Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Who’ll be there to pick me up when I fall,
This is a question that the anxious call,
When it all feels too much to bear,
When happiness only brings despair,
When the mind races and the heart beats panicked pain,
And the body is held a hostage by its very own brain,
There’s nobody to pick me up when I fall,
So, from under the weight of things, it will be me who’ll crawl,
But not until heartache runs its painful course,
And anxiety has drunk her fill, without remorse.
Bright blue lights fill a darkened room,
Cool air flows from air conditioning,
The injured lay prone, away from the burning sun,
A swell of music creates a dreamlike state,
Eyes remain closed in this quiet healing moment,
Pink Floyd asks a crazy diamond to shine on,
The injured oblige, trying to block out the pain,
With a cold drink and two sleeping hounds at hand,
A sleeping bride breathes deeply in a nearby bedroom,
The injured drifts in and out of consciousness,
The summer heat outside is held at bay for now.
The serenity of this moment will soon be over.
I am not the night,
I am not the morning light,
I am not the earth beneath,
I am not the hope you seek,
I am unseen, yet everywhere,
I am he of greying hair,
I am one for whom no one cares,
I am just another statistic,
From a generation born fatalistic.
X
Why does part of me always seek the harshest of feelings,
Why am I not content when I’m at rest, the peace never visits for long,
It is though my mind actively seeks out negative pathways,
Rather than remain quiet, stay at rest, be calm and content,
Instead, a pursuit haunts my sleep, and affects my waking day,
I don’t like it, I don’t want it, but it’s there,
I seek comfort in the hunt for objects that bring me pleasure,
An obscure part of my mind knows I’ll soon be unable to attain them,
So, I collect, I stockpile, I obsess, I spend, I hunt further,
Everything is recorded, everything is placed in correct order, all but me,
I foresee darkness on my horizon, and I fear the grey days that it will place me in,
I’m unsure I have the strength left to again walk that long hard road back to the light,
I don’t want that feeling, but it is inevitable.
I resent the persistence of time, and the silent murders that it commits,
Time is never held accountable, it has no day in court to answer for its crimes,
Lifespan, not death itself, that is the real ticking time-bomb of the mind,
There is no going back, just a subtle pushing forward from unseen hands,
Dark days are coming, I don’t want them, but they are inevitable.
Two rivers born of a sister star,
Are parted by green mountains far,
At great distances, they remain aware,
Timeless is the love, that they both share.
The rivers will still flow, after both stars fall,
An endless journey through time they’ll crawl,
Finding peace in their waters ebb and flow.
For time means nothing to the bond they know.
Although the rivers meet and part too soon,
They are connected by the very same moon,
Up in night skies, where sister stars shone,
They are two rivers divided, but they flow as one.
They will meet again, when their journeys are done,
Leaving behind creeks and streams, that forever will run,
Into the ocean’s great mouth, where all good rivers flow,
Together finding peace, beneath the moon’s nightly glow.
- For my cousin Kristy
Two hearts bound by a family tie,
Each one a cousin, that lands divide,
Tho farewelled tears fall in silent times,
Our eyes remain young, as old age chimes.
Many past lives I’ve lived within this one,
Other Me’s living with different people,
Calling other houses my home,
Other Me’s with different pets, and pastimes,
And another with a young family, or a teen family,
I now find myself here, at the sum of all those Me’s,
Is this current life my final version,
Will this be the last Me anyone will see,
Or am I at the precipice of the next Me arriving,
Who knows, I live day by day now, and I rarely plan,
Because in the blink of an eye, I could be another man.
He could be kinder and wiser, or cruel and mean hearted,
Only one thing is certain,
I’ll never again become the Me where I started.
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.
Here's to you, and another year without you.
I work diligently to keep my mind clear and calm,
I create things with various art forms, I have many different hobbies,
However, these are rarely successful long-term distractions,
Frame of mind is everything, and I can feel my mind drifting,
Drifting from where I would like it to be,
Sometimes, inside of my head feels like I’m locked in a loud crowded room,
Inside I’m trying my best to focus, to communicate, or to escape,
Some days it feels impossible to create anything, because of the noise,
Other days it is easier, the volume is down, and my mind is inexplicably pliable,
They say, after every storm comes peace,
Therefore, after so much sound, there should be silence,
After most creative endeavours, comes such emptiness,
I pour myself into whatever I create, and I’m unsparing in the amount,
Time to hit the mute button for a while and let the white noise fade out.
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.
Dan Verkys 