Wonder

In an age where
we humans
are mostly amazed
by the toys we’ve
created ourselves,
the forests
and glaciers,
oceans and skies
are now objects
of pity and guilt.

Diminished and poisoned,
ravaged and slaughtered,
our former gods –
the awe of ancestors –
fall at our feet,
close to death.

Meanwhile,
we trundle through life,
plagued by malaise,
fuelled by futility.
A pervasive but modest
despair,
at the root of which
is a gnawing question
drowned out by
a billion distractions.

A meaningless meme,
a pointless high score,
an ad for insurance,
a handful of likes,
all surpass anguish
and wonder.

 

 
Reading: Alain de Botton,
The Pleasure and Sorrows of Work
http://alaindebotton.com/work/

Corner

Let’s meet at the corner of
Hilton and China,
let’s open our eyes to what’s
deeper than skin,
let’s open our hearts to a
love that’s integral,
no delusional fancy,
just what’s within.

Let’s wake from our dreams of
us-and-them conflict,
let’s see every citizen
dazzling and true,
let’s live in the beauty of
ultimate poverty
where no one is separate
and all are in you.

Missing

A solo mission to
recover my integrity:
missing in action
since that
furious skirmish
on the outskirts
of my idealism.
Telling comrades of capture
by radical militants,
I embark on my
dead-end quest,
knowing full well that
my absent virtue
slunk away when the
gunfire began,
avoiding
dishonourable discharge
by disappearing into
the night,
no doubt to drink
until under the table
or under the covers
with some new
inglorious mistress.
Leaving me here
in darkened wilderness,
carrying the can
of carrying out duty:
delaying the inevitable
empty-handed return
with shattered heart
and ravaged reputation.

Lifetime

A lifetime of seeking
to walk the right road,
a lifetime of reaping
the seeds that I’ve sowed,
a lifetime of aiming
and shots in the dark,
a lifetime of blaming
and missing the mark;
a lifetime of lacking
the trust that I’ve needed
a lifetime of slacking
and points I’ve conceded,
a lifetime of desperately
wanting to breeze through
a lifetime of breathlessly
wanting to please you
a lifetime of paddling
in water so shallow
a lifetime of battling
with knowing I’m callow
a lifetime of yearning
to swim in the deep
a lifetime of learning
I’ll always be cheap.

Tried to do what was right
without stopping to think:
wandered into the night,
blundered into the drink,
saw a chance to connect,
to make up for the past,
saw a hope to deflect
all the hurt I’ve amassed,
seeking to rescue
relationships broken,
hoping to undo
harsh words that I’ve spoken.
Just like a newcomer,
not all that bright,
dancing with lucifer,
angel of light:
signing my soul away,
hapless but willing;
watching my life decay,
helplessly chilling.
A lifetime of seeking
to walk the right road,
a lifetime of reaping
the seeds that I’ve sowed.

Sacrifice

Giving only to ourselves,
we receive nothing.
Building only for ourselves,
we create nothing.
Living only for ourselves,
we belong to nothing.
Dying only for ourselves,
we live alone.

The Essence of humanity
cannot be spoken,
only enacted in forging
community:
love articulated by
sacrifice,
to something greater than
the individual.

 

Reading Flight to Arras by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/57079/flight-to-arras/

Shower Dance

His love/hate shower dance
is a complex sacrament,
intended to invoke
the most deeply buried feelings
from the nooks and crannies
of his soul.
Starting close to the floor,
rocking and weaving,
he calls forth the
cringing core degradation
of longstanding shame;
tensing his torso
and curling his limbs,
before handing off
to unbridled elation,
adrenaline rushing and
fuelling his leaps,
embracing the high,
fists raised and clenched;
then gripped tighter still,
nails digging skin
as the caustic horror
of all past rejection
floods into fullness.
His body convulses
with each perceived
kick in the guts;
head bashing tiles,
spine scraping grout,
he welcomes the torment
before turning and spinning
into one final movement:
arms waving wildly with
jubilant energy,
hips swaying rhythmically,
feet skidding perilously,
as he seizes the wholeness:
complete self-acceptance.
The ritual is over;
his heartbeat decelerates,
his inner man cleansed.

Truth

Seeking truth
I roamed the earth,
visiting temples and shrines,
cathedrals and mosques,
synagogues and sanctuaries.
I sought out ancient sites:
burial mounds, sacred rivers
and holy mountains.

I spoke to countless
devout men and women:
pious monks and nuns,
revered rabbis,
cherished clerics,
saintly sages, godly gurus,
venerable priests and
numerous numinous teachers.

I did not find the truth in
any of these shepherds:
not in their unique teachings,
nor in the sum of them.
Neither did I attain it in
any holy place, natural
or man-made, nor in all
the wonders of the world.

In despair, I sat and wept,
and as the cascade
of my teardrops
spilled upon the ground,
soaking into dirt
and watering the land,
I finally encountered
the object of my search:

In the wrestling with ideas,
in the stinging of my tears,
and in the fissures in the ground,
through which they ran.

Down

Which way is down?
The path is no longer
so obvious, like in the
heady days of youth,
when all routes were
plainly marked, and “up”
was the only trail worth
pursuing with vigour.

“Down” should be conspicuous,
but I cannot seem to find
the way so well. Perhaps
the lack of signs confuses me,
or the way the light plays
tricks on these old eyes?
Maybe I’m just not so keen
to find this subtle path.

In any case, I stumble on,
sometimes clearly climbing,
sometimes on level ground;
at others I descend with
aching knees, making my
way Homeward through a
course of trial and error
and the longing of my heart.

Overcast

My overcast heart
joins the crowd of
allied souls, trudging
into another week.
The dull, grey pall overhead
reflects our somber mood.

Why so gloomy?
We’re clothed, we’ve eaten,
risen from beds with
clean cotton sheets;
where’s the deficit we
perceive so keenly?

I can only speak for myself
in saying it’s a construct
of my own mind,
based on a lifetime
of skewed narratives
about Mondays,
about mornings,
about work.

Personally, I like all three.
My tired mind wrestles
with this awhile,
running my limited
mental programme
of useful life lessons:

One: look up.
What appeared to be a
steel-shuttered firmament
breaks into paler cloud,
with a small promising
patch of blue
to the south.

Two: be grateful.
Aforementioned bed,
breakfast and clothes.
The music I filled my
head with on the bus,
plus the book I’m reading,
a free evening ahead.

Three: listen to your body.
It is simply telling me
I’m tired. Get an early night.
But for now, get up:
get on your feet,
and all will be
well with your soul.

Jettison

Jettison those
pedestrian motions:
jaded emotions from
lifetime devotions to
ill-conceived notions.
Abandon the fast cars,
and glossy faced pop stars:
ubiquitous sub-par celebs;
let the ordinary plebs
– the quick and the dead –
come along on
your journey instead.

Fill up your trolley
with food never tasted,
the wild and the wasted,
the uneducated and
heart devastated
abusers;
with drop-outs and losers,
with beggars not choosers,
belligerent boozers,
and Christ’s own
self-righteous
accusers.

Instead of simply
predictably opting
for mainstream-adopting
safe bets,
wash out those toxins,
with fresher concoctions
full of life and
potential regrets.

Create for your cultures
ambiguous sculptures,
placing them round and about.
Through honest confession
and deep intercession
take a vulnerable question
and utter it back at
your house;
with your kids or your mates
or your spouse;
with those willing to listen
to honest admissions
of morbid conditions
and hidden addictions
without totally missing
the point;
without judging your struggle
or bursting your bubble
or talking of
wrecking the joint.

Let winos and weirdos
with hairdos like heroes
and lifestyles like zeroes
step into their God-given
birthright:
a conscious decision
with careful precision
and crafted incisions
to egos:
foregoing the limelight,
not bothered where
he goes or she goes.
Rather, making a highlight
of living, of loving,
of giving not getting,
of never forgetting
the tears or the sweating,
of lavishly letting
their beautiful flaws
shimmer bright.