thoughts – Page 14 – three good words

January 20, 2015January 21, 2015

wild at heart

plugs in, player on
here I am, hearing a song
that sounds innocent
but would be rated R
celebrating consumption
of substances that have
no legal function
as it so sleekly does

and yet it’s not the lyrics
not the text itself, not what is sung

but the beat
the bass,
the melody
that brings me back
way back

back to those days when
we used to party hard
dance and sweat and dance some more
lights flashing
beats pumping
amps crackling
volume sky high
you heard the beat with your body
and felt the music with your heart

…

there was nothing but the music
coz rhythm was a dancer
and you had to let the music
push the feeling on
and those were just the popular ones

but we went deep down
into the sheds, the areas, the hidden bunkers
where the world was dark and light
filled with sick beats
intercepted with unbelievable strains
of perfect melodies
oh that drive
that drive to celebrate life

that’s what it does
this song that’s great
and kind o’ just wrong
it takes me back to that time
when you and me and all the others
danced in the dark
until we had to stop
we were simply exhausted
and so walked out
mildly shocked
to see the sun was out
and those other people
were actually living their lives
being offensively boring adults.

A sigh and a smile to that freedom
I can’t even describe
the joy, the exuberance
of celebrating that one thing
that would never stay forever
loving every second under the sun
needing nothing more than great music
to love our young lives
we were so achingly wild at heart.

child dancing nezartdesingdottumblrdotcom

January 17, 2015

le télé

a moment of lapsed ~~sanity~~ concentration
pressing the button to move along
the virtual stories shown
and suddenly you’re watching the unwatchable
seeing what is unacceptably
embarrassingly
(kind-of-sort-o’) funny
hilarious (but really humiliating)
so awful it actually hurts
but they keep on
and on and on
for all to see
on so many innumerable
twelve-inch screens
and you wonder
what kind of modern
panem et circenses
this really is.

What happened?
What’s going on?
I’m not even confused anymore,
anger isn’t even possible.
Why do so many homo sapiens
enjoy humiliating themselves
down to the marrow of the bone?
Why do we even watch?
Why can’t anyone say:
Stop. Please, stop.
No, no, no, no
Stop right now
and no I’m not joking.
Who told you this was good,
that this would hold?
Stop. Stop right now
and please PLEASE
stop letting those cameras in
get off that imagined stage
and just go home.
Oh. My. God.

January 15, 2015January 16, 2015

terra nullius

I read and think
and admire
what others are willing to sink
into the blankness of the virtual page
like treasure chests
waiting to be opened
full of virtual word-gold
mined from the precious veins
of lives unknown
reams and reams of history
soundbites of the personal
notes on intimate spaces
all their own.

I read and think
and admire
but I know I do not know
how to lay my life on the written line
how to confess, confide
openly
aggressively at times
showing, telling
pursuing a presence that should be me
but what is ‘me’
in this sea of words and stories?

It is maybe not about not knowing
but more about not showing
not wanting to self-colonise
the wild, the life
the terra nullius inside
unknown only to others, outside.

For to present
it must be shaped,
to be told it
must be formed
– mapped –
turned from elements
earth, air, water, fire
to geography, weather, astronomy,
all things (wo)man aspires,
histories that can be traced
followed to the first word
explained to those
who do not know
the secrets hidden in holy waters
the powers whispered in sacred fires
the life living on unknown soils
that quiet, powerful magic
nascent in all
from arctic to jungle
from tundra to grasslands
together, all at once
landscapes galore
that place
unmapped, unwritten
spoken from mouth to ear
riddled in tales, held in rhythm
allowing those shifts of sight and sound
perception
obvious one day, intangible another
tumbling from skies above and below
swelling once, blooming twice
blossoming wide
showing what detail is possible
to the inner eye:
perfection.

It is not then, a not-knowing
but more the need for a closed garden
a pairidaēza,
a paradise
known so well to me, myself, and I
the firstborn trinity
that holy space
the home and solace
of what lives in blissful hiding
creating what is seen outside
an infinite space
one of the seven of the billion
in form, shape, and colour
that secret place within,
that which is my life.

January 4, 2015

imagine once

there is something in the silence of the clear lines,
the divine arches of the old orders, now long lost in time
where silver and marble, wheat, amber and gold
were the wealth of a few amongst many;
that time, once, so far away
celebrated today in lands of plenty
a time, once, where life was short, hardship unquestioned,
and the sweetness of solace a luxury felt to the core.

A time, yes, when fire was known for its ecstatic warmth,
the flames divine and terrible, their power
and presence felt too often on human skin and human soul;
a time, too, when water was the sword of truth
by which holiness was divined, though to drink it alone was unwise
unless in beer, ale, or wine;

that time where earth and air were powers that gave and took
that made and broke whole realms with wind and weather and storm,
by the droughts so dreaded, and crops finally growing,
the rains prayed for , the sun steadily glowing…

…can we, today, in our lands of plenty
imagine once, just once, what it meant to be, to live, back then
when time was sun and moon and stars,
legends holy and sung, the songs of praise whispered and hummed
over open fires, heating the cauldrons that fed all in house and hut,
after thanking with grace and gratitude
the great, the holy, the one clouds 1

November 21, 2014

november

There are moments when
just being a part of the whole show that is life,
just being able to stand on this stage,
and even if it is simply to experience everything,
is blessing enough.

The creativity, the patience, the simple perseverance
of those who love
is the eighth world wonder.

What about me?
Isn’t that the question everybody constantly asks?
What about me? Where do I count?
Isn’t that the central question of life?

Doubt,
that little advocate of terror,
is always there, arms crossed, frowning – Really?
The point is ignoring the bastard
Saying ‘Whatever, I know I can do it,’
and actually doing it, just like that.

Embarrassment from head to toe. Filling the universe.
But I guess that’s what happens
when you brave a fall and don’t land on your feet.
Sometimes what you get is a facepalm.
And a kind smile saying, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get over it.’
We all do. We’re survivors by instinct.

Living is a piece of work.
It costs time, effort, and hours and hours
of genuine concentration.
So why not make it beautiful?
All that work, all that time, all that effort,
when it’s beautiful, rewarding
what you’ll have in the end is a piece of art.