To be a river in the next life would be, Busy, refreshing, timeless and free, The water rushing, swirling, passing all by, While on my banks, beautiful trees sway, Colourful birds screeching their calls, Fly up and far away. My banks cut through bright green fields, I can see busy machinery and people cutting wheat, While nearby sheep and cattle meander down to drink and wet their feet, I’d be sorry to leave behind the quiet countryside, Further along my banks I’d find a hectic busy loud city, Finally, here I am, the end of the river mouth to pour into the sea, Timeless this river, never an end, Another new life for me.
This poem was written by my late mother, Christine Elaine Verkys, while she fruitlessly battled a terminal disease to stay with us. She was the very lifeforce of our family, and after she passed, sadly so did everything else. Personally, there have been few happy days since. Me a River features on her memorial stone, which stays with me to this day.
I could literally rip the skin and flesh from my face right now, I am not in my own mind, I am not even in my own postcode, My self-hate is so powerful, so invincible, The effort to hold it back is beyond comprehension, I hate myself with so much vigor and venom tonight, No rhyme, no reason, just self-disgust and anger, I make no sense, I am bad company, I am not to be around, I scratch as the fan passes, I clench until its return, I want to be the kind me, but I am unable to connect, I am rocking, thinking, hating, trying to exist. Tonight I AM the monster of rumour.
A time comes when you know that you are barbed, Self-protective and in need of personal shelter, Right now, is one of those times, I have virtual thorns on my skin and in my brain, Time to stay away from my dear ones, Time to stay away from NOT dear ones, Time to be charged, and remain alone, Recognizing and communicating mood with my closest, That my nuclear level is at maximum, It’s vital to all around, Find the right music now, Find the right mix to sooth now, Find a way to dull the thorns now, Find a way to ‘control’ now, The poison has removed the pain of a life in thorns, Until now, and until tomorrow.
After a bad day today, I sat reminiscing about simpler times, about my youth, When music was king, and most of what I did revolved around it, I’d slide a record from its sleeve, put it on the turntable and sit back, Nothing felt rushed, dreams felt ripe and reachable, and the music played, Occasional trips to a record store, when they were plentiful and local, Gazing at album covers, putting up posters, and reading lyrics, while the music played, Bands influenced the way I dressed, the way I thought, music was everywhere, My pride and joy, a silver Akai sound system, it was everything, it made my music play, It was my best trade ever, a carton of beer, for the soundtrack to my teen years, It’s something that I’ve tried to recapture later in life, but the joy isn’t quite the same, New bands don’t offer the same appeal as they once did, when did I become so cynical, However, like a time machine, my turntable takes me back to when the music played, To when the air of life itself felt charged with electricity, music, and endless possibilities.
I have an internal feeling, like a counting clock ticking away, Creeping nearer, time is the predator, and I am its prey, If there’s a good thing coming, it will be the first that I’ve seen, Because misfortune and sorrow now live where I’ve been, I feel out of control which I just cannot stand, I feel my heart in my throat, and brain on remand, Anxiety for my future remains powerfully crippling, It toys with my brain poking, prodding and tickling, Who is this hunter that stalks me these days, As I grow greyer, fatter, sadder and more dismayed, I once felt stronger, in command of my thoughts, But anxiety has filled my mental account full of naughts, A life full of death and mental illness, has my mind leaving me, A watered-down version of the man I should be, No self-esteem, and so much worry and woe, That when I look in a mirror, I see a face I don’t know. What happened to me, and where did I go, That counting clock reminds me, we reap what we sow.
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.
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.
Dan Verkys 