Tag Archives: life

Other People

Other People

What a problem. Other people.
Other people are not you.
Other people might see red when you see blue.
Some other people may prove bad for you.
Some other people may prove a friend to you.
Other people are the many, you are the few.
You will meet other people whatever you do.

What a fascination. Other people.
Some other people will leave you behind.
Some other people you will want to cast from your mind.
Some other people may seem to be your kind.

What a wonder. Other people.
Some other people may march with signs.
Some other people may work outside the lines.
Some other people may want you to lose when you try to win.
Some other people may hunt like sharks without a warning fin.
Some other people may in the end help you to begin.

“Hell is other people.”
A quote from No Exit that Sartre wrote.
As regards other people that is not always true.
Other people can be heaven, too.

What a puzzle. Other people.


Law of the Lion

Law of the Lion

Life can be a burdensome thing
with so much you can’t control.
Nothing you can do about the news,
time will always take its toll.

Some preach it as a pilgrimage,
warn of perils on the way.
Others concentrate on escape,
do not care how far they stray.

The old towers are tumbled down,
the first empires lost in weeds.
The sower went to the desert
but died with his bag of seeds.

Wind lifts the branches of the trees,
moves the waves across the sea.
The winter sun shines but falsely
for cold holds the frozen key.

The golden lion on his throne,
no one knows from where he came,
rules his jungle kingdom wisely,
his one law is be not tame.

Life can be a liberating thing
once you’re aware of your chains,
to contort your way out of them,
to find what your freedom gains.

Sand and Dust

Sand and Dust

A Stradivarius violin
he knew he would never own.
Fated to be a pauper player
while he reaped what he had sown.

No, there were worlds that were not for him,
would remain outside the dance.
Stood against the wall where he was pinned,
stabbed by a glittering glance.

This poorly put together pantomime,
cruel circus antiquated with rust,
revue organised by black suited crime
was to him so much sand and dust.

Helicopters could not rescue him,
if the ocean hid his hand.
Followed the flight of the albatross
to be native to no land.

Content with his gypsy violin,
played for lovers and for wine.
His tunes were his horse drawn caravan,
be the weather foul or fine.

These cold chants to oppose the citadel,
lost with the bare ballads of broken trust,
were to him like marks on a prison cell,
to fade away like sand and dust.

Ski In The Sky

Ski In The Sky

I went for a ski in the sky,
never more free was I,
far higher than any bird could fly,
when I went for a ski in the sky.

Really I walked down a road,
my arms strained, my feet slowed
by my shopping bag load.
I looked up.
Saw me ski down the slope of a cloud,
its edge white with winter sunlight.
I smiled to see I wore
the same blue coat I wore on Earth.
My face looked younger, serene,
accustomed to pleasant thought and mirth.
Clouds shifted, my concentration waned.
It grew grey, chilly, like yesterday,
when it was windy and rained.
The moment passed by.
I was happy enough to cry.
I was thinking of you and I,
when I went for a ski in the sky.

What To Do?

What To Do?

Many who deserve good things in life
do not get their due.
The world is as it is.
The facts of history you cannot undo.
In a glass, we see our simple path,
but will those in control allow us through?
Will the verdict be,
your foot does not fit the shoe?
Resigned, like a stoic,
must we shrug our shoulders,
sadly say, what to do?

We may meet in the market place,
buy fruit from a distant farm.
All is well for an afternoon,
and no one can come to harm.
But how bad it can be, we always knew,
so we shrug our shoulders,
sadly say, what to do?

When you know how the world works,
what is left on the shore by the tides,
that you cannot follow to where the swallow flew,
there is strength in acceptance,
as you hear yourself say, what to do?

Found or Lost

Found or Lost

You can go anywhere and not need a map,
and still be lost.
You can root in your pocket and laugh,
say you must have dropped your compass
somewhere back down the path,
but it does not matter,
you are always sure of your direction,
and still be lost.
You can live in the same house all your life,
commute every week, know the name
of every station on the underground,
and still be lost,
not know where you are bound.
In politics you can become a player,
be sociable, join many groups,
do the party rounds, and still be lost.
There is no in between,
you are found or lost,
and if you fail to find yourself,
there is a cost.
And you can only know that when you are found.
Only then you can look back and know you were lost.
There is the snag.
How do you know if there is no one to tell you
if you are found or lost?
When you feel solid, sure, you know you are found,
and you can look back and see you had your routine,
but nothing more.
Your head was empty, your shadow thin,
you had memories, but nothing more within.
You know that you were lost.
When you feel found, you feel solid,
you have things to do.
The day is not long enough to do it all.
The trick is to stay found, and not be lost again.
You think of the time you nearly had it nailed,
then when you went down to the harbour,
you saw your ship had sailed.
You felt no more than a bony structure,
not done enough to have failed.
But you feel alive now, your mind active,
you respond to every sound.
You remember how it was when you were lost
only because you are found.

An Obervation

An Observation

To begin.
An observation.
Landscape painting and nature poetry.
They have this in common,
an absence of humans.
In that way they are kin.
Birds and animals
are naturally present in both,
but to hint at contradiction,
if humans are there on the canvas,
it seems only to suggest space,
distance, emphasise
the height of a tree,
the farness of a hill,
and if there on the page,
maybe some movement
when all else is still,
a farm boy idles by a hay cart,
an old villager performs some rural task.
Away from the city,
life is seen with no shelter,
its face with no mask.
But to live the painting
needs an observer,
the poem a reader.
To end.
Nature is what it is.
Unlike humans,
it is direct, honest,
can never pretend.