For S.

Her face blossomed smiling

in a pink rose’s hue,

a thousand words spoken

yet in no language I knew…

 

Had I encountered

that smile before her?

the heart’s eye says no

yet the mind’s never sure!

 

There are moments about

which words fail to speak,

they’re a poor trade for

a smile so elegant, unique.

 

There’s not yet a lady

so meaningful, so sweet…

heavenly forces at work

yet so subtle, discreet.

Bitterness, one of its forms

Bitterness, and the sweeping generalisations that spring forth from it can be understood as an unconscious response rooted in a person’s particular traumatic experience and a broader sense of powerlessness in life. The language of polarisation, of ‘us’ and ‘them’ is in reality a pitiful, inarticulate mode of convenient passive aggression. Still this means of channeling bitterness, this sense of inertia/impotence reveals something more profound about the human condition, fundamentally it reflects unconsciousness.

That is to say a soul that has never truly questioned itself, a person who makes a home in their sufferings and powerlessness, who is consoled by their condition, they cannot abstain from crushing others with their tongues, from killing the beautiful complexity of life which will always defy their categorisations, their essentialisations which they make in one fell swoop.

They are yet to actually engage in self-reflection, they have never become a question to themselves, merely existing…not yet born. One is truly born and (hence truly alive or conscious) in self-reflection, when one can properly refer to oneself, maturely, one’s actions, one’s past, one’s course in life, only then can you truly refer to others, and empathise with their unique, divergent experiences, without this we will are relegated to a bestial, cold mode of reference.

To Those who would bid me wait

If I were to in my dream-like
passions cease,
By measure would hapless gloom
steadily increase!

Were I to hurl a stone
into a lake,
a swan would take flight and the
calm break.

As with love, when dawn is
faithfully born,
One doubts its not, nor dare
stay forlorn!

Whether with her I part ways or
hold hands,
is up to the Shifter of life’s
shifting sands,

There’s a mystery to the heart’s
beat & swell,
A flame lit therein one
cannot quell…

In hushed supplication I ask
for a sign,
that implied blessing, for my lips on hers,
hers on mine.

A passing whisper

This shallow, brightly lit postmodern world, promises so much, in fact it promises you everything, only to give you nothing….for everything is accessible, everything is permissible, everything is at your fingertips….

EXCEPT A MEANINGFUL LIFE. In the 21st century the prevailing spirit is one of estrangement, isolation and despair.