Frustration

A spasmodic, irregular
Drip, drip-drip
Trickles into a slowly growing pool,
Dammed up by walls of contemplation, consternation
Steadily eroding.
The surface boils and seethes
Fountains spray outward in brief, unchecked eruptions
Of confused emotion, before
Collapsing back once more.
Someday soon the walls will break
As time wears thin on patience’s reserve.
What then?
A great cathartic release?
A slow subsidence, leaving only
A bitter residue?
Or is there a third course,
Leading to a future unexpected?
The path is unknown, for clarity is lacking
And the days are ever slipping away.

Choice

Crudely hewn steps
Up a sheer, closed circle of obsidian rock spiral
Towards starlit heavens.
Beneath, a drab plain
Where shifting sands ebb and flow in
Waves mottled by pearl and putrescence in equal measure.
A habitat restricted, encircled, stagnated;
But known.
Yet above and beyond climbs the winding stair
Perhaps a path to new horizons
Or a road that leads nowhere.
To place a foot upon the first slab is to blaze a fresh trail
But the way seems treacherous.
Are those great waves washing down the dark rock face,
To drag a tentative traveller down once more,
Or a gossamer masquerade of perceived ferocity?
A quandary that from a distance cannot be resolved,
Only progression up the stairway might avail new answers.
But it is a lonely journey.

Familiar Stranger

Every image tells a story,
But what is the tale
Of the person gazing back at me,
Bluish green-grey orbs tracking my every move?
Smooth skin unmarked by years' travails,
Experience-scarred eyes that look into mine
Through a mist of cynicism and ever-present wariness,
Only rarely allowing a glimpse of what lies beyond.
But is my vision true or just
My seeing what I imagine should be there?
Every image tells a story,
But why should it
Reflect reality?

Darkness At Dawn

An orange orb in its ascendancy,
A sliver protruding above the horizon,
Bathing the landscape with warm radiance,
Its soft glow a promise of heat and light to come,
Only darkens my wakening shadows.
Eyes slowly opening,
Still hazed and blurred by fading dreams.
Head turns, a hand shifts,
Cool sheets slip across yielding skin,
Finding only an empty pillow,
A dead space unfilled by warm company.
An absence to which I have become accustomed,
A void that does not need to be filled
To allow me joy and satisfaction.
And yet
Sometimes I wonder
About she who might fill that space
In ways that both mirror and surpass
My expectations.
And I regret.
But such moments pass
When I feel the rays of the rising sun
Touch my face.

Small Things

Small things,
In isolation irrelevant, inconsequential,
Mere specks of dirt on life’s great landscape.
Together, though, they grow,
Expanding exponentially until
What once was merely a flicker of irritation
Has become a flame of rage, burning away
In the heart of my belly, my limbs twitching,
My head seething with justified anger.
But is it really so justified?
Others would say no, yet they do not see things my way
So does that make me right?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
Still I should try to let things go,
By lack of attention keep the small things in check,
And not permit my feelings to get the best of me.
But it’s not always that easy, is it?

Florence Rose Day

A small, delicate, frail figure,
Enveloped by the chair within which she sits.
Straggly whitish-grey hair crowns her wrinkled pate,
One clouded, one clear, she gazes at me
Her words a vocal reflection of her outward appearance.
Some days the sun blazes through with unabashed clarity,
On others it is masked by the clouds of antiquity,
Dark days for we who look up to the sky.
In her company, I can see more
Than just what is in front of me
I see what is to come, the inevitable progression
Towards a certain terminus.
A gentle cessation, or so I hope.
But then she speaks, and I am taken back,
Regressed to looking through eyes untempered
By cynicism or experience, but widened
By innocence, curiosity and fascination
And I remember.
Walks by the river,
Swings in the park.
Games played: Monopoly, Ludo, Draughts,
Wins and losses but fun regardless.
Birthdays and Christmases spent together,
A life enriched, enhanced by her presence.
Times hazed by the golden light of favourable reflection,
But who will say that they are less real for that? Not I.
A legacy more potent than any tangible gift,
Enduring, living, within me.

Lessons

Twenty-five years gone and
Here’s what you should know, he tells himself.
This is what you should aspire to.
Be self-reliant, but do not fear
Asking others for help.
Draw strength from those around you
But do not make them a crutch,
For that is no way to repay them.
Stand on your own two feet.
Do not let fear of what others think
Prevent you from moving forward.
Admit that others are smarter than you,
But do not let that stop you
From telling them when they are wrong.
Be confident, not arrogant,
Let your achievements speak for themselves.
Heed both the words of your inner voice
And the advice of others
But do not let either one solely govern your actions.
Do not rely on others for validation,
But be willing to hear what they have to say.
Have the courage to let yourself be vulnerable.
Trust in yourself, or you will never succeed.
Valuable lessons, only partially learned.
But I will persevere.

I Am/Not

What am I?
A question with a thousand obvious choices,
But no easy answer.
What am I not?
I am not the plaything of a capricious god,
A puppet dragged down a predestined path
Slave to a higher purpose.
I am free to choose, but constrained by my choices.
I am deeply flawed, but
I am not cursed.
I am both God and Satan,
But I believe in neither.
I am not made in anyone’s image,
Although I look like my parents.
I am intelligent
But all too aware of it.
I am not here for anyone’s pleasure
Though it pleases me to make others happy.
I am transparent to others,
But my reflection is opaque.
I am less than I think I am,
But more than I know myself to be.
I am a different man to yesterday, yet
I am not the man I will be tomorrow.
What am I?
What am I?
I am.
Not.

Prayer Of A True Believer

Knees sunk into thick pile
Body hunched, fists clenched tight
White knuckles pressed against my chin
Eyes screwed shut, the room blotted out
I pray and listen for you
Won't you speak to me?
Outside the sun shines
On a world in darkness
And I am but a candle flame
Alone in the gloom
But I am not afraid,
For I know You are with me.
You must be with me.
All my life I have followed you,
Lived and breathed your Word,
Honouring you at every turn,
Standing against those who oppose your will.
I bear their mocking taunts with pride,
Armoured by my certainty in your truth
But still you don't speak!
I can hear them now;
The godless and the misguided,
Living their lives with reckless abandon,
Heedless of what awaits them.
They are ignorant, blind, they choose to be so
But I know
What they face.
The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
They will repent of their evil deeds
But they will find no absolution.
Not like me, that will not be my fate.
Oh Lord, tell me that it will not!
Have I not done all I can,
All you have asked of me and more?
I have given my life to you,
Is that not enough to absolve my sinful nature,
The inherited taint that has corrupted us all?
Tell me it is enough, I beg of you!
My dreams are filled with fire and darkness,
Burning and wailing, endless suffering.
I think I am saved, but I do not know
And that is the worst thing of all.
I can take on this world,
Face any challenge
If I know I am saved
And that I am not alone.
Oh Lord, speak to me
I’m waiting for you.
I’m waiting for you.
I’m waiting.

The Dogmatist

Behold, the dogmatist;
Standing tall and proud,
Eyes ablaze with the harsh light of certainty,
Sacred text clutched between grasping hands,
A shield against the world.
Hear the pulpit’s proclamation of strident denunciation
Against the world and its “moral malaise”,
Speaking wistfully of bygone days
Of purity and innocence lost through so-called iniquity
Of goodness giving way to sin and decay
But many there are who do not see things that way.
The dogmatist, though, cannot leave them be,
To make their life-journeys as best they can
Without imposing their god’s helping hand.
How dare you judge me?
It is not sin for me to consummate my devotions
Without a ring upon her and my fingers,
As if that metal band alone can provide validation,
And without it there is suddenly no justification.
Nor is it wrong or an abomination
For those who are so inclined
To find love and companionship amongst others of their gender
It is no “crime” against “nature”
For nature is no law-maker
And cares not for your self-righteous indignation.
“Judge yourself before you turn upon others”
Your sacred text’s own words that are so often unheeded,
Take your judgements away for they are not needed
My life is my own,
My choices and follies, triumphs and worries,
Responsibility rests with me, as it does with us all.
Live your own life, and leave mine alone.