Category: General

Unplanned dreaming

An opportunity embraced as we sat on the hill with cigar and cognac. This was the beginning of a conversation. It was a gift we didn’t expect. A street table ringed by dreamers, sketching possibilities and parties. The steps and avenues coming to life around us as we sat under the sacred heart. A gathering of misfits merging from cheap hotel rooms and packed cars. The plans had been lost somewhere along rural rail tracks and we were free. Free to share stories and find common energies amongst the night life of Paris. So many years ago now, but such an important time. Troubadours and story tellers, God speakers and pioneers, partners and priests forming new worlds, moving in the neon shadows and giving birth to something still growing. As the trains stood still paths were woven together momentarily and then off in new directions, setting sail across oceans spiritual and physical, reshaping institutions and sending others on pilgrimages of their own. The drinkers and smokers, the prophets and poets that sat together that evening became friends and collaborators. We’ve sung and celebrated together, we’ve painted and written, we’ve changed laws and reimagined the future, we’ve dreamt of heaven and seen it on earth. For all of that and moments shared I thank you.

Picture : https://www.flickr.com/photos/pedrosz/

Scattered gold

Scattered gold,

Tiny morsels of treasure,

So small and delicate,

Flaky, broken, worthless,

Just as beautiful,

As any fashioned piece,

Perhaps more precious,

In their raw fragility,

A breeze could take them,

Static lift them,

And they are lost,

Taken, gone,

No king could gather them,

lock them beyond sight,

Hold them, hoard them,

No one can own them,

Scattered gold,

Tiny morsels of treasure,

I can see them,

As the light bounces,

Some can’t,

They see only darkness,

But I see riches,

In you,

In each of us,

Some buried deep,

But visible,

to those who choose,

I choose,

I see flashing brilliance,

Glorious sparkles,

I see your gold,

Our gold,

Scattered gold,

Tiny morsels of treasure.

The lamplighter

The lamplighter, the man who beat the march of night with hardened soles on cobbles and brick and reached deep into the gloom to bring life.  Who turned the dampened streets a safe and sickly green as he walked. My grandfather told me of about the sacrifice of the lamplighter, to give the gift of light but to always face the dark.

But there are no lamplighters anymore.

The year of the poets and the prophets

This could be the year of the poets and the prophets.

Why not?

The politicians and profiteers have failed us, the powerful have had their way.

We’ve bowed down to the fear-mongers and fat-cats, who’ve divided us and made it pay.

This could be the year of the poets and the prophets, the artists and the authors, the makers and the movers, the strange and the sublime.

Through them old songs can be reborn and new storylines be told.

Through them there’ll be a place for poetry to fill and shift the soul.

They could paint the future rich in colours still not mixed,

and speak the whispered love language of heaven in our midst.

Could they teach us to abandon the desperate greed for power,

And seek a simple beauty in the patterns of a flower.

To stand and watch the sea breathe deep against the broken land,

And the whitening of the knuckles as we hold another’s hand.

Could this be a year of art, of story, verse and song,

Of the dreams in colourful compassion we’ve painted for so long.

A year of risk and possibility, of creativity and love.

Of tales and tunes that tell of hope and launch us high above.

To look upon this world we walk with eyes that see the new.

So let the poets weave their spells and the prophets speak of you.

Icarus

Icarus was a fool,

Who would not learn or listen.

They tried to teach him properly,

To never fly too high,

to play within the lines,

To keep to the boundaries,

know where the danger lies.

To stay in the safety zone,

and not exceed his limits.

“Don’t reach too high,

or push beyond the edge”, they cried.

But Icarus the fool refused

He flew on wings of wax,

And sought the sun.

He risked the greatest fall of all.

To fly so high and then to die.

Does that make Icarus a fool?

Evening

In the half light, as the day retreats and the lamps come on. We throw off the starched and stiffened expectations, and pull on ourselves. Objectives of the nine to five are kicked under the bed and heaped upon the floor. Pockets of busyness poured onto every surface, the keys to action dumped in readiness for the mornings panicked search.

But now, we breath, exhaling the pressure of today’s endeavours, inhaling the time we have before the hangers drop and the shoes are retrieved from their place of rest.

The urge to share our stories dissolves in the second glass as the evening grasps and grips. The struggles and stresses get pushed to the side of the plate and are left piled up by the sink to glare back at us in tomorrow’s breakfast rush.

The aspirations of achievement make way for the tales of the hardship of others, their lives and deaths. We watch people doing what we always dreamed of and dismiss them for it. We listen to the tragedies and comedies and are grateful for the sofa and the satellite.

We watch in the comfort of lounge minds and of bucks that have passed. Tut and moan at the state of it all, then sneer at the helpless, whilst we pour another glass of safety.

Relax, tomorrow never comes.

Step

Sometimes all there is is a need to put one foot down in the dirt and follow it with the next. To empty the mind of a destination and get lost in the step. Sometimes that is all.

The day after begins

Flat light takes the edge off the world, diffused further by the condensation painted window.

A pigeon softly sings it’s simple tune, disturbing nothing. Lulling, a dawn lullaby. Numbing.

Waking from unexpected sleep, nothing seems quite there, not sharp or focussed. Reality hung over.

All the energy of the season lost, expended on surviving, even the air feels drawn and wasted.

People move with batteries fading fast. Slowing as they take forced steps in the normal. Curling against the grey, on streets that once sparkled but now are dimmed.

Memories coat the buildings twisted with the lights still hanging but extinguished. With the bags of bottles and paper waiting.

The colours change from primary to pastel. From the sharp and bright to the washed tones of fogged life labouring to rise and pierce the fading night.

Focus shifts, falling from the thrill of expectation and the tension of togetherness, to moving solitary feet, in turn, along damp monochrome paths.

The day after begins.