Gone, you will
look for me but will
not find me.
Run off by the
nagging criticisms, the
slack-jawed complaining
snarl you came
in with each day
Tired of hearing
malcontent wishes
for better places
I go away for good.
I will not be contained
By walls and roofs and ceilings
My reach extends further than my arms can hold
I will not be held down
By ropes and weights, nor feelings
My story is one that demands to be told
I will not turn my cheek
Nor raise my hand to strike back
I know that body bruises are easily healed
Nor will I write
In spiteful words to attack
A heart that perhaps might not even feel
I will not lose sight
Of myself, my thoughts, my ways
Revenge, I know, won’t bring me peace
All that I will do
When I’m left betrayed
Is take my time to pick up every piece
I will not allow
Heaven, hell, and all in between
To come in the way of my own happiness
I will write to my heart
Of hurt, pain, love, and dreams
And will rid myself of all the bitterness
I will not stoop low
To stand at level with you
I know what I am and what I can be
I will smile to myself
For I’m glad of this truth—
You are you, but I am me.
More at https://justmastuff.wordpress.com/.
This is a dreary gathering
of frumpy middle-aged mums
and grey-haired balding dads
with me uneasy in their midst.
Pillars of the community
they seem quite content,
a little too content perhaps,
having lost that vitality
of youth, solid citizens
set firmly in their ways,
long past the days when
they might have been
the agents of change
or seekers after truth.
Now they follow norms
indeed are the norms
and require their kids
to obey and conform
so that they’ll grow up
to be just like them.
My child’s teachers
greet me politely
with forced smiles
pretending to care
about her welfare
though after a day
at the chalkface
who can blame them
for not really wanting
to be here this evening?
She’s doing alright
in school they say
so everything’s OK
and they reassure me
her future looks bright
if she tries her best
and passes her tests
but as I look around
at this dismal crowd
I think, sweet Jesus,
please don’t let her
ever end up like us.
This is the one life
I get, after all, considering
all thoughts, philosophy,
all beliefs
So this morning, early I
commit to stop worrying,
to release my stresses
into the air, to live the best
life I can
Best way I know how.
For better or for worse
like most of us I suppose
he considers himself to be
the center of the universe.
Yes, with his wife and kids
steady job, detached house
and paid-up pension scheme,
everything’s absolutely fine
in his trivial suburban life
all going to plan we can see
from what he posts online.
He worships no deity
fears no kingdom come
and seems quite serene
when all is said and done
living in the here and now
his comfortable existence
sufficing for immortality.
Yet, one day this smug man
too will succumb to time
and though a few might weep
perfunctory tears for a while
at the well-attended funeral
in a generation not a soul
will remember he has gone.
Then, his only trace may be
the frozen Facebook page
on some forgotten database
where his final profile pic
will grin inanely on and on.
We’ve moved
my wife and I from home
to the last place
we’ll ever live and she
wants to know why
I’m sitting around
not helping to unpack.
So I tell her the problem
which is her problem too
but she keeps unpacking.
I’m not at home, I tell her,
but I’m not here either.
Not to worry, I say.
I’ll let both of us in
when we arrive.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Three fingers; three candles
Her broad smile
The justification of the big day
Her questions universal
Her thirst for information
A credit
To any philosopher
The nature of death
The origin of flowers
An endless barrage
Of unanswerable queries
Questions formal education
Discourages
With the corset-tight standards
With the rigors
Of what to learn
And when to learn it
Stifling that curiosity
Thoughts and reasoning
Dormant
Until age and wisdom
Reaffirms that childhood fancy
No longer
Worrying about utility
Free thinking
A galaxy of learning
In that short time
Before age
Sweeps it all away
Do not quiet that child
Seek with her answers
Accept your own ignorance
And welcome that common journey
For hers
Is a world still expanding
A wonderful world
You can share
Her voice
A black hand
That reached for me
Her tone
A mother; a teacher
Showing me
A world of her youth
Gritty
But always with dignity
Pain so deep
That pretty words
Like whore make up
Seemed so out of place
Hurt deep and dark
But never so bleak
To smother her optimism
I cling to her
As she led me
Through dark tunnels
Then into the light
Her pen
Like a chisel
Carving her words
Deep in my consciousness
The people seem so old
bits and pieces
the remains of
generations gone by –
empty pews, sparse choir
light collection basket –
even candles burned at
both ends eventually
go out.
Don’t expect quick
thoughtless response.
That was so yesterday.
I’ve rushed into yes
way too many times when
I should have gingerly
paused. So now, practicing
the Art of No, I balance
your request, getting back
to you later.