Blue, white, red, green,
Tibetan prayer flags dance in the wind,
Yellow, blue, white, red,
They bring some colour and calm to my head,
Green, yellow, blue, white,
Deep breaths will help me sleep tonight.
Tibetan Prayer Flags
Dependence and Frustration
I sit here disgruntled this morning, without internet,
Trying to get my work done without the connectivity benefit,
It’s not like I want to work, but this is making it hard,
If I can’t get my work delivered, my reputation is marred,
This week a few electronic items have failed to work,
Plans have been ruined, money lost, I look like a jerk,
I’m fed up, I’M FED UP, even screaming it does nothing,
Nobody listens, nothing works out, I’ve got to do something,
To break this feeling, to get some success, a glimmer of hope,
Because with each passing day, it gets harder to cope.
Albatross
Today I am an albatross soaring through the air,
Above an ocean of people flooded with despair,
Everyone seems lost and scrambling, searching for some meaning,
While I’m up here in the clouds, far from all their screaming,
There’s no need for air conditioning, with the ocean breeze upon my wings,
As I soar so high above reality, far from all the heated human things,
That made me want to kill myself and leave it all behind,
It is better to be an albatross, far away from humankind.
The Thorn and the Butterfly Wing
There’s a place in my front garden, near a bright elm tree,
Beyond the elm’s dark shadow where nobody can see,
It hides behind the ivy, creeping on the floor,
Just behind the climbing rose, next to my home’s front door,
There’s a black wicker garden chair sitting out of sight,
A place of contemplation where I imagine things to write,
Sometimes I put a record on, or sit with a cigar,
And let my mind go wandering, be it near or far.
Here I saw a butterfly gently land upon a soft red rose,
Delivering a secret message to the flower that it chose,
Its delicate wings avoided damage, from the threatening thorns around,
Two juxtaposing entities coexisting six feet from the ground,
If such simple parts of nature can achieve this perfect balance,
Why can’t humans do the same thing, with our amazing talents,
Stop the wars, remove dictators, and their greedy hate-filled thoughts,
Because with little effort, peace and kindness, future leaders can be taught,
Do they need a place to imagine a world, where things are better than they are,
Perhaps a chair by a bright elm tree, with thoughts wandering near and far,
The idea of thorn and butterfly, should not be so easily dismissed,
Because we face a planet filled with ashes, of those too stupid to coexist.
The Rain Keeps Falling
It’s early morning around my desk, it’s peaceful,
The summer heat still hangs in the air from the night before,
The sound of pouring rain dulls the songs of early birds,
The garden drinks its fill, after several hot days in the sun,
The rain falls harder, and the tin and concrete roof tiles hiss,
The sun has nowhere to go this morning,
Bashfully hiding behind storm clouds,
Perhaps feeling guilty for the previous day’s temperatures,
I sip coffee in the white glow of my screens,
A car hisses past the house, a lone weary driver starting their commute,
I soon hear the engines of other cars kick over in the distance,
The world is waking up, and the rain keeps falling.
Sleeping Awake
Awake, but still dreaming, his eyes open to the sound of an ocean,
Unable to move, paralysed, his bed is afloat on a vast churning sea,
His face is cold and wet from wind and ocean spray, as he drifts,
The bed is unsinkable, it rides atop undulating waves,
As it mounts the crest of an enormous wave, the ocean falls still below it,
The waves quickly dissipate, and the bed comes to a halt,
Now in still waters, the bed finally begins to sink, falling away from him,
Leaving his buoyant body floating unaided on a waveless sea with no land in sight,
The sun rapidly falls, and is replaced by the brilliant light of a full moon,
After what feels like an eternity, his body slowly begins to sink,
As if gently pulled below the water by invisible hands,
As his face submerges, the water surface freezes over instantly,
His paralysis suddenly releases, and he begins to struggle, fighting for his life,
He is pulled along by an undercurrent, as he bashes against the inescapable ice layer,
Panic washes over him as he battles to access the air above the ice,
But he soon succumbs to the cold and the water, his body floats motionless,
His glazed eyes peer through the cloudy ice, up at sparkling stars above,
As his body begins to silently sink down into the black ocean depths,
His arms and legs float up before him, as he plummets into the deep,
All light eventually fails, but he realises something isn’t quite right,
He becomes calm as he realises that there is no longer a need to breathe,
He slowly rolls his body over to face the ocean floor,
As he sinks, he faces a black nothingness that disappears in all directions,
He continues his descent, as countless time passes,
Far down in the inky depths below, he can see an orange light glowing,
He closes his eyes and allows the weight of his body to carry him down to the light,
Upon opening his eyes, he sees light pouring from the mouth of a massive skull,
The gaping mouth burns with an unnatural flame, that engulfs him as he enters,
After passing through the enormous burning cavity,
He’s now surrounded by the cool flame, and he continues to descend,
His speed increases, as the underwater flames lick at his face,
The cavernous space narrows into a small opening ahead,
He manages to angle himself enough to pass through it,
He soon feels himself burning through light and time, before being regurgitated,
Spewing forth from a giant waterfall, that spills into a fine clear lake,
After an ungraceful landing, he swims for the shore,
As he pulls himself on to the stoney bank the ground begins to rumble and shake,
The earth begins to collapse around him, landscape and lake fall into nothingness,
A desolate world being swallowed by a black emptiness,
The ground gives way beneath him, and he tumbles into the darkness,
He falls screaming, his face is peppered by surface remnants,
This new descent lasts so long that the cool air has time to completely dry him,
Suddenly, a pure burst of white light erupts from below like an explosion,
He averts his eyes to protect them, but the brightness engulfs him,
Now blinded by light, his spinning fall comes to an abrupt stop, and he opens his eyes,
To find himself staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom.
Where trains of thought go
Sunday evening has arrived, rain lightly falls, and I find my mind adrift,
Thinking of places to soar to, and using my imagination to write,
‘Hmm, this may take a while today’ I say to myself,
My thoughts aren’t as pliable today as I would like them to be,
It is being inflexible, a cloudy numbness and racing of thoughts combine,
Creating a grey, washed out thought process, that isn’t producing,
So, I’ll sit with it a while and observe, I need to change my energy,
Perhaps a little music, Medwyn Goodall, the time of ‘new age’ isn’t over here,
Drifting keyboards, a constant drum, beautiful, slow and methodical,
A trilogy of albums begins, I lean back in my chair, I think and listen,
The sound is soft, medieval, Arthurian, and luxurious,
This is where my mind has been hanging out lately,
Escaping from a stressful reality, self-loathing and worry,
Lost in a pagan dream of early English folklore,
Pan flutes and a soft synthesized choir swell,
Yes, this feels ok, I won’t be crafting anything fancy tonight,
Just documenting my thoughts and actions, which is ok,
My racing thoughts remain viscous; however, I feel calmer,
Should I even attempt verse within prose?
I’m not really sure how that would transpose,
After the observational typing of thoughts,
Jumping straight into a lyrical fire of sorts,
Well, I’m doing it now and there’s no going back,
I’ll just have to keep typing, and try to keep it on track,
Medwyn’s music helps me with rhythm and rhyme,
Softly and slowly his drum is keeping time,
I should switch back to prose now and finish this ramble,
Frankly, this entire poem has been a bit of a gamble.
Just writing thoughts is also creation, and my mind breathes easier,
As Druid, Merlin, and Excalibur, Goodall’s Druid Trilogy, comes to an end,
My mind jumps back to 1990, I’m 16, ordering these cassettes from a catalogue,
That same year I found my first tarot deck, dressed in black for the first time,
And I found a me that I was comfortable inhabiting, I didn’t quite hate myself then,
My family were all living, it seemed peaceful, life was simple and uncomplicated,
My mother had just been diagnosed with an illness, in four years, she would be gone,
And after that, just like in Humpty Dumpty, all the Kings horses, and all the Kings men,
Couldn’t put things back together again.
Although this may not be very imaginative writing, typing it was personally instructive. The power of music, and searching for the right words, managed to dislodge some suppressed and kind of uncomfortable memories. The surprise for me was having control over closing that door of consciousness before the train of thought ran itself off the rails like usual. That control is quite an achievement for a Sunday evening for me, so, although not imaginative, I do feel better for writing it.
Thank you for reading,
Dan
x
Time, loss and the Thief of Memory
I thought decades healed me of your passing,
But it still burns painfully inside of me,
A rage, an anger at loss, robbed of love,
Your face is featureless now in my mind,
Time places a veil over all memories,
Is it healing, or is it a time bomb,
I have depleting moments left of us together,
All that remains tangible is,
This intense fire within.
That will never go out.
Kingdom of Ancients
When I close my eyes, there’s a place I go,
Far beyond the dreaming sea,
Where the calm still waters ebb and flow,
And ancient druids call to me.
There’s a great circle of sarsen stone,
Arranged to greet first solstice light,
Where ancient secrets of the earth are known,
And shared with followers draped in white.
In a lake of wonder a lady sleeps,
Clutching a sword upon her breast,
The water hides the tears she weeps,
Waiting for her King to begin his quest.
I open my eyes, and I’m back in my own skin,
I no longer feel the sickly weight of panic,
I’m calmed by my kingdom of ancients within,
And my thoughts are now less manic.
The mystery dreamland calls me now,
As I try to stop my eyes from closing,
I write this verse through furrowed brow,
Time to sleep and stop composing.
Wreckage
A morning sun packs early heat, high in the sky,
After a dark night of wreckage and ruin,
Another mother mourns the loss of a son,
As crows cry for carrion on the green roadside.
Dan Verkys 