Ottar

Ottar Sep 2014

For S V, and too many others. (Graphic Content)

empty fields filled with noise,
echoes of the past misted voices,
desolate landscapes hide still life,
left behind like unwanted dolls
each one hurt then mortally harmed,
why are only loved ones alarmed,
fathers not given a chance,
                                               to protect
                                               or sacrifice a life,
mothers not given a chance,
                                                 to stand up
                                                 with all of the love,
                                                  and their own life,
sisters and brothers and all the others,
                                                 to reject en masse,
                                                  against diminished worth,
each victim, born by birth, like you,
each and everyone, now, in the arms of the Son,
if there was a drop of mercy for every fallen tear,
even with all of that, there is anger and there is fear,
and questions that scream from the heart where,
lifelong pain is the thief, that steals parts of those
who remain,
in pain
and disbelief,
that it happened to someone they knew,
that it happened ever at all,
that it will happen again.

Where goodbye, was...

And again. Happen.

That love could not save them all
from these acts that took them away.
Undeserved death.
By men who aren't men,
Or by a coward dressed as a man.

Once the news floods in
and
the spinning begins, and
never ends
never ends never ends
never ends never ends never ends
heaps of hearts lie cut on broken dreams,
sleep is a dream where a scream
is an alarm that went off too loud, too late, too often.

That won't turn off.
While Peace and Hope are near, and always seem,
out of reach, cause stains and burns like bleach,
come with cost where there is loss and the vibrant
memories,
already begin to fade.

Will not comment on politicians or prevention or police or the judiciary, please leave no comments about the good or the failures of the four above. This is not about them.

#victims #lovedones #violenceagainstwomen

Ottar Sep 2014

They

they drift away like memories,
When Alzheimer's  and Dementia,
Enter the skull shaped room.

they are pushed out of the Present,
To where they belong, the Past,
Exiting through the Closet.

Rattling the bones of the skeletons
building up and building up,
a legacy, of things not spoken,
things better left unsaid, it is
is like the ****** talking about...

The Undead.

they are not kissing cousins,
they are not twin sons of different mothers,
they were people once to,
they were run through the gauntlet,
lining the hallways till their nerves gave
Up,
and their will gave
In,
to the darkness.

they believed the bed of lies and pulled
the poison comforter up and under their chin,
suffocating,
hopes and dreams,
      they no longer dream at night and only in the
                          daydreams do they find comfort,
                           they are beyond hope, a desolate
                           land mass enriched and making
                           they who live there, poor.

they are those who were bullied
and never recovered,
they are those who were abused,
and were refused to be,
believed.
they are the ones who want
writing
to be witty and light hearted,
with bees that bumble,
meadows to have dandelion clocks, to
tell the time,
where the fresh mountain air,
cleanses the past
which is sadly soiled and soaked with all the salty tears,
stalling the seed of hope, desperate need of hope,
until the tears that fall have no salt,
or no longer fall,
they are those who thought they found love,
and then they woke up...to a different story,
then the life they were living and all they
had been doing, was giving and giving until,
they hated their own bones,
they did not recognize the images
in mirrors,
they lived in fear, that they would be found out,
and the escape route would be taken away.

Or tossed out of reach.
Onto the flat roof tops of an empty school,
broken windows, borrowed childhood dreams,
high pitched voices, too soft to hear their screams,
now forgotten. They.

For the disenchanted, I probably missed a few, sorry I didn't do, to harm you. Or forget. Please read in a lighted room, and not alone.

Ottar Sep 2014

Brush Those Tears Away

Speak to me, in sounds and in words,
Let me see, clearly an explosion of birds,
From the thicket,
From the bush,
From the field and scrub,

Sound like thunder, flash like lightening
Let me touch, every spoken drop of rain,
From the clouds,
From the trees,
From your eyes,

And if I may,
brush those tears away,
from your lips,
with my own, or...my fingertips.

What if you don't cry?
What if you don't dream?
Then I will shed enough for two,
Hold you close, if you trust me too,
Let you sleep so deep, so sound,
That peace will be your comforter,
                     as I wrap my arms around,

and hold you gently dear,
so that once you wake up,
you may brush my tears,
those, happy, foolish, tears away.

Ottar Aug 2014

Beyond

Speak of grass,
Speak of roots,
                             Clinging to dirt,
                                                           Like nothing else,
Find  trees,
Find the roots,
                          Clinging to the ***** Earth,
                                                                             Like nothing, else
they might walk, else
they might fly, else
they may bow,
                                     To the Owner of the footstool planet,

See and sight,
Eyes delight,
Awe or wonder,
                         Grab the dirt, feel the grit,
                          Smell the dirt, scent of ages,
                           Listen to the dirt, in the silence ...
                              Taste the dirt, dust to dust,
Dark earth, rich
Dark thoughts, poor,
                                      Cling neither, to the dirt of the Earth,
                                                 Nor, to the soiled thoughts,
Reach to the Sky,
reach for the Heights,
                                         Not the moon not the stars,
                                           Open hand, Open heart,

Beyond and
                       the near.

Ottar Aug 2014

Enough

What if, ... you don't dream,
What if, ... we never meet,

What if, ... the sky is the ocean,
What if, ... the sea is the sky at our feet,

What if, ... I have no means,
What if, ... we never sit, side by each,

Enough of, what if,
what will be, will be,
not to take life flippantly,
or put my boat into unknown seas,
                                        no anchor,
                                        no rudder, to steer me,
                                        no sails,

so be, my sails filled with a windy blast,
be the rudder, bring me to where our hearts...will meet,
then be, my anchor and hold fast,
                                   and forever.

This life, the open water, big enough...

Ottar Aug 2014

R. W. in thanks

You made me able, to find the funny places,
The wonder and laughter on all of your faces,

you were not the only one, that made comedy fun,
you were one of comedies favourite sons.

You hid your life to the public eye,
Or was it everybody knew, but didn't pry,

I set you on a pedestal many years ago,
then you let it be known, you did not own an ego,
every laugh hid tears, every outburst disguised fears,

of alcoholism,
of depression,
of schisms,
and therapy sessions,

the mind behind Mork was human too.

Skelton,
Knotts,
Winters,
and you R.W.

Made me laugh till the tears poured from my eyes,
like they did today,
In thanks, I throw words on a screen, your humour
was not always clean, but bordered on obscene,
uptight ***** sitting in chairs, laughing like they had no cares,
you gave them relief,
for a brief spell, they walk through the land mines,
not seeing your hell, thinking everything was fine.

I found your humour coarse at times, call it shock therapy,
Your improvisation was sublime, best pupil Winters never had,
in his class.

"Jack" of all trades,
master of none, except maybe
a comedy tour.

I never knew you, but I got to hear my laughter,
because of you, I never knew you, but woke up the
next day trying to remember what, I never knew your
best line was I heard, from the night before, there were so many.

We needed you to make us laugh, again.
We may not have been much help.
You needed help and humour was not enough.
You needed help and ... I am just a small town boy
in a big city, and now turning to Steve Martin for
all my laughs.
No pressure.

A tribute. An appreciation.

Ottar Aug 2014

a meditation

Thirsty eyes searching,
"Abba, I belong to you,"
Lost tears, falling down.

Meditation inspired by Brennan Manning - Ragamuffin Gospel, in quotes, direct.

#haiku