we are confused…

we are confused

a government celebrates

its lack of achievement

bubbles blown on the wind

to burst in moments

we are confused

first it was time to party

like it was 1945

then we could drive around

to test our eyes

we are confused

they imply we could move

closer and closer

but will two feet

lead to six feet under?

we are confused

do we want laughter, beer and songs

and the clink of cash?

Is the rest silence?

Coming to terms (from prompts 06.03.20)

our life is far from perfect

but we don’t count the days

nor try to break our chains and fly away

 

our perceptions of ourselves have shifted with the years

and the ancient footpaths across the landscape of time

are easier to follow now.

The old days of hacking through the jungle with machetes

forging new ways of living are less beguiling now

 

the grim reaper lies in wait

and “coming, ready or not”

we cannot hide forever.

Prompts:

Far from perfect

Counting the days

Breaking the chain

Reflections of ourselves

Ancient footpaths

Ready or not

isolation (from prompts)

We are not made for isolation

only alone-liness, desert island dwelling.

It tempts at times,

but only as a temporary aberration,

when life has been too full awhile.

 

When we’ve been unable to skate the surface layer,

the meniscus of life buoying us like an insect

leaving the depths unplumbed.

 

A short term refuge – 

a den under the stairs

or the back of a wardrobe filled with coats

holding the scents of fusty winters

can bring relief – 

only so long as it’s not for long.

We’ll long for more

 

We may lie in bed and dream

or see pictures in the stains on the ceiling

and resolve to repair and paint

 

But we are not born to be static – 

rather ecstatic, changing, in motion.

Mere reflections can shatter to plunge us into the mud.

Prompts

Isolation

Surface layer

Under the stairs

Stains on the ceiling

Think of changing

Reflection

Lessons from Granny

The more you know, my granny said …

I guess you know how that ends.

She was full of truisms

Words to live with

Like the infant teacher she once was.

But did I take note? Little enough.

On a good day

My head was in the clouds

I thought I was better

I could work it out

From zero,

Tabula rasa,

A blank sheet ready for the words of life

and yet …she taught me where the flowers grow,

Hidden in the hedge bottoms,

Shyly in the woods, or openly in the fields

Then with garden and birdtable

Awoke me to urban wildlife

encouraged patience in watching and waiting

Not all learning comes from books

Or word of mouth,

Some osmosis is at work

Outwitting child-like arrogance.

The prompts:

The more you know

All good things

Head in the clouds

Where the flowers grow

Urban wildlife 

Word of mouth

Autumn

The promise of gold entices – 
not the metal whose glow
deceived and flattered
and trapped old Midas,

but the promise of the sun,
rudbeckia flowers, hedgerow fruits,
the first hint of turning leaves
an invigorating breeze.

But no – the foxgloves bow to the wind
I dress in wool to face the grey chill
seeking the mental alchemy
to convince myself that summer lingers.

Music in the park

a park’s green oasis

shade from summer’s heat

cool music

like running water

no fierce drumbeat

searching for clues

As I look to the future
a spider’s web hangs from a beam
a few husks of flies
entangled
layers of dead lies
frozen words
left from a fire sale
of ancient wisdom

Wind-blown
then rain-torn
then desiccated
in its sunless corner.

A web of words
printed, unprinted,
whispered, unsaid,
cascading from generation
to generation

A peal distant thunder
almost inaudible,
as we search for a truth
among the tall tales
tying us to the guilty past