Lunch time musing

It’s coming to the end of my working week. I have been spending a lot of time in front of a screen, so imagine my surprise when I spontaneously wrote this…

Computational life
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Linking poet to reader

Here is a little musing I had after lunch today. It was inspired by thoughts about what happens to a poem after it’s written…who ‘finds’ it, what do they make of it?

There are barriers between us-
Time and space
Disconnected bodies
I wonder when you will exist
ang you will question if I ever did

Will these shapes running across
a scrap of paper hold any meaning?
Or will you find decode a digital cache that miraculously survived
the storm
before your dawn?

The illusion of permanence in a temporary world of
already forgotten
inventions and incantations.
I am caught in a march of time
into the invisible future of
your reality.

Woven together

This year has been difficult.

The words that once flooded my day have remained, more often than not, ebbed out far beyond the horizon.

But I am trying. And I will keep trying.

This poem is one I wrote earlier this year, but at least I am sitting here typing it out.

Woven together
The lives we make are like tapestries
woven as we live.
We cannot know what shape or pattern
will emerge,
the meaning of the textures and colours
sometimes only
revealed after we are far enough
away to see the whole.

Today I feel lost without you
wishing that here had been more
threads for you,
and I had more time with you.
But I know that you are still with me.

You are with me in the memories
I have of you
and in the ways the textures
of your tapestry
are reflected in the tapestry of my life.
My tapestry is richer because of you.
And I carry forward the best of your threads
so that I can wrap myself in
their warmth and comfort,
knowing that we are
forever woven together.

Photo by Los Muertos Crew on Pexels.com

Return of the pen

No doubt you have noticed that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for the last 6 weeks or so. I needed to take a break, recalibrate some things, and overcome a sudden loss of words.

Every time I thought about writing I would feel a tightness in my stomach that overrode my ability to hold a pen. Although my brain was crowded with thoughts, none of them stooped to form themselves into words.

It’s been a time of intensive reflection and questioning – is there any point in writing and performing? What is recognition? Is external validation why I am putting myself ‘out there’? What would happen if I just stopped – put down the pen and walked away?

Spoiler alert: I don’t have any answers, except to say that the words are slowly returning and the thought of writing is less likely to trigger a dry retching response.

There can be no promise of the quantity or quality of my work, but I do know that the words are my precious friends, and I hope that they will forgive me and return home.

Passing by
The optical illusion of
solidity is a trap for novice players.
The road gives way to a stream
that flows freely under a bridge to nowhere.
Through misty rain
glimpses of retired farm
equipment catches my eye,
tears of rust running into overgrown grass.
Wooden fences lean into
their final resting place.
Folks don't come by here much anymore.
They are either tourists with a 
malfunctioning GPS
or are the sort of people 
who spend their weekends
on old trains exploring 
almost forgotten stretches of line.
They glimpse backcountry villages
whose names are heavy with
history but not anchored
in our memories.
Eventually the fragile threads 
of iron and wood
will melt away, leaving behind
suggestions of what might have been
home.
Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Shattered light

The human soul is often depicted as a flame. The flickering that creates the light in our eyes and perhaps gives the universe colour. But what happens if the light breaks, distorting the colours and the human?

Life Colours 

Red for the anger 

That burns like fire. 

White for the fear 

You chose to hold dear. 

Orange for the bitterness 

Of wearing hard hits. 

Life's colours waft in and out 

As you weep, push and shout 
And your dreams fall away 

With each passing day. 

Fighting shadows 

Wherever you go. 
Photo by Mustafa ezz on Pexels.com

Too worn to smile

I think this poem, written about five days ago is pretty self-explanatory!

A study of my face
The face in the mirror
Is becoming strange to me
Not because of
the lines that come with age
or the wintering of my hair.

I can see it in my eyes
those cataract glazed lenses
seeing less of the
world and more of me.
A quickness to anger
unresolved PTSD
and too little optimism.

I am becoming hardened
more insular
as trust takes loner
and ill deeds register
more accurately, quicker.
I don't think I can 
maintain the ruse: smile,
even if it will make 
you feel better.
Photo by Thiago Matos on Pexels.com

Flow of consciousness

I wrote this poem last night at approx. 9.55pm. I was on the train coming home from MCing a poetry night.

Flows
Tied to words
that flow in
a torrent
a flood of ideas
sparking off each other
sending electrical pulses
in all directions
riding this storm of thought
ebbing and surging
the words keep flowing
keep flowing
pulling me to new knowing
and old forgetting
keep flowing
flowing.
Photo by Ragga Muffin on Pexels.com

Part 2: more musings on a museum

Museum Part II 
The museum is closed for renovations. 
Exhibits have been torn apart 
for storage and future reassembly. 

No new ideas are being accepted. 
The notion of dust is rejected. 
Visitors are not welcome to 
muse their way through collections. 

There is to be 
only the lonely 
desolation, 
the emptiness
of forced stillness.

Ink wells have dried to powder 
stored hastily with the Founder,
that unflattering self-portrait
whose paint is beginning 
to crack and fade. 
Photo by Darius Krause on Pexels.com

Part 1: Musings on a museum

Museum Part I 
My new words are housed in this ancient museum 
Dust softly wafts down to stick to ink 
as it dances across the paper. 
Immediately redundant and tired 
they fade further into irrelevance 
with each passing second. 

This ancient museum is a place where 
ideas come to grow lonely. 
No visitors crowd the corridors 
it is a monument to ego and hubris. 
The janitor's worn out broom barely teases the floor. 
Like him we are all just going through the motions- 
labelling exhibits that no-one will see 
justifying acquisitions with arguments 
of artistic merit that no-one will hear. 

Ringing as hollow as the hallways 
and empty promises made long ago. 
Going through the motions, 
our lives touch but make no impression. 
A beige world caught in neutral 
with an edifice of fake marble veneer 
you see where it has cracked from 
the weight of absent expectations. 

Inertia - a force so great it glues us to this place. 
And still my words spill onto the paper, 
collecting dust particles 
and ideas 
that will live forever undisturbed- 
lonely and forgotten 
in this ancient museum. 
Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com