A light through the darkness

Killarney, Co. Kerry, Ireland

Foundations

She is buried deep in grave thoughts,
her mind aflare with consciousness —
there are no more ifs, no more oughts,
at long last came clear-sightedness.

Like the tearing of a dark veil,
a haunting doubt finally interred —
glaring at her as chalk on shale
is the unshrouded truth made word.

She is enwreathed with bated breath
in a moment frozen in time —
restless, her vision’s boundless breadth
pierces through ghosts, grief and grime.

Out of the ashes she found peace,
in the cold furnace of her heart —
that which obtained in quietus:
the deathling secret at depart.

Wisdom

 

“When I have ceased to break my wings 
Against the faultiness of things, 
And learned that compromises wait 
Behind each hardly opened gate, 
When I can look Life in the eyes, 
Grown calm and very coldly wise, 
Life will have given me the Truth, 
And taken in exchange -- my youth.”

Sara Teasdale, American poet (1884-1933)

 

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

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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