Transition

Two pebbles washed up on the beach. They miss admiring the beautifully coloured fish swimming by. One pebble is tall and round, on occasion he can see the fish jump. The other is low and flat, he can see nothing of the beautiful fish, just the cloud above. Each time the tall pebble caught glimpse of a fish jumping, he would boast of his height and how undeserving the flat stone was of this view, the flat one fumed, yet what could he do?
Weeks and months pass of flats fishless view, listening to the boasts of tall. Till one day a child spots the pair laying in the sand. Round pebble sits proud, while flat just lays feeling all his misfortune. Yet the child disregards the big round pebble and takes the flat one between his fingers and walks towards the shore. With a flick of his wrist flat skips four times then sinks to the bed, to watch the wonderful glimmering fish some more.

 

It’s a myth that lemmings are suicidal, and other so called suicide attempts by animals, are merely twists of truth or altruistic drones.
We alone have the unique brain to imagine so vividly, both joy and doom.

 

Generational frequencies are not allowing me to enjoy today’s music.
My frequency is long gone and only available in the historic tapes.
I cannot hear the purpose of today’s music due to our frequencies being off kilter. Not because it’s crap or anything.

 

It goes without saying,
that unsaid words are left
to fester in the ether
while ears that wish to hear them
wonder why they are withheld.

 

It has been hard,
rest now
it will be hard tomorrow.

Black armband

Even playing a man with a licence to kill, you carried enormous heart and wit, and the tiniest of guns, which you flinched to fire in fanciful yarns. Your warmth shone out, throughout your life and your work. The world will miss your love.
Rest well Roger Moore.

 

Time’s ribbon sheds another life
continues it’s mission forward
the life stained the ribbon
beautifully forever.

 

Between homes
Vulnerable as a hermit crab between homes
Naked trotting with a bag under my arm
How many miles to my new shell?

 

I was not high enough to see the pouting buds
not prepared for the new opening flowers
arrived in time for the perfume
before the petals fall.

 

A malevolent force is present in the forest, the prince travels with five guards. Soon they discover a stranger, he joins them. The stranger alerts the prince to a distant noise through the forest, one guard goes to investigate. Diamond glitter falls through the forests canopy. The stranger alerts the prince that he sees something move on a distant ridge, another guard goes to investigate. The breeze breathes gently through the branches, the stranger tells of distant danger, this time two guards leave to attend to the suspicion. The prince and one guard remain with the stranger, cordially they continue. One more noise is heard by the stranger, the guard tips his hat to the stranger and goes to see. Now alone. The prince buries his dagger in the stranger’s neck.

 

Good intentions met ineptitude. Good intentions hits the floor.
Good intentions learns to gives a kick. Ineptitude is no more.

Mountains

We watch the mountains emerge from the mist, as if they are brand new, the energy is certainly brand new. It emanates from the rock vibrating our very being, like they have only just arrived. We climb into them in twists and turns, as intruders in their realm, we watch their work with water. We observe the mountain’s vertical forests feeding clouds to the sky, we see them build and march into the blue. Higher we see water cascading high above us from the rock. As we approach the peak we find water’s final form hiding in the mist, snow bringing a sparkling chill. Before we descend, zig zagging down the other side of the mountain. To the lush valley receiving the mountain’s gifts.

As I sit in the Italian castle, I enjoy the cool breeze blowing through the open window, fresh blossom tantalises the senses. The afternoon light hits the ancient rafters lighting them in rusty hues. Through one window, the green hills roll elegantly, scattered in villas and cyprus trees. Through the right window I see Siena’s Torre Del Mangia in the distant haze. In the next room a lady sings beautifully as she cleans. A nice day.

They have peppered their peaks with holes, as if they were beetles with new wood. Every cove sprouts concrete warts. The tarmac arteries are clogged with mechanical cholesterol. The bay’s beauty long ago smothered. I can feel her heavy heart through the ether.

The ground gathered into a mountain, to prick the sky’s ego.

We are all an ocean, temporarily residing in our own bucket, the only thing preventing us being one, is this bucket. Perhaps dear Lisa we get a hole in our bucket, or sometimes look a little pale. When we finally spill from our bucket, our bucket is kicked. We merely return to the ocean.

Box

I remember when I was first put in this box, the stench. Now just a subtle burning in my nostrils, but I remember that first moment well, the acrid smell that went with last light. Though there is a little light, a slim dagger crease where the lid does not quite seal. So I can tell when day and night turns. But I lost count of the days. Now I just cling to my mind, try to keep it tethered to me. My stomach is in a constant cramp, I can feel every single one of my joints throbbing. I thought determination could conquer all, I could heave the lid open, yet here I remain. This box is stronger than I. Stronger than all those before me.

 

Religion, the bane of peace for many minds. The religious pointing out the differences in us, declaring the differences illegal and to be snuffed.
Yet at school, in our mini societies I remember the same, yet no religion was referenced in my school when the red haired kid was bullied, nor was scripture quoted when I was bullied for simply being shy and fey. Just the offence at difference. In a religionless world there would still be them, there would still be us. We would still have those whose ancient tribal mentality bubbled high in their psyche. The ones who see their own circle as us, to be defended against them. This is not religion, this is our own tribal nature. Perhaps even, the peaceful are missing their fighting instinct.. are faulty for being awash with empathy. Even devils advocate would call that folly. We strive for better, for peace. Regardless if it is a flaw in our fighting soul..

 

Joyous myth.
I looked for joy in possessions, but found joy only in the splinter between buying and bought. In sex joy resides, yet after the chemicals subside joy falls gently away. In drugs of all kinds the joy is sought, yet the ride is short and fraught, with barbs of poisonous effect.
So I paused and watched within. I found my life’s electricity my most reliable joy, with me till my end.

 

Should this page bear colour as recommended, or should it remain sparsely splendid?