eyes can see
anticipating hell and
eternal desolation

as courage steals away
reality departs
and takes with it forbearance
of this sad and pointless life

© June 2002




Another Crazy Day

With closed eyes I see them
huge and repulsive
insects entering my brain
destroying rationality
demolishing my sanity
reason in freefall
doomed to crash and burn.


A Fragile Thing


How fragile a thing is the mind

Sixteen years of arduous crawling
out of the dung heap into the light
clawing and scrabbling, inch by inch
learning the meaning of blood sweat and tears

becoming too confident, thinking you're strong
till a few ill-chosen, innocent words
hurl you back headlong into the shit

sitting here shaking with re-opened wounds
bleeding afresh down my nice new persona

Oh Tinkerbell, you sorry sprite,
how long will it take me this time?


© June 2002


Old Memories Awakened.


I found an old diary today.
which stole my peace, just briefly.
March sixteenth of ninety five
I wrote these words in bright red ink:

Have decided I've had enough.
When I feel I'm ready I'll just
kiss it all goodbye.
Life's a bitch.

I didn't do it as you see,
I was hospitalised instead,
but the memories that came to me
when I found those words and read...

I've thrown the diary away.
Such times of overwhelming grief
are dead and gone, or should be,
and deserve a decent burial.


© 2003


Becoming Nihilistic

Once more the ground beneath me starts to crumble;
once more my errant psyche takes a tumble.

The black bat, night, descends upon my soul,
as long days spent inactive take their toll.

Reason lost, thoughts heavy and ballistic
plummet now, becoming nihilistic.


© July 2003


This World is Not My Home

I've never felt at home.
Any place I've ever lived
was just like passing through
since my neonatal welcome -
a slap upon the rear - which is
somewhat depressing but
unfortunately true.

Living can be lonely,
lonely as the last leaf
clinging to a winter tree.
All alone, in company, from
first gasp to dying breath
that's how it's always been
and how it will be.


© Nov 2003



Demons Rise

Demons: again they rise
out of the dank and dismal depths;
mocking me, deriding,
taunts insinuate and seethe.
I can scarcely breathe
for the stench of my deficiency.

Too much alone, I'm preyed upon
by echoes of forgotten voices,
shadows of the past.
Malevolent, they torture me
with devastating barbs:
Failed again! How typical
of damaged goods; faded, cracked,
a ruin of a once-bright hope
in need of restoration.

How many tears will it take
to drown these pestilential imps?
So strong, it seems, their grip so tight
by night or day.  Away! away!
What would you have me do?

© Nov 2003


Me and the black hound
have this kind of uneasy truce;
mostly he just hangs around
out of sight, out of mind
but every now and then he
ups and bites me where it hurts.

© Nov 2003


Killing Time

Why do I do it? Struggle
through each dreary day,
the weariness of leaden limbs
matched only by my heavy heart,
my world as dry as dust and grey.

Physically, emotionally,
I've reached an all-time low
the effort is enormous
and I'm tempted, very tempted,
to give it up and just let go.

Still, if this goes on much longer
feeble as I am right now
with no one here to lend a hand
or fetch a sip of water
I'll perish quite soon anyhow.

It seems a welcome prospect
seen from here, within my room
and yet, and yet, there's something
- God knows what, for I don't -
that wants to keep me from the tomb.

The spark of life is strong though,
stronger than we realise.
The pull of preservation
does battle with the intellect
and tells me tantalising lies

about the need to carry on,
for other people if not me,
tomorrow brings the hope of more
and if I quit today there's things
I'll never even get to see.

Sweet lies and sweeter promises
with no means of fulfilling
but maybe if I wait awhile
this melancholy mood will pass.
It's only time I'm killing.

© 2004


Words

Words. Just words.
Echoes of a former life
dredging up forgotten feelings;
fucking with my head.

Foul words, calumnies
spawned from insecurity;
jealousy and accusations
filling me with dread.

Words. Just words, but
words have unimagined power.
Will I ever really heal from
all the things he said?


© 2004 

Trying

Trying, trying, to see the light
from a gloomy deep dark well of doom.
Despair and hopelessness prevail,
the future seems uncertain,
as hope once more bids me adieu
and sweet oblivion beckons.


© 2005



Losing it.


Losing my shit
falling apart
can't seem to hold
love don't come around
any more but hey
I wasn't worth it
anyway
life is a bowl
of Jell-O
hello
something not quite
right there
fright there
lot of fear
lonely here
can't seem to hold it
together
no more
there's the window
there's the door
love don't come
around here
any more.


© 2007





Crisis


Is this what they call a crisis then?
Nothing makes sense any more.
I'm out of control, losing the plot,
thoughts and feelings run amok.

Reason is lost, takes flight and flees,
hides behind absurdities.
The desire to die or harm myself
is becoming quite persistent.

There are some spells of lucidity
when it's hard to believe the other me
who says and does things that appall
the me who would never do them at all.

Euphoria takes turns with fear,
some thoughts erotic, others, drear.
Amid the maelstrom one stands clear:
your heart is beating, listen!

Nights aren't for sleeping any more,
I lie awake for hours;
make cups of tea and listen to
the one who writes my poetry.

Right now the tears won't stop.
They roll, slowly, interminably
down my cheek, then drop.
Drip, drip, drop,
from jaw to lap,
or floor.

At other times I'm numb.
No thoughts at all, no feelings,
just cold and eerie nothingness.

Often I feel bewildered:
is this what it's all about?
I can't I won't I shouldn't I must
and who in the world is there to trust
and when and where and how on earth
and why in the world did she ever give birth
to me.

It's all too hard you see.
Too hard, too hard, too hard, too hard
and I'm coming apart at the seams.

They have to question, can't accept,
they never see, never see...
It's what? It's me? You're sure about that?
Of course it is, why wouldn't it be?

I sometimes say the stupidest things,
no thought behind them. Words have wings,
like wasps they fly and sometimes sting.
No wonder people doubt me.

I doubted too, for far too long.
They called me stupid or worse, a liar. 
Now I know better but still desire
acknowledgement; but it's just the same
they don't believe me so what's the point
of having a view at all.

Yes, I'm not easy to understand,
I know I know I know I know
I don't have to be reminded.

It's all too much; retreat, retreat
and find some peace, for a while at least
but I'll pen my thoughts for posterity
until the storm abates.


© 2007
  
Reflections in the Aftermath of Depression.

When black clouds descend
and all is unremitting gloom
no-one seems to be a friend
there really isn't any room
for folk who say "Cheer up".
That's like describing rainbows
to a person blind from birth:
it hasn't any meaning
validity or worth.

For in that place of darkness
it's impossible to comprehend
that light will come again;
that hope, like springtime, will return
dispelling once again the frost
that penetrates the heart and mind
and petrifies the soul.

Like those who lived in ancient times
who saw the passing of the sun
and feared it's failure to return
it seems some primitive response
convinces us that all is lost:
there's no escaping, no way out;
no words, no logic, penetrate
the icy grip of winter.

Yet in its own good time the sun
breaks through the pestilential cold
and banishes despondency
til winter comes again.

© 2010


They Come

Very down again.
Lack of sleep? Too much alone?
Or the thoughtless words of a friend?
Probably all the above.
Tears fall, can't concentrate,
I need a cuddle but that's a joke
haven't had one for many a year
and none in the offing either.
Days like this I really don't need
but still they come, they come.


I'd thought that this was over
but no. It's here again.
The deadness of soul,
the feeling unsafe,
the longing, the feeling
of hopelessness.

At least I know it will pass
in time. 


June 2013.


Fraught.



From a place of seeming security suddenly I plummet.
Down, down, into the dark, a dark I've known before.
In just one hour of talking I hurtle from the summit.
How can he say he loves me then wound me to the core?

After years of hell and heaven I achieved a kind of peace;
all was smooth serenity, nothing in our way.
Now the trust I attained so hard flies like a flock of geese.
Maybe I was fooling myself, it's very hard to say.

Does woman ever know her man? Or is it just illusion?
Honesty is limited, frankness may be rationed.
The joy of yesterday is gone, my mind is in confusion,
I'm just not sure now who he is, how his mind is fashioned.

What is loving anyway? It's not what I had thought.
I keep forgetting the limits, you see, maybe it's just that.
It seems to be for such as me relationships are fraught.
Perhaps I should admit defeat and settle for my cat.

June 2013

Down Again

What do you do
when the urge is strong
you know it's wrong
but the urge is strong
the urge to self harm,
to hurt yourself
to take away pain
which sounds insane
so what can you do
instead.
Suddenly fragile
once again
tears fall
but that's all.
No harming today.
It's not gone away
but buried once more
for now.

2013