Little by little,
Piece by Piece,
Day by day,
I fade away.
When the music played
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.
The Countdown
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.
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.
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.
The Wheel of the Year
Hope shines into the heart of new days,
I’ll heal in nature, clearing both mind and airways,
With eyes closed I can see the illuminated leaves,
In our own sunlit garden, on its magical trees,
With the passing of Beltane, happier days seem ahead,
Far from Queen Winter, the monarch of the dead,
Warmth brings connection, and opportunity to grow,
It’s a time to return to the me that I used to know,
I must shake the bitterness that Yule has put in me,
And start living better, the way that I should be.
There’s a lot of work to do on my body and my mind,
I’ve abused both, so it’s time to heal, repair and unwind,
As I’ve grown older there’s one thing that is clear,
All things can change, except the turning wheel of the year.
I hear my train coming
I’ve tried every day, but I’m cut to the quick,
Everything angers me making me sick,
With worry, with hurt, or with such sorrow,
For a world with no future, I’ve no hope in tomorrow,
I’ve had enough, and my own time draws near,
Soon it’s time to say goodbye to all I hold dear,
Although I love them, I just can’t stay anymore,
Every day I feel worthless, like I’m cast on the floor,
Of life’s editor suite, who doesn’t think I’m a good fit,
Removing my worth and my life with one simple snip,
All the love I have given, and the little I have taken,
Leaves me here with no ticket, stranded on death’s train station.
With this one-way ticket, there is no coming back,
For my journey is over, and this train is out of track.
A Thousand Dreams
A thousand memories, and a thousand dreams,
Hurtful ingredients adding sound to my silent screams,
Too long buttoned up, and for too long held down,
Battling imagined usurpers hunting my imaginary crown,
I fight alone through wastelands left barren,
Used and ridiculed, my mind is starved, left to famine,
After those who sort something from me all drank their fill,
I remain here in the dark, fighting apparitions still.
To save my heart and mind, I must be completely withdrawn,
I seek peace as I grow older, used, battered, and travelworn,
I lick my wounds, and I try to heal deep scars left within,
Those unseen by the world, not those left on my skin.
All these wounds that I speak of have come at a cost,
They are not badges of honour, but evidence of those lost,
Too many friends and loved ones have now left this place,
Leaving me unequipped to cope with the world that I face.
You read this now in a time of turmoil and of inner unbalance,
Where I drink poison to assist paying unknown psychological penance,
Filling my need to be numb, to fake happiness, to no longer care,
A thousand emotions, from a thousand thoughts I can’t share,
About things I can’t change, nor do I want to bring back,
From the lifetime of sadness, I’ve carried on my back.
Dan Verkys 