Posts Tagged youth

The point


As he died and saw the world fade away,

he also saw his life spread out

like a two dimensional fan in front of him.


Then flames appeared and a charred black hole

spread out from the source into the delicate fan spread.

Each blade a part of his life,

crumbling to charred paper and blowing away on the wind.


And so he returned to his original state.

Now able to play a part in the way

he spent his life hoping he might.


Wiser now and on a universal stage

rather than a bit part in a sideshow.

But having learned to understand this.



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I believe


There were four,

but then it fractured

into four.


And I curled and died

with shame and pain.


But they’ve risen from

our ashes

and fly proud.


What part did I play though

as was my understood purpose?


That purpose that faded away

so I could only watch

from sidelines


And cast faintly heard praise.

I believe

they’ll live better lives.



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Life’s a bus queue

Dad was further up the bus queue
From me.

He caught one just now.
I’m still waiting.

Some wait in front of me
And some wait behind.

Number 37 or some such.

Don’t know where it goes
Or why it’s called that.

But we’re all waiting for it.

In a queue.

I didn’t see that he’d caught his bus
Until just now when the phone rang.

But then it is a long queue
And he was right up at the front of it.

I remember when he stood
Kicking the dirt right back here
Where I now stand.
Looking about him
And wondering what and why.

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So slow then

So slow life seemed then.
But as life’s integers pass,
Each becomes smaller.

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Grab the moment

Being born.
That transformation from potential
To manifest form isn’t easy.

And as life progresses
You’ll know the same experience
Again and again

As you rise and fall and rise again,
Only to be blown to pieces
When you least expect it.

But there is a circularity
That you’re permitted to rely upon.

When you rise, then you will fall.
So when you fall
Then you will rise.

Become wise at
The uppermost point in this sine wave.

Grab the moment and start again.
It’s not about luck or knowledge.
It’s about timing.


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Setting sun

Wet concrete steps reflected red neon lights.
Walking behind her past cold marble pillars
To the warm orange light of the foyer.

We walked up the stairs and the pleats of your skirt
Splayed like fingers spreading to cover you,
As you swayed in that inimitable way.

Then the crowd flowed in with babbling mouths
And I lost you in an ocean of grey suits and sequins.

These days long now watching setting sun
And remembering the sway of those splayed fingers.

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Be quiet and let it happen.

One thing is for sure, and that is that a new world is emerging. A debate about what form that might take, as occurs on a lot of fora, is futile. Change is happening at an ever more rapid pace. Debates by supposed wise people of a certain age, like me, are more likely to be wrong because change is so rapid, based on newly emerging, networked paradigms that are evolving so quickly that I suspect the dignified thing to do might be to shut up and see what the 20+ generation make of things. Listening to their music, I suspect it’ll be pretty good, if they’re allowed to thrive.

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Between the dark and ominous
Shapes that stood above me,
There were roiling clouds of light and dark,

And between and under all of this
Ran a road like a silver sliver
That curved and swooped between the dark heights.

Like a light moving through a shadowed chasm.

And that road of light
Led my way to its distant point.

So how did I find myself
In this dismal cave
Half way up a shadowed mountain?

I took my eyes off the road.


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The remarkably visible decline of Alphonse Onetime

With wide blue eyes and pink smooth skin
Young Alphonse viewed the blue sky swirling world
About him with endless optimism.

He gleed and clucked and rolled his sky blue eyes
In wonder at the life that lay before him
Before he was introduced to the idea of sin.

And as he grew and saw and loved and lusted,
And knew the destruction of the values of those about him
And strove to hold to a better view,

He found emerging distance grew like a gap
Between the hull of his ship and the established land
Built by his forefathers as an anchor.

As his sails filled and billowed with warm wind
Of aspiration and hope and a sense of direction,
He puzzled at how his path took him away to sea
Far from the hard certainty of the land that had been built for him.

His world was far more turbulent than had been intended.
Full of raging storms and pirates and ill fortune.
But also of adventure and learning and growth

And passion and love and lust and a kind of violence
That fulfilled him and made him feel righteous.

He sought his fortune and found it in foreign lands.
Values that echoed his forefather’s dreams,
But built on floating platforms that drifted with fortune.

One day his home was overwhelmed by glittering waves,
Smooth with glossy assurance as they lent over
To drown his dreams and all he loved

And as his life sank and his ship dissolved away,
He raised his view and saw the blue sky and the sun
And heard the call of certainty of land and the ways of his fathers.

But by then it was too late.
He sank slowly into a grey green world
Of passing currents and shifting sands
And glossy creatures that smirked at him
With botox lips and small hard eyes,

And he knew that from now on there would be no certainty.
Only life from one moment to the next to the last one,
After which perhaps he might wash up on some far shore
To be absorbed again back into warm dry soil.

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Watching through the dirty glass of my living room window,
The old people walking bowed and supporting each other
Towards the church that rings an appeal.

Some laughing youths ride the other way on their bicycles
As they go oblivious to the glares that scorn them.
A pigeon standing aloof on the opposite roof coos its disdain.

Then it begins to rain and like a slow motion film of flowers opening,
Umbrellas spring open wide to make a dancing parade of gaily coloured circles
Each swirling and moving as one towards the random rhythm of the ringing bells.

A dance of souls in faithful abeyance to the call of the profound.

But the youths are back and whirling like dervishes on their bikes
Between the baffled faithful they hurl their foul mouthed scorn.
And even the pigeon falls quiet.

Then they’re gone like a small wind that passed and stoic people
Brace themselves and reform their appreciation of their truths
And the swirling march of the giant coloured flowers resumes.

And in the distance is heard bright laughter
Of young people yet to be constrained by anything so fixed
That could be called by mere bells.

And the rain still fell slowly.
Ignoring it all.
And the pigeon resumed its call.

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