I have a memory as a child,
of propeller planes droning lazily in clear blue skies.
In the field, lying down squinting up,
blocking bright sunlight with one hand to see the planes up high.
The moment seemed eternal then, and preceded responsibility.
So many seconds have ticked by since,
I can’t be sure if the memory is truly mine,
or is captured from a book, or film or song.
But as I hear that drone again today, the sun warms my bones regardless.
The past is a foreign country...
I don’t like the tone of that engine.
I don’t care for the cut of your jib
The colours that make up your palette,
Or the ink that flows from your nib.
Your reason to me sound like excuses,
Devoid of a single attempt
At anything remotely productive
Yet you hold the whole world in contempt.
You strut like an arrogant peacock
Feathers all plumped up with pride.
With an ego that’s bruised like an apple
Eccentric vision off to one side.
So brief your fleeting existence
What beauty, some horror, much pain.
The squandered gifts you were given
Washed away with yesterday’s rain.
Some thoughts on our species' feckless recklessness.
His story, was one of contention
A life made from indelible scraps
Of morsels that make up a life time
Bad choices, the good, and mishaps.
History, a path we all leave behind us.
One version of events from the past.
A record of things for the future,
an effort to make our yesterdays last.
Each day we each write our own chapters
Without giving much thought at the time
To the imprints we leave in their margins
Regardless of how big or how little the crime.
History, written mostly by victors
Their version of events that went down
Such an innocent word of few letters
An innocuous yet duplicitous noun.
I do confess,
I did frown and cringe
When I glimpsed the needle
Of the steel syringe.
Long and pointed,
And perfect to impinge
Its liquid content,
An experiment in rhyme.
You thought you were going to change the world.
With hard-won knowledge,
gained from lofty institutions in earnest,
with brave new convictions and bold assertions.
In the end, you settled for finding your place in it.
Only the good die young, they say -
How ‘good’ are those who go at 31?
She went before her time they said,
The ones who knew my mum.
See now I have a different view on this,
That some might find outspoken.
But it’s my right to think this way -
T’was my heart at eight that got broken.
Our time on Earth is not divined,
By any book or scripture.
It’s not defined, an absolute -
The future’s an undeveloped picture.
Don’t judge me harsh, or waste your time,
Searching for rhyme or reason.
We can’t protect all human life -
to think so is not treason.
Just like the number of the stars,
our days on Earth are unknown to each of us.
But if we shine our light on others' souls,
When we pass, we live on in their hearts.
dream poetry - wrote it down on waking!