The battles within

“Kind words, kind looks, kind acts, and warm hand-shakes, - these are means of grace when men in trouble are fighting their unseen battles.”

John Hall, pastor (1829-1898)

Green shores

Soon I shall cross the sea
to the land I call home.

Following butterflies
gliding across the storms.

Palming the charming stones
which long ago touched me.

Breathing cat’s paw spindrift
an air like no other.

Treading a hallowed ground
locked by an eerie bond.

Soon I shall be listening
to a daunting language.

Probing ancient wonders
watching gripping sunsets.

Unearthing parts of soul
I didn’t know I had.

Sealing a betrothal
which needs no Claddagh ring.

Soon, at last, I shall be
back where I left my heart.

Finding a home

I tried to find a home

in novels nobody read

in books no one got

I got lost in stories

I longed to live

when I realised I wouldn't

find my story in any tome

I started writing my own

I tried to find a home

in the drugs everyone took

and I got hooked

I got lost in realms

nobody ever heard of

and nobody ever would

when I realised I was alone

I tried to find another home.

I tried to find a home

in booze and blackouts

drinking games in which

I lost speech and movement

I got lost in hazy nightmares

which I knew not to hate or to love

when I emerged from this foam

I walked out into the unknown

I tried to find a home

in the loudest music

in the weirdest concerts

my body absorbed sounds

and vibrations till it was lost

when I danced till

I broke all of my bones

I tried to find a new home

I tried to find a home

in all types of food

I starved and stuffed myself

till I could no longer eat

to then eat and hunger again

when nothing more existed

which could be grown

I decided to go roam

I tried to find a home

in sex and pain

I got lost in pleasures

in body-arching agony

thrilled by likely irreparable harm

long it lasted but when I had

no sins left for which to atone

I tried to find a different home

I tried to find a home

in places and things

I loved too much for my own good

in the process dying several times over

always looking in all the wrong places

seeking myself where I couldn't be

I realised happiness needed to be sown

to be reaped, and this would be home.

 

All peace and quiet

"Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react. You don't have to remember. You don't miss your brain because you don't need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in the man's nirvana. And if some poor nasty minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn't got the price of a television set."

Raymond Thornton Chandler, American-British novelist and screenwriter (1888-1959), in "Writers in Hollywood" (Atlantic, November 1945), reprinted in Gardiner D., and Walker, K.S. eds., Raymond Chandler Speaking, London, 1962.

Sunset à la Turner

Click to enlarge ;-)

Soft fire

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Composition

As if I knew how to orchestrate

my own death by stretching the lifeline

until it snapped due north of nowhere

all things once dear are lost beyond reach

nothing on offer beyond the pale

reasonable epiphanic truth

–––––––––– –––––––

deepbreathing through nightlights and darkdays

chaoscontrolling like a necromancer of the soul

the blooddrops of the hummingsong heartkeys

nothingless pervading the wavespace inbetween neutrinos

to hit the silence, the absolute braincracking silence

to vibrate the music anew

perhaps on a bluemoonday

things will get better enough

to pass the baton

 

How far I've run

Look how far I've run, dad.

You always rehashed how slow I was.

You had spawned the fat kid at the back –

you hated me for that. How much you hated me.

Thirdpersoning me in my face,

setting the table for three

you, mom and sis.

If only you had noticed

the lightness of foot

the startling capacity to swerve.

What you couldn't possibly perceive

was the purpose you were giving me,

the fire you had started inside

and kindled – that rage,

that rage still burns wild, dad.

Look how far I've run

look at all the people who gave up

look now who's still running

look who's left in the dust

panting, their chest burning

by the wayside, defeat in their eyes.

It's you, dad. It's everyone else, dad.

Look, look how far I've run.

For I have never, ever stopped running.

 

Bow to no one

for him ever so humble

that lone rose given

for a lifetime of service

was the greatest gift –

he bowed to the little girl

No country for young men

"I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in."

George McGovern, historian, author and US senator (1922-2012)

I couldn't trace the quote, even on QuoteInvestigator. Here is, for what it's worth, it's in the Wikiquote.