I Made Myself...

I made myself an island

And carved its edges mild

I made myself an island

But It still became the wild

I made myself an island

Safe from all the waves

I made myself an island

Where I’ll dig my grave

I made myself an island

And it stands here still, alone

I made myself an island

When I really want a home

I made myself an island

And my walls became the sea

I made myself an island

Oh Lord what’s become of me?

I Defy Despair

I defy despair

till the moment after my last breath

takes me elsewhere.

I defy despair

in the midst of turmoils

economic, environmental and emotional

I defy it

when all I own is dust

when all I know is gone

when all I love has passed

away

I defy despair

I defy it when

those in charge act like children

when suffering spreads like a wound

when the rational seems defeated by madness

when the voices of children

starved and helpless

go unanswered

I defy despair

And I do not defy it with anger

I do not fling impotent rage into the wind

I do not shout at the sky

Or rail against the stars

I defy it quietly and simply

serenely and constantly

persistently and resolutely

with that powerful

four letter word...

Hope.

Just try to defy that.

She Walked Between

Who walked between my winters
And left a warm impression there
Who walked between these islands
Reminding me of bridges fair

Who scaled the walls so frozen
Who added life to all the bare
And plain facades I'd chosen
To mask me from a luring stare
Of eyes that keep their secrets
While calling one to care

Who left before the winter
Could freeze her anywhere.

Odysseus' Folly

Bind me to the mast I said

Bind me good and tight

Plug your ears with wax I said

And don’t give into fright

Release me not till we’re long past

If I order or give plea

Loose me not until we’ve gone

Leave me bound here to this tree

We passed that fateful isle then

They were close enough to hear

The singing pulled at my frail soul

Its beauty brought forth a tear

I fought, I strove and tore my flesh

The ropes they bit and burned

I screamed, I wailed, I begged to leave

My efforts my crew just spurned

And when we passed away from there

I felt the loosing my mind

But the soul in me was rent in two

There’s no rest that I can find

I should have passed another way

I should have closed my ears

I should have stopped my wondering

That’s caused these restless years

And now I’m home; my journey’s done

I’m with family and my friends

I've battled monsters, men and seas

Yet the haunting song still rends

I hear it in the ocean’s waves

It’s hinted in the tide

The wind suggests its melody

From their voices I can’t hide

I’m called to cross the barren seas

I’m drawn to the rocky shore

I stand upon the brink of doom

And question what it was for

Why did I need to hear their song?

And pass so near that isle?

The sirens they are calling still

Across the watery miles

If I had stayed in ignorance

I may have saved my bliss

But now at home I’m wandering

Looking for what I miss

Some songs are much too wonderful

For these human ears to hear

And some are much too terrible

To add knowledge to innocent fear

I went through veiled and evil lands

I traversed the dim shadowed shore

I heard a dire forbidden song

’Fore Lethe I’ll rest nevermore

(This is an old one I never published on this blog for some reason. It seemed appropriate to post it now with the mythology theme over at the garden.)

What Creeps By My Bedside

Self-pity crept in by the bedside

Laid a languorous hand on my back

And pressed me into smothering covers

I fought back not a bit and sunk

Into the soft, motionless depths

Of a savoured sorrow

That tasted dry and overwrought

Bringing me back to restless immobility

What tossing and turning did this ship—

Myself—endure upon the sea of sleeplessness

I fought with rage and pride against a foe

That dared to offer out a hand to save me

“Grab hold and live!”

He cried from the deck

And still I screamed futile rage and sorrow

Gurgling against the waves

“Give me this!”

I shouted

“Give me one wrong to remember;

One grudge to nurture.”

But he stole the dead weight from my hands

And carried me to shore

Back to my bedside

Where self-pity lay defeated

Then instead of weeping

I gave in to sleeping.

The Wreck

The waves of the sea flow unknowingly

Where graceful ships once sailed

Where swimming backs glistened in setting sun

Where dolphins and turtles swam

            And still the waves come.

The waves have no memories

Not like the land and the sea-floor

Memories can’t be written in the waves -

Like they are in the rock -

Or strewn across the water

Like they are in the sandy bed of the ocean

            And still the waves come.

The ocean keeps her secrets below the surface

Men get caught up in their reflections

While beneath lies something greater

In the shallows or the depths

More mysteries are hidden

Than the ever-undulating surface tells

            And still the waves come.

Near the white sand shallows
Of a palm speckled beach

Lies a secret there for any to see

Anyone who looks deeper

And has an aluminum lung

            And still the waves come.

Past a carpet of timid garden eels

And schools of shimmering jacks

And flashing barracuda

Is the waves’ hulking secret

Weighed down by bright orange fans of coral

And the black, yellow and green of feather stars

It is the wreck

            And still the waves come.

What was once a ship, now a secret garden

Flowing soft corals and multicoloured hard corals

Darting gobies and ponderous groupers

Fish of every colour on a painter’s pallet

Grazing turtles

And slowly patrolling sharks

Tired out from a night’s hunting.

And still the waves come.

This secret garden

This Atlantis beneath forgetful waves

Is hardly touched by man and rarely seen

An oasis in the underwater desert

            And still the waves come.

But if you go where the waves can’t remember

And where the storms have long passed

Where the turtles and the white-tips roam

You will see a slice of Eden

Buried from man forever

Beneath waves with no memory

            And still they come. 

Even Pinocchio Knew His Maker

The puppets mock the puppeteers

not noticing their strings

They dance and hop and raise their voice to sing...

All they know are peers

of wood and wire

of paint and polish

of termite hollowed ash

of ventriloqu’d voices

and mimicked choices

that with their pride does clash.

“We are the kings

We hold the strings!”

They obediently say

not knowing who in the air

above holds fatal sway.

Don’t you see the enemy?

He wishes you to dance

your time away until you say

it was nothing but mere chance.

Don’t you see the enemy?

He wishes you to hide

him behind a myth or blind

tradition that you deride.

And what if sin and evil

are more than dated words?

What if they hold meaning

more than the absurd

notion of a god that acts like a child—

notion of a god that is anything but mild—

For what does this race earn

if not cruel death

by turning on itself and ignoring the rest?

We rape and burn and pillage

We steal and break and kill

A child takes a village

But one father has no will

We sow our own destruction

And arm our future foes

We revel in corruption

To what end? No one knows

And all us so-called-people

Who think ourselves so good

With hubris higher than a steeple

At the wayside we all stood

The spectators are guilty

The watchers did the crime

The reclining ones have blood-stained hands

We all live in the grime

Not one of us is sinless

We all hold equal share

We can make ourselves all kinless

Or admit there’s burdens to bear

When we see that we’re all brothers

And sisters straight from birth

We’ll be halfway to discovering

Our purpose here on earth.

Were I to Scoop Out a Star...

Were I to scoop out a star
from an isolated sky
and place it in your hands...
Were I to feed you its brilliance
spoonful by spoonful...


Were I to feed you Polaris
or the gem in Orion's Belt...
Were I to feed you the Lion's tail
or the entire milky way...


Were I to wait
until the glowing bits
went down inside your slender neck
and gathered in your stomach...
Were I to wait
until your body absorbed all the sparkling pieces
and your heart pumped the light through your veins...
Were I to wait
'till your eyelashes sparkled
and every strand of your hair shone
you would not be more beautiful than you are in this moment:


In the blanket of sunlight that embraces you
with your hair down
with your eyes lit by laughter
with your laugh lines tickling your temples
and your smile breaking my heart


(You shatter me so gently
See the pieces sparkle)

At the End of Their Conquest

The conquerors looked around
At all their ashen mess
They stood there all quite silently
Not one to call them blessed

And from the ashes came the wail:
"We conquered our brothers, our sisters, our selves
We conquered our conscience and in our hearts delved
A dark little ship without oar or sail

For Acheron, Phlegethon, Cocytus and Styx
And most of all Lethe!
To memories nix."

When Your Eyes Are Green

In the dim light

Or the rain

Or when you’re looking away from me

And I gaze aslant into your eyes

They appear to be green...

Not the bright green of sun kissed grass

Or the dark green of alpine forests

But the green at the surface of deep waters

I want to lose myself in those waters

I want to dive into those eyes and never come up for air

I want to explore the deeps that the surface hints at

I want to find all there is of you, there, in your eyes

Find it

And embrace it as my own

But who can own the sea?

What man can claim the waters he treads as his?

No,

The more he watches the sea

The more he pursues her

The more he dives in

The more he finds

That it is the sea that owns him...

The sea embraces him

The sea holds him up

The sea threatens to drown him

And the storms of the sea can always cast him on some deserted shore

Never to find home again...

No,

Man does not own the sea

Though he may claim her

Though he may sail across the surface

And gaze at the shores

Though he may hunt the deeps

And find the hidden places

Though he may declare his love for her

He may never own her.

For the sea is free

And fair

And unfathomable.

So it is better not to quest for ownership

It is better to make no claim

Or conquest

But to remain in awe

And wonder

Swimming

And hoping that the inexplicable may be:

That when that dive is taken

That dangerous dive down deep

You find yourself in the fathoms

Not needing to breathe

I Stayed My Eyes

I stayed my eyes from closing down

I stayed my head from rest

I stayed my mind from thinking till

I could cope with all this mess...

But all I do is wait and watch

And all I do is waste

While all I do is passing time

To seek a little taste...

The mess it stays upon my eyes

And it stays upon my head

It stays when I go down to rest

It will stay here till I’m dead

But when I’ve left a question hangs

Above my final peace:

Did this one, just like the rest,

Make this mess of man increase?

The Rooster and the Race

The rooster crowed thrice
and I remembered...

I should have run
I should have run the race
I should have run to win
I knew about the race
I knew I was in it
I knew about the prize
But somewhere
Between

Ready...

Set...

And go.

I forgot the finish

I forgot the line
Between racing and ran
Between the race and what's after
I somehow forgot the purpose of it all

And the rooster crowed thrice.

The History of a Book

I love used books

with their crackling spines

and musky scent

their easily turned pages

and caressingly rough texture.

But most of all I love it

when there’s a name

written with care on the front inside cover.

Or when some handwritten note or dedication

remains like a precious artefact

speaking of another place, another time

some memory of a person I never met

some legacy of one I may never know.

I wonder where they are now

What kind of life do they live?

Do they have children?

Do they have a warm place to call their own?

Do their friends call them often?

I wonder what caused them to get rid of the book

Did it get accidently thrown in with garage sale items?

Did they grow tired of the words?

Or did it simply mock them from the shelf?

—Saying, You’ll never read me again

you never have the time to read anymore.

I wonder if perhaps they died

and the book was sold or given away

and passed from hand to hand

until it found its way into mine

to share with me some piece of that person’s life.

What influence did the book have on them?

Did it make them cry?

Did it make them angry?

Did it make them want to share it with the world?

I write my name

right below theirs

never crossing out the history of a book.

The book is mine now

but it will not always be.

It could pass down generations

leaving only the fading list of handwritten names

the yellowing pages

and the creases in the spine

as memories.

I hope that one day someone will pick up an old book

see my name

and wonder who I am.

His Legacy

They say he took his own life

Like she once tried to do

But where she was saved

By miracle or luck

(I’ll take the former)

He succumbed

To leave that everlasting question:

Why...

He passed on

Like we all must one day

Leaving too soon it seems, too young

Leaving children behind

Children old enough to have given him grandkids

But too young to have tried.

He passed on before that empty-nest-hope for grandkids could sneak in.

Yet she

Who once tried to take her own life—

She who got a second chance—

She lives and begins to feel that empty-nest-hope stir.

She lives and dreams and hopes and plans.

She works and suffers and fails and cries.

She calls her son at 1 a.m.
                                 With tears in her voice
                                                               Asking if he heard the news

He, who was close by after she met those bright unblinking eyes

                                           On top that unforgiving asphalt

He, who came on that horrible task to pick up her car

                                           Abandoned at the side of the highway

He, who came to talk to a baffled husband wondering
                                           What did he do wrong?—What signs did he miss?

He, who came to talk to a father with no way of explaining impossibilities

                                           To children confused and afraid

He, who offered to help in a situation most would flee from,

He, who waded into the incomprehensible mess of it all

And offered a warm hand,

Is gone.

His hand is cold and sapped of strength

He has left his family and this world behind
                                            But he is not dead.

For he was there for a man at the height of a freefall

A husband who had left all he understood behind

A father falling through thin air grasping for something that makes sense.

He was there for a family in the disarray of impossible chaos—

The impossible that somehow was

He reached out and was there.

And there he remains.

His legacy lives on

In the warmth of a father’s hands

In the tears of a mother’s eyes

In a son’s trust

In a daughter’s love

In the family he helped to heal

He lives on.

His death is still a heavy thing to bear

A weight too large to understand.

So shed your healing tears

And wail out your confusion—

The whys that heave out your chest—

But after the rawness passes

When the memories still remain

Remember he still lives in my family

And in all who he touched in their pain.

Blindness

They say, "love is blind"
Well so is hope.

Hope is blind.
Unafraid of darkness
Unperturbed by danger
Unmoved by failure
Hope is blind.

And there in the darkest night
There at the pinnacle of failure
There surrounded by enemies
Hope lives on.

Hope is defiant and lasting
And for as long as you hold on to hope
Hope holds on to you.

No tunnel goes forever
No valley or gorge is without bottom
Every ocean has a shore
And the sun will rise
For a million years more.

Ne Me Quitte Pas

I was walking through a blasted grove

Of figs and berries burnt to ash

This land once full of green and growth

Now brought that memory down to crash.

And in that land of blackened pillars

That seemed a Hades temple cold

I saw a flash of white above me

Too bright for prematurely old

Eyes that squint against the gleaming

Inside a world that has gone grey

Oft miss a beacon’s guiding

When from the path their feet do stray.

And here despite my squinting wonder

I saw alight upon a tree

A dove as bright as morning’s splendour

And brighter still than memories.

And there I froze awake in awe

To see so near such beauty live.

Why his pause and hesitation

Where life so long had ceased to give

Its hope and splendour at its being

It seems now just a heavy weight

But yet that bird came down alighting

As if defying seems of fate.

And here he stays nearby beside me

Though he seems so out of place

He should for every ’visioned reason

Take flight from this our burning race

Perhaps because he came to meet me

In this unholy blasted waste

He may remain right here beside me

To guide me to a better place.

(Ne me quitte pas)

You’re all the hope that I could find.

(Ne me quitte pas)

Without you I’ll just wander blind.

If I Knew That I Loved You

If I knew that I loved you

I would tell you in some grand ridiculous gesture

Something out of a Hollywood romance

Flowers and chocolate would not be enough

A dinner and a movie would seem too easy

No, if I knew that I loved you

I would write it in seven scripts

I would write them in seven places

Seven permanent locations around the world

Each continent would know my love for you

If I knew that I loved you

I would go on three quests for you

To the ends of the earth

To the bottom of the sea

To the very centre of your heart

If I knew that I loved you

No wall, minefield or gorge

No sea, mountain or stair

No cliff, army or void

Could keep me from getting to you.

But I don’t know if I love you,

I wonder and question and wait.

I don’t know if I love you

So let’s just get coffee at 8.

Shadows Lit and Fled

The shadows lit and fled within the cave-

The hole of past iniquities piled high

And packed closer than stacked Parisian ’combs

Of bones on bones; mixed neighbours friends and foes

Till numbers disappear with all the names.

Yet when the crack of earthquake, pain and trial

Broke through the granite roof of strong facades

And split the cave in two down to the roots

The sunlight shone on bones in milling piles

Where darkness once held uncontested sway.

And in those dry and dusty bones within

That cold Platonic cave new life begins

To spark a fire in marrow stiff and old.

Life from death; a life renewed as phoenix

Wings and lasting beneath the phoenix star.

For now a valley is where once a cave

Held its crowded prisoners beneath dark,

Heavy earth and rock to dry out and wait

For what they did not know. These bones they have

Memories but no knowledge and hoping

Not much for futures, they forgot the hopes

In pasts. Before the end they grew as they

Now appear: cynical and hard and lone.

They saw only I’s and me’s and not we’s

But each a king, each a queen in their own

Reckoning, till parched and lost they became

All indistinguishable pale, dry bones.

The names and titles and wealth and everything

They once were and thought and fought over was

Forgotten; nameless heaps in an arid

Valley. There they should remain, forever,

A hidden mystery of death and woe.

Yet despite everything that lives and seems

And all that had ever lived a whisper,

A voice, a word arose beneath the sun

To light the still burning fire in these bones.

What Silences Say

This poem can be read in several ways. It explores the theme of silence, among others. The brackets can be read in many ways: emphasizing the words within, as if the words have been removed, with no audible difference, etc. Each way of reading the brackets alters the meaning and sense of the line but keeps the main theme/message whole.


Enjoy,

- F. L.

Are you listening?

-Listening to what the silences say;

The (gaps) between words

And (spaces) between glances

Between (the seen and) the heard

Between (pauses and) second chances

Between what is and what may

Are you listening?

It’s in the flutter of autumn leaves

It’s in the floating winter’s flakes

It’s in the patter of distant spring

It’s in the summer and in the wake

I’ve been listening-

I’ve been listening for (all) my life

To authority’s (steady) voices

To the rambling of my mind

To the plethora of choices

And through (the wastings of) my time...

And the hollow (music) rife

With silences

I’ve been listening

In autumn’s floating leaves

In winter’s fluttering flakes

In spring’s distant patter

In summer’s shadowed wake

Listening

To what the silences forgot;

To past (and present) tied

By ponderous (muted) string

To noise and shouts belied

As another (dumbshow) thing

(The sounds) signified as rot

Are you listening?

To decaying

Pale leaves mouldering

White flakes congealing

Black drops pattering

Red sky mummifying

Are you listening now?

Between

And in-between

The silences

There is much to hear.

What happens when?

What happens when

that little, growing light

at the end of the tunnel

seems less enticing

than

that

familiar

darkness

behind?

Broken Spears

Dropping old tools;

Last of

Our recourses

Laid heavy so

In our

Letting arms

Matchstick shafts snapped

And scattered

Like sparks

To light warming

Fires in

Cold hearts

Never to burn

Eyes like

Molotov fear.

Beneath a Fearless Sun

Beneath a fearless sun

I wander

With only a name and a face

And no story to put to them

I remember the stars

Their light once guided me home

But now

Beneath a fearless sun

I wander

I could stare for hours

Into endless blue

And never see another star

I remember the stars

Their light once guided me home

Their light

And the light of that smile

The one that lit towns from here

To that land of heavy winters

Facing that smile

I could stare for hours

And never see another star

But from here

To that land of heavy winters

I wander

In search of the story

To put to this name (and face)

Remembering the stars

And hoping

Their light will guide me home

To a smile

That lights towns

Beneath a fearless sun

Musty eye weight

Must I?

Like a burning stinging sight

The tear blurred light

No. Not me.

Eyes so dry

They belong on a British tele

Yet a deadpan face

Belies all that happens inside

And the eager tail-chasing race

Of puppy dog hopes abide

In this eye-browed, scruffy-bearded kennel

In the quiet minutes of the night

I think I must fight

Hours and days

That hang like a weight around my neck

A weight of waiting

And as I weigh theses hours

Against the days that went before

I think I can take a few more

But I want to know what’s in store

So I can purchase or walk away

But that’s not how it works today

That’s just selfish and mean

(As in: on the fence)

That’s not the routine

(I don’t even know how to fence)

I wait?

Not sure, perhaps a few ounces

A few too many perhaps.

Eyes weigh heavily on the mind

Ounces don’t weigh into it

Pounds and tons neither.

A ton perhaps

As a wait and not a weight

A ton of waiting to see those eyes again

But I’ll try the part of a patient man

I’ll play my act

(It’s the little button with the triangle)

Wait for the finale

(And the crescendo!)

Skip the applause

(The joys of modern technology)

Hop off the stage

(I swear it was genuine)

Go out the door

Of this week, month (or however long it takes)

And dance with a smile

Into her arms

Must I wait?