Tuesday, March 04, 2008


Strange how the choices we make do not seem to be choices at all. There is a craft in our sense of development, where leaving things alone will transform a situation, and acting on an impulse will stagnate our hopes. There does not seem to be a balance, only a cosmic humour, toying with our will.

Frenzied fighting freshens
Fear and freedom recoil,
Stirring dreams unrealized into

Crazed remembering
Where no thoughts dwell
Only the feel of a
Forgotten fish
Or stink of recalcitrance
Slither into our possessive

Breath, lightly, breathe well
Breadth and depth of
Singularity –
There is not a chance
There is change
There is. There is not.
Where is the duck pond?

Can it really exist, or is it just a place
Where I will never go?

Feeding wild ducks seems
Beyond my comprehension.
Weeping willows
Endless tendrils
Creeping onto my
Memories of mother.

She adored that idea
Left me , wondering why.

And there he stays
Leaping, flapping near that pond
Into a world of
Family and brave assertion.

A broken name
A bereaved heart
But still he chooses that
Needs the comfort of
Regeneration, of a child’s world
To nurture them
To rear himself.

I am only a mirror of his
Luxurious mind.
So he can see himself
So he can be.

He can share nothing
That we are not creating
And there is the flailing truth.
One day
The globe will spin, and I will
Fly away.

That ugly duckling without
A pithy pond.

There will be no musing,
Elude, escape
and soar.
Instead of feathery caresses
And flight, sight into new dimensions
He will only have the drooping
Strands, stranding
Only hair
Red drippings
To wrap up his thoughts
To tie them up
To keep them in his secret world
Where they will remain
Curled into a reflection
That he can look into
At that stagnant pond.

And mother will say,
To him from some hymn
He will hear
‘Give me some seed
To feed
The ducks.’
And there will be none.

Just the sound of quackery.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

As He Lay Sleeping - Introduction

THis is a draft of a collection of poetry and stories I have written for the past 10 years.

As He Lay Sleeping

Figuration dominates. A form of a human being shapes itself under the covers, reclining into dreams. There are times when a wink is a sigh, and feigning sleep when none is to be experienced becomes a ritual or habit, of life as a lie. A simple thing as pretending to be sleeping, yet remaining in repose anyway can dissolve away desire for life’s pleasures. Insomnia becomes a sleeping soul.

There are those that give us solace, and resistance to their power is futile. That comfort and acceptance will drive us to accept ourselves, believe in ourselves, and work miracles with our talents. Ignoring our gifts creates weight of frustrating circumstances. Lying to ourselves and to others covers our feelings of inadequacy. On-going deceit generates a need to doze, to lie down and sink into the console of a sofa or bed. The stories need consistency, plausibility, and especially, a degree of excitement to grab the listener, a story to convince the listener, which benefits the teller by releasing doubt. When these lies are told for years, the succour that was once found in a willing, kind believer is desecrated. Laying down a friendship to support a habit of deceit is a tragedy.

Here, is a tale, a story of transition and love, of worship chained to greed, and affection transformed. Questions are unanswerable, as the questions are vague transitory emotions that explode into events. The questioned becomes inventive in order to answer with élan, leading with a lie, preventing a truth from holding him, imprisoning him.

Somnambulist? No. The sleeper is conscious. But as he lay sleeping...