Claire
Gary  what "reality" are you referring to, I wonder? That the Earth is flat? And/or 6000 years old?

Me
My reality is that this earth is 54 years old. My exact age

This really happens every time I comment on posts from the pages I follow. It just happened again. People don't even have the mentality to stay on subject. The hate is strong with most people, and the ones who say they don't hate are the deepest in the hate game. If you think this isn't poetry, I don't mind you saying. Of course a lot of people never thought of Huxley as a poet either. Look at him now though...still ahead of his time and he is dead!

It ****** to life in Spring the dry dark Earth
Which points to sun and sends off the Holly King
Like a spark ignites the soot encrusted hearth
The celebrating children dance in rings
The Earth is in us too and deeply carved
In dark and light we are cleaved and tied in knots
And travelling inwards are we standing fast?
Or do we weep at demons we forgot?

What if you take that shadow to the light?
A kernel lifted from the pricked dark Earth
Who’s beading blood in rising runnels might
Rise up in us, to show us all we are worth

The Earth is in us; the light the dark the seasons
To hold our shadow to the light is freedom

I wasn't sure at what point
my feelings of
inadequacy and failure
would penetrate the boundaries
of my thoughts and
manifest themselves in a physical way
which scare not only the strangers
that pass me on the street
and see my now skeletal body
but also those I love the most.

It took a year
For real life to strike

For angst and pain
And loss and blame
To seep into my being

For life to change
Beyond repair
To mock my naïve hopes
That one day not too long from now
We’d all be tossed a rope
an aid for getting back the life
I thought it was a given
Offered, earned or taken
No doubt this should be written

I have been mocked and laughed at
Humiliated fully
Who said the silver lining
Would ever be rewarded?

Who said that thinking bright and light
Would lead to us to be Kings?
Who said that keeping open arms
Would fill them with good things ?

The neighsayers, the doomsdayers
Now they reacted first
“Our lives will never be the same”
“Ridiculous “I cursed
if I can power through this thing
if I can hold my stead
then surely I’ll deserve it
no doubt I’ll be rewarded

But one year on and I’m still here
With nothing but one thought
They won, those ******* called it
life will never be retold

I’ll never see my favourite band
while squashed amongst my peers
I’ll never hold my child’s hand
and lead her in a cheer

I’ll never feel the pulse of crowds
that carry and transport me
to realms beyond myself
of ecstasy and joy

I’ll never share the joys of life
with the village I belong to

I’ll never give away my child
Surrounded by my friends

I’ve lost my veiled city walks
the company of strangers
those vagabonds, those chatterbombs
those rambling raging tourists

I’ve lost the freedom of a roam
in endless ***** markets
Of touching things and smelling them
And shaking hands with sellers

I want to squeeze into the tube
on an August summer’s day
and smell the sweat and body odours
by which I onced dismayed

I want to push across a bar
And plead to get my drink
and tut and huff towards the guy
who pushed to get ahead

I want to curse and shout and stomp
for my favourite football team
and fight with the opposing side
and trample on their dream.

I want my smile to be seen
by the burly shopping clerk
to roll my window down at lights
To greet an immigrant
I want to hand him my donation
to place it in his palm
and not be scared or worried
that I’ll end up coughing phlegm.

I want my children to live free
Of masks and antiseptic
and live a life that’s full and rich
with all relationships

A life complete with crowds and queues
and large scale celebrations
Of smelly loos, of flowing *****
And stinky sweaty ballrooms

The life that I once doubted
Despite my best intentions
And now its gone and I don’t know
if I will get it back.

A wasted year of optimism
Thinking all would be ok
A year of denial and
dare I say
a year of baseless consolation.

We all carry Guilt.
Things we did
Or should have done.
Actions taken when red mist descended,
Hot blackness deep inside,
Or when we ran scared
Like a startled rabbit.

Sometimes we were just plain mean:
Doing things
Too bad to confess.
At times we “did our job”,
Knowing full well
That it was wrong.

We hate ourselves for what we did:
Adrenaline taking over
As we exploded and lashed out.
Cruel acts and gutting dumpings:
Things best unsaid.

But no good beating ourselves up.
No point blaming ourselves
For things we did as callow youths.
We cannot always help
What we do.
To err is human,
As they say.

We all have our flaws and demons:
Personality defects and fears.
Some have  anger issues
And autistic traits.
Fear of commitment,
Emotional dimness
And many other such things.
Stuff of heartbreak
And sorrow.

I, for one, never did relationships –
Just didn’t understand
What they were about.
So I was bound to do wrong
Sometime.

All stuff for lyrics of songs:
Songs of drifting apart
And breaking up.
Material mounting into Everests
Of angst.

But worry not.
We are not alone.
For evil acts,
Trouble and strife,
Division and violent clashes:
They all seem to be the general way
In these trying
Modern times.

Plenty to work on
In our collective quest
For Peace,
Including peace of mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\1\2021.

The smell of burnt hair.
Pyre, made of autumn leaves.

A sound beyond hearing.
Metal, bending and twisting.

One eye, but not the other.
One ear and two more.

Lines, straight lines.
No curves, no wrinkles.

Do you hear it?
Can you see it?

A fire you can't put out.
Burning ice like a thunderous cloud.