The Spirit And The Ego

Dreams are waves

Coming and going as they please

Nightmares are graves

Bringing your soul to its knees

Happiness is sunshine

Lifting the canopy into orbit

Misery is a vine

Strangling your soul in torment

Laughter is a flower

Brighting up the garden

Anger is a black tower

Surrounding the duldrums

Faith is water

Seeping through the cracks

Doubt is a blotter

Bearing hot wax

Spirit is a tapestry

Uniting the whole world

Ego is the majesty

Wishing to be heard

Washing Line

On the washing line 

Hung out to dry

These soaked fabrics

Left to the sun's magic

But who could imagine?

That the earth could be the lantern

That lights up our earth 

And drys our clothes from birth

Oh, how we all dangle

Twisted and put through the mangle

Relying on the sun to shine

To take us to a land so fine

Waiting for so long

Something is wrong

Hung on a hook

A tattered coat 

This ancient relic

Left on its own merit

But who could imagine?

A coat as grand as a mountain

Hung for such a time

But never from a washing line

Oh, how the wise man drapes 

Endless joy and no complaints

The sun is inside him

This is where the souls residing

Home, where it belongs

Nothing is wrong

Dancing On The North York Moors

A daddy longlegs dancing

Oh, such a clumsy soul

Where will this gust of wind take me?

Across this foggy moor

Drifting off on small breezes

Past the church where they pray

Warm and cosy like sheep fleeces

The grass outside does sway

Sat on carpets of heather

While Yorkshire tea is served

Surrounded by horse and feather

The damp evening is lured

Pale moonlight arises

As the church doors are closed

Spirit in its grand disguises 

I make my way in doors

Soil

Sprouting through this feeble ground

A shrub rises from its mound

Growing from its foundation

Natures very own plantation

As these green leaves uncoil

The stems of plants toil

Such a fine fragment of Earth

Building a forest from birth

Who would think such a meagre seed could reap

Trees that tower as steep

Our soil is our home

The place we belong

Today this modest dirt will nourish

Tomorrow a canopy will flourish

The Last Train To Sobriety

This is the last time I ever bother with these bloody vending machines. Here I am fiddling around in the shadows, fingers in my wallet feeling for a hexagon and a circle that represents one pound fifty. All for what, nothing. The vending machine just looks at you as if to say 'what you looking at?' Yet again I feed my money into its mouth and it gives me nothing. Drink fresh it says on its eliminated exterior. I should have gone in the pub instead.

This drink machine is something of an eye sore in this beautiful drinking hotspot. Magical glowing lanterns sparkle in the enchanting forest surrounding the pub garden. Wooden benches made out of tree trunks house the bottoms of tourists lapping up the summer evening humity, sipping on pimms and beer by the barrel load. The sound of laughter and chatter fills the air, along with the taste bud tingling scent of burgers from the smouldering barbecue.

I've lost Petre in the busy crowds. I can hear the karaoke from outside. It sounds like yet another embarrassing rendition of 'my heart will go on' from Petre's voice. Petre is my sloppy drunk other half. A self proclaimed alcoholic who cares more about the measure of vodka in her cocktails than my feelings. She's the one at the bar ordering a round of tequilas. I'm captain sensible fiddling around at the vending machines.

I met her on a night out in London a few months back. Positively wasted and wearing beer goggles, we made love that night, if that's what you call it. It started off casual and ended up as something resembling a relationship, like taking a ride on the Big Dipper. One minute she's all cupcakes and cuddles, next she's calling me a moron, scraping her keys on my car and turning up at my doorstep for drink money. She's got a drink problem and for that last few months I have chosen to remain in denial. I am such a fool. Although I cannot help but sympethise with her as I feel she is using drink as an escape route. She lost her father in a car accident a year ago and it's destroying her.

I take a short walk to the barbecue area. Over staffed with men in white shirts sweating over a griddle full of juicy meat.

'Burger please mate' 

The chef tosses me a burger like a frisbee thrower.

'2 pound' he says abruptly.

I fiddle in my wallet once again. All of a sudden I see Petre emerging out of the pub like a bear from a cave. Arm in arm with a bloke. Don't tell me she's flirting yet again. I'm not sure I've got any excuses left for her. I Walk up to them, burger in one hand clenched fist in the other.

'Hello darling' She slurs.

'First of all I want you to close your mouth and take your arm out of his. Your singing was doing my head in. You are pissed yet again and indulging in the locals. I've been pacing around this garden like a lost sheep. while you soak yourself with alcohol, male attention and the stale smell of tobacco.'

'I'm sorry babe I really am.'

'Come with me!'

I outstretched my hand to hers. For the first time in our relationship I wear the trousers, put more effort into making her see I love her and want her to change. She takes my hand, the bloke looked about as annoyed with losing his nights pull as if he'd dropped a roast potato at the dinner table. 

I took her through the pub garden past the lanterns and drinking revellers, past the small beds of flowers and wooden beams that aligned vertically along the garden edges. She's full of apologies, staggering slowly like a lethargic dog on a lead. I take her to the cliff top a mere 100 metres away from the pub.

We stand on the cliff edge over looking the vast ocean below. The lights of distant ships litter the horizon. There is a soft chill in the air. Petre stands wide eyed and confused as I try my best to save our relationship from the depths of dismay.

'You see those lights over there? You are one of those. I am on a cliff edge, there is an ocean between us. You are like a beacon in the night and I am the man overlooking from the shadows. Wanting to reach you.'

She takes a deep breath of air.

'I can feel your pain Dan I really can. I want to squeeze the ocean and build a bridge so you can reach me, drain the alcohol lakes of my heart and fill them with your love. I don't know what is is but there is a look in your eyes tonight. when I came out of the pub, you had true love in your eyes like you cared, I've never seen that before.

'I do care and I want to help'

After talking for an hour I walk back with her arm in arm. Wondering if our quantum moment on the cliff edge has changed our relationship for good. She has never opened up to me like this before and quite frankly neither have I.

I walk with her past the vending machine once more. To my surprise it says 50p to pay on the small LED screen. I reach into my wallet once again and place it through the slot, sure enough a can of soda drops. I take a much needed swig, glancing at the screen to my bewilderment it reads 'Sometimes you have to give that little bit extra to get something back'. I give a wry smile wondering whether I've just booked Petre on the last train to sobriety.

Drive-through Angel

Lonely road
Where the tracks never go old
The familiar smells on either sides
This is where the badger resides
Bushes and hedgerows alive with sound
The birds flock like clouds
Grass growing in the middle
My drive becomes a riddle
Where does it lead to I wonder?
The Butterfly in me ponders
I reach the end 
Round the bend
A tree lies on the ground
A car over turned and bound
I leave my vehicle and run 
This is not so fun
I look for people dead
This is the moment I dread
A voice is heard from the wreck
A muffled echo, just a speck
I call for help
The dog in me yelps
I am the saviour
The angel giving a favour
My actions are vital
In this vicious cycle
A storm has hit this place
Debris has scattered in a haste
The right place at the right time
The eagle in me flies
There is a message to all of this
The storms of your life wont kill you
When angels make a drive-through

Best Before Jan 2003

Oh, here we go again the pantry door is opening for no less than the nineteenth time today. Who is it this time? Scaly arms, Bart Simpson tattoo, dirty fingernails. Well of course, fat boy! What’s he after this time? Oh, sweet jar has took a knock. Blimey I haven’t seen the bisto being pushed aside like that in weeks. He must be after something interesting. Oh I see, popcorn right at the back. I thought he had forgotten about that. Clearly not. Well that’s him sorted out for the rest of the night, munching on toffee popcorn like a bear gnawing on a drumstick. Corr, I bet it’s soft. its been in there for yonks. How would I know that? Well I have been spending the last five years cooped up on the bottom shelf of this cupboard hiding behind a tin of marrowfat peas, like a ten pin bowling pin, that’s how. 

I mean when are they going to see me? Probably when the marrowfat peas disappear I guess. You would think they would go quickly wouldn't you? What with the name marrow-FAT. After all this family eats more than a Chinese army. Opening the pantry door at all hours like a plague of gannets. Its amazing how I know what the time is. I mean its not as if I get woken up by the cockerel on the cornflakes box is it? Well Ill let you in on a little secret (don’t tell the green giant, or anyone else for that matter) I have a sneaky look at fat boys watch as he feeds his hands through the shelves like a raccoon   So I know exactly when he snacks more so than what his wife does. 

I’ve got to say though his wife is quite nice to the tins in this neck of the larder. In fact sometimes she gives them the once over with a feather duster, tickling the corn beef, the sweet corn, the ambrosia custard, the john west salmon, even the bloody peas but she doesn’t dust me does she?. Oh no! I get ignored time and time again.  Sometimes I wish I wasn't a tin of pears in syrup. I mean who wants pears in syrup anyway. Still it could be worse. I could be maintaining a permanent handstand position like the tomato ketchup with all of the sauce rushing to its lid like blood. I mean what do these people think this is, condiment Olympics. What’s next? The sugar puff monster practicing javelin with lolly pop sticks, the green giant doing the 10 inch race in the frying pan race track. I mean seriously, the way they treat us! 

Here’s another thing, I don’t like the way the haribo kid keeps grinning at me like a Cheshire cat. I mean why is he so happy anyway? Oh I know why, no sooner he’s in the pantry he’s out again because sweets are these kids favourite. how could I forget? It was like the other night fat boy had been eating something that needed honey, maybe weetabix. So the pantry door opens out comes fat boys hand picking up the squirty bottle of honey. This I don’t mind so much, but when the honey bottle gets put back it dribbles like a child, oozing honey from its lid like a tree sap, disgusting it was. 

Oh, the doors opening again. Painted nails, perfectly manicured. Yep, there she is, the wife. Oh, she’s putting the shopping away, new residents; pickled eggs, beetroot, walkers crisps. Welcome to hell I say. It wasn't as bad as the other day though, when fat boy put the shopping away, throwing tins of baked beans at us like bowling balls. Then came the worst horror of all, he only brought another tin of pears didn't he, idiot! And we all know what tin will get eaten first don’t we? I swear that tin keeps turning around and laughing at me, flaunting his low fat logo like a giant billboard. And what do I have stamped on my head, best before Jan 2003 for pity sake.

Anyway that’s enough moaning for one day. I’m bored so I think I’ll find pepper and wind him up about how his partner salt has been assigned to the dinner table on a more permanent basis with a vase of daffodils as company. I know how to shake these guys up the wrong way. I've had enough time to practice. 

Solace In The Tropics

Palm trees sway in a tropical paradise
My trepidation clings like a parasite
I try to forget as I gaze at this ocean
My body is locked and it is frozen
Burning embers of worry fill the beach
I wonder what this coconut could teach?
Stay solid but hollow inside?
Like a seabird I wish to glide
Should I put on a strength like a gown?
Surely the inner me will be left to drown?
I soon realise these drupes hang low
It is to this equator I should bow
No more fears of this operation
I'll strive to make this my occupation
To sink my worries into the sand
Building a castle that looks so grand
I have found solace in sun lit waters
Why worry in natures humble quarters?
This mental exercise has been the fiercest of pain
Now I'm divine and its tranquility I wish to claim

Dinner Death

Play fight
Candle light
Crystal clear
Fraught with fear

Dinner for two
Dress in blue
Table cloth
Hearty broth

Trepid sigh
Not a crime
Crockery cracks
Chairs snap

Speak now
Thunder cloud
Main course
No remorse

Lamb tonight
Evil bright
Sex desert
Someone’s hurt

Real fight
Candle flight
Last supper
Chilling shudder

Raging fire
Camomile
Death for two
Tough and cruel

Dinner death
Devils breath
Black ashes
Love crashes

Tearful cry
Sharper lime
Heaven’s veil
Hell’s cradle

Tragic End
Round the bend
Wine as fuel
A tragic duel

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

Morning Secret

The morning has a secret
Swept on fertile winds
There is a host to frequent
After opening the blinds
It unravels in a whisper
Like a gentle touch on a cloth
Or a ripple through your fingers
As light attracts a moth
It can be felt from a mile
The secret is to be kind
To begin the day with a smile
Whether it rains or shines
Only then will your day captivate
Like rain the sadness will evaporate
So be kind to the kind
And be kind to the unkind
That is the morning secret
And now you must keep it

Wheel Of Horrors - Part Two

My joints were frozen. My blood chilled. A lethal concoction of fear and anxiety. My face began to ache with cold as I looked onto the swirling ferries wheel of death. The horrid sounds of birds and loud screams filled my ear drums, flooding my brain with worry. I felt helpless but deep down something in the smoldering pit of my stomach knew I had to walk towards the wheel and save the young girl that had entered one of the massive steel carriages.

I approached the turn stills  A man in a green anorak stood behind the kiosk smoking a small cigar from the corner of his grotesque mouth. Somehow I knew to delve into the pocket of my shorts to take out a couple of pounds, the exact change needed to ride the wheel of horrors. The wheel had slowed to a normal speed, but the threat was no longer the dizzying g-force but the electrical currents that now thrashed their way down the supports and through  the steel carriages that swayed precariously from the rotating monstrosity.

I caught a glance of the girl in the carriage at the top, closest to the terrifying folk lightning that bolted from the heavens. My only hope of saving the distressed girl was to climb up the wheel. Every part of my body was saying 'no' but my heart told me different. I placed my hand on one of the steel beams at the bottom and hauled myself up. Luckily the construction resembled the rungs of a ladder, nonetheless it was dangerously slippery.

My legs began to tremble with fright. My fear of heights was not transcended in the crushing adrenaline that now pumped through my veins. Every step became much more challenging than the last as I made my way to the top. Panting with exhaustion and as soaked as a sewer rat. I eventually got a foot hold on the top carriage in which enclosed the terrified little girl. I Grabbed hold of the door to open it. It swung open variously as the thunderbolts from the sky grew louder.

I wiped my eyes and looked for the girl. But she was nowhere to be scene. All I could here was a strange rumbling sound, whining and moaning in my ears. A mummer that grew louder and louder. The girl had gone, the thunder had stopped, the ferries wheel had vanished into thin air. I woke up from what seemed like a nightmare, laying on the park bench with my book laying in my lap and crows scampering on the grass. It was all one big dream. It never happened.

Every part of my nightmare had gone except the loud moaning sound. I then realised I still had whale song playing on my headphones. My father never said much to be, but one thing he had always told me, was
'If you listen to whale song be prepared to sleep and to dream. The ebbing and flowing oceanic chorus sends a shimmering rhapsody of colour into your dreams, trust me son' 
He was a sailor with great wisdom. I couldn't wait to fall asleep with whale song again. I wanted to be part of yet another heroic adventure. From now on I was inspired by the mighty sound of the whales and their songs guided me to a place where dreams and reality entwine in the most magnificent of unions.

Doves Of Peace

This battlefield smoulders through hate
A horror only you could create
These guns I carry weigh me down
You sit on my shoulder causing a frown
Is this knife loaded with love?
Or designed to stab these innocent doves?
Life’s longing for meaning rages on
Destroyed in a moment and life is gone
You wish for triggers to be pulled
Waiting for another army to be culled 
As I await orders, I wonder and sigh
You lean over, telling me not to cry
The enemy’s over that hill, you say
I am not fooled and it is peace I crave
So many perfections of almighty Earth
Falling to a heap on this humble turf
The enemy is not these men I point my guns at
In these war torn towns, I can see the facts
Soon we will stop all of this nonsense 
We will shout to the heavens with our conscience
Putting our weapons down, letting hate thaw
Knowing that the real enemy is war
You have made us kill under your spell
It is in all of these corpses you dwell
From nuclear bombs to close combat
You force yourself on another diplomat
Those who have gone leave us with grief
But War, you will never fly with doves of peace

Ocean Of Abundance

So here I am locked in a shell, soaked in salty thoughts and fraught with shell shock. My mind is like tangled seaweed, as complex and as numerous as plankton. My worldly ambitions are as proud as a ships sail, as definite as an anchor hooked on the vast seabed. In my shell I remain, anticipating the tide. Bound by my inability to move a muscle or to take the tantalizing bait of freedom. When will the tide engulf me? When will my boats enter the harbour? How far can a wave really take me? 

Like a lighthouse I flicker from light to shade. My inner domain is as blue as the ocean and as unstable as the rocky coast that surrounds me. And yet I remain attached to the jagged rock of life, unable to look out onto the wondrous pastures of Mother Earth. 

One day the beach will be full. The tide will be veracious. The seabirds will flock on the cliff edges and ships from around the world will dock. The only light will be that of the penetrating sun beaming down on the Atlantic ocean like a spotlight, bathing the Earth in its love. The sea of despair will vanish and the surf will roll onto the lush golden sands. At last I will leave my shell and join mother natures circle and immersing myself in the ocean of abundance.

Hot Dog

Oh clever owner, making this my prison
Not a bowl or bone to mention
The air is stuffy and the confines are hot
Oh clever owner, if only you would rot
The windows are up and the seats are down
You must think I'm a circus clown
All you ever do is just walk off
On a summer's day for a touch of golf
Leaving me behind in your automobile
Like a devil you inflict a gruesome ordeal
What is there to do but people watch?
For its not possible to open the windows a notch
As I slaver and pant you tee off and swing
On my thick fur the sweat does cling
As you make your way back celebrating
I lay on your upholstery salivating
The doors open and cool air rushes in
You sit on the driver's seat like its nothing
Oh clever owner, how I resent you
I feel so much pain, its untrue
I could do wrong and you'd put me down
So carefree, you would let me drown
It would be a better way to go than to die in this car
A much more bearable fate by far
Oh clever owner, how I wish you'd learn
Instead of leaving me at your mercy to burn
Oh clever owner, how I live in your fog
I am not your best friend, I'm just your hot dog

Curtains

The squeak of the chair on the floor boards reminds me of marauding seagulls. The sound of my pencil puts my teeth on edge like chalk on a chalkboard. I Have nothing to fill my day other than staring endlessly at the porcelain rhinoceros, that stands proudly on the window ledge. Looking so still and serine. So Africa. What I would do to go there for a holiday right now or even just a quick elephant ride to fill the void in my empty soul.

Nevertheless I bloody love when it rains. The steady trickle of the water sounds inviting, like an egg frying, making me yearn for hearty home food. My mother standing precociously at the dinning table, with an oven glove draped over her left arm, yelling at everyone to make their way to the table for tea. Vivid memories wash in and out of my crowded sanctum, as blue as the ocean, as cold as my empty fridge. I walk up to the window looking out for answers, peering behind the curtains like a hermit.

Who am I to complain and ask the universe for more? I’m on six quid an hour, a reasonable wage. From this side of the street it’s a round of drinks and a salty packet of crisps to boot. Trouble is I’m in love. I can’t take my mind of Rosie on the other side of the road. Her long blond hair blowing in the autumnal wind. I don’t even have the gumption to summon the words to speak to her when I walk out of this semi detached prison. If only that Rhino could take me to the other side, to a more pleasant and fertile land, where the fridge is full and the gorgeous women smile back at my gormless face.

However there is one upside to this half realised life I’m leading. There is, wait for it, a packet of m&ms in the cupboard that I’ve been saving for a rainy day. I’m afraid it’s the only pleasure I can find behind these dirty cream curtains. The rest is just pure monotony. I feel like a fish swimming from one side of the fish bowl to the other. I can see the outside in all its transparent spender, but I have no concept within myself to jump out of the fish bowl. I have a bad back you see. There’s no way I’m jumping, its far too risky.

There was plenty of happiness back home. I used to water the marigolds’ with passion and vigour. I’d walk the dog, do some cooking, help mother out with the dusting. But now I live alone, looking out on a world that turns its nose up. It’s very prudishness has left me scared stiff behind these curtains. Wishing and hoping for an answer in the midst of the takeaway pizza boxes and empty beer cans that litter my lounge. So I ask of you these questions; do you want to stew in your own tea?  Or jump out of the fish bowl? Ride on a rhino? And turn some lemons into lemonade? Your choice. I’ve made mine and I’ve never been able to completely open the curtains.

Snowdon

Snow and sun carpet the mountain tops
A seasons relentless paradox
Bird and bee hover in natures circle
This humble giant yields another miracle
As this tranquil stream meanders like a snake
These meager boulders hasten to flake
I gather my thoughts in a bundle
My very own internal jungle
As I step on this mighty mountain
My dreams trickle like a fountain
Is it all one sweet illusion?
Or the Earth's love and strength fusing?
Casually I make my way
The clouds gathering without dismay
As I reach the immense peak
My thoughts fall in a heap
Oh mighty Snowdon
Close to a sun shining so golden
As I walk back down to your foundation
I realise you are the king of this nation

Update - Holiday Time

As I mentioned in my last update, inspiration is the key to being a creative writer. Simply opening up to the universe of imagination and letting the pen or buttons do the work. Recently my inspiration has been stimulated by photography. My partner Leanne has kindly sent me some photos to get me inspired. They have worked a treat. The images that she sent to me are on most of my recent posts at the bottom. At some point In the future we hope to combine photography with writing in some way.

I have noticed that the breadth of my work has been poems as of late, which is surprising given that all my life I have written short stories and not a single poem. Nevertheless it proves that once the creative juices are flowing anything is possible. My favourite piece so far is ‘The Ancient Oak’ which represents the power that mother nature has to replenish the Earth. Nature has always been a key part of my life and its no surprise to me that its coming out in my writing. Other themes are that of spirituality and ego, which to my mind is the false self. I hope to continue helping others find their passions and getting rid of the ego that prevents us from reaching a higher consciousness level.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of those who have liked, commented on or read my blog. I appreciate it so much. I realise I have a long way to go. But remember that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Tomorrow I will be going on holiday to North Wales. Hopefully the weather is kind to us because it certainly has been a cold spring so far here in England. I hope to come back with lots of writing. I will be taking my laptop with me but will not be blogging for a week or so. No doubt the scenery is likely to inspire me to an adequate level. Until next time…

Precious Shell

Oh precious shell
What have you to tell?
The secrets of the sea reveal
Nothing but a wave you feel
Trouble is your stories are trapped 
Inside an ivory case, they nap
Why you keep so private? I cry
Like seabirds my questions fly
Your stories are forever enclosed
An enigma of the ocean. I suppose
If I put you to my ear would I hear
The tide ebbing without fear
The waters dancing on sand so smooth
You are a piece of God I can prove
For as long as the ships set sail
You will not tell of any tales
Instead you remain a shell
In deep mystic waters you dwell

Wheel Of Horrors - Part One

Reading this book makes me shudder with the same shuddery feeling when in the presence of my father, bound to his arm chair, smoking a devilishly potent cigar in his study. It moves and perplexes me to the point where I have to combine my reading with some ambient whale song through my headphones. They prove a pain to remove from the pocket of my jeans, as if fastened by some mysterious super glue. I manage to get them out after a few frantic tugs and place them to my ear lobes, hoping it would counteract the sombre expirations in this terrifying read.

I am sitting in a park, where the chilly wind festers behind the abandoned swings and roundabouts. The eerie silence feels numbing to the bone, brittle and fierce on my flesh. There are no children, not so much a dog or his owner on this well trodden field. I sit alone, perched on one of the many old wooden benches. All of a sudden a bird flies towards me, almost swooping into my face with intent. I dart out of the way as fast as my body can move. Falling to the ground with a thud. The gruesome looking bird sits on top of my book that lies on the muddy grass beside me.

‘Watch it’ I shout. 

The bird looks at me with a vague look on its face. Tilting its beak to one side as if to analyse what sort of creature I am. It's eyes are jet black, its feathers scruffy. The bird flies into the sky that now flashes with the most magnificent folk lightning I have ever seen.

‘A storm?’ I question.

Before I can stand up, there in front my very eyes is the ferries wheel of death, that was so vividly depicted in the novel I was reading. Standing some 100 feet high in the middle of the park, lightning striking in the background and hundreds of those ghastly birds swooping in and out of the enormous steel supports. I catch a glimpse of a little girl in a black and white dress entering the ride, via the turnstiles. It's the same schoolgirl in my book. Am I dreaming? I here laughter as violent rain now cascades down my face, onto my jeans. Thunderbolts thrash from the gathering clouds as if the sky has just rewired itself. I watch as the wheel rotates slowly in the heavy storm.

‘Surely its not safe in this weather’ I question.

I quiver at the thought of what could happen, as I amble anxiously towards the deathly attraction. Suddenly it gains a tremendous momentum. I here screams and more screams. I stand frozen to the ground like a spike. I feel helpless yet compelled to make it stop!

‘No, no, stop, stop’ 

Now I’m the one who’s screaming…

The Ancient Oak

Through howling winds the tree stands proud
Unfolding its leafy crown
The roots make knots in the soil beneath
It’s leaves shed like tears of grief
The branches never think to tangle
The Tree knows nothing of a world so fragile
As the dandelions and blossoms grow
This ancient oak will embrace life’s flow

True, one day the boughs will snap
It’s mighty trunk seek to nap
This gentle giant wither and die 
Falling to the earth with a smile
Leaving behind some seeds that reap
A wooden tower that can't be meek
The father of the meadows in may
Another oak another day

Turning Lemons Into Lemonade - Part Three

Don't Touch My Lemons

So now that we know how to find our passions and how to recognize that inner voice that if calling us to our divine purpose. We shall look at how to be independent of what other people want for us.

If we are passionate about something and take ownership of ourselves and our purpose then the only way we can fulfill our destiny is to be independent of what others want for us. Many people will tell you what can and can’t be done. As children we were told that we should; go to school, go to college and university. We were told that the thing to do is find a job to make money, own a home, marry and have children. Most of these things were bread into us by our well meaning parents, teachers and role models.

As we grew up we were told to; follow the rules, be good citizens, fill in the forms and pay the taxes. None of these manifestations should be looked upon as wrong for almost everyone has followed this dynamic and should. The trouble with this these ideals is that they are not necessarily aligned with our divine purpose. So by combining an ordinary life with following our dreams, we will reach new heights in our lives. In order to follow our destiny its often true that we have to break off from the programming and become something of a disturbing element, breaking the reigns that hold us to the ordinary life that teaches us to fit in with the rest. Instead we should become extraordinary by following the inner voice and reaching a higher conscious level where we believe anything is possible by changing the very concept of ourselves.

The concept of yourself is basically what you expect from yourself. If you believe that you cannot achieve something through what others have said, you will be constrained to the ordinary and make fulfillment in your life unreachable  Here are just some of opinions of others that we listen to and come to believe.

• You won’t be able to afford it
• You haven’t got the grades to do that
• There is a recession, you will never be able to start a business
• How are you going to make money out of doing that?
• You should really be like you brother and become an accountant
• Your father always wanted you to join the army
• It’s too difficult
• So many fail that its not worth doing yourself
• You are too old
• You are too young
• You don’t have enough experience
• You should really go to university

If we are steadfast in our intentions to accomplish something and live a life of great fulfillment  then we should not listen to these mantras for they will prevent us from fulfilling our dharma. We will grow old regretting  and wishing that we had listen to our hearts to begin with.

Sometimes you need to live your life on ethics. Imagine if Rosa parks had followed the rules and sat at the back of the bus that day in Montgomery. The world would be a very different place, riddled with discrimination. But due to Rosa parks becoming a disturbing element, breaking the rules and following her heart, she changed the way we look at different races. She changed the entire believe system from whites are separate from blacks to we are all equal and entitled to exactly the same conveniences and conditions. She broke from the ordinary and created something very extra ordinary. There is something inside of all of us that can do the same.

In order to live the life that we truly desire we must listen to our own voices. I’m not saying that we should break the rules, not be a good citizen and totally ignore what people say (We should never be harmful towards others or act immorally) What I’m saying is that we should also listen to what our hearts are telling us, contrary to what people have told us about what is or isn't possible. We need to become something of a disturbance. Breaking the bond we have to an ordinary life, which to my mind is a half-lived life. If we are to constantly conform to what others want for us then we end up selling ourselves short and, living up to the expectations of others. We are human beings with our own destinies. Separate from our ego. We are in harmony with others but we should not let peoples expectations for us immobilize us from the path that was intended. Remember we were never taught at school to follow an inner voice.

Watercolours And Smiles

Gentle waves lapped the shore as you gazed longingly out to sea. The tropics were brimming with heat. A celestial glow glistened off the long jetty that stretched out to the horizon. Your long blonde hair blew in the soft breeze, your dress swaying like a flag. My heart shimmered as I stepped onto the jetty. I knew I had to approach. I had waited all my life to see you again. Every fibre of my being had been fixated on this meeting for years. It had to be here, it just had to be here that I found you.

You looked back at me, knowing that I was walking towards you. The sound of tropical birds seemed to get louder and the trumpets of anxiety were deafening as my eyes met yours. With every step of my flip flops on the wooden beams beneath, I was thinking of what to say. My lips were dry as I walked closer and closer towards you. 

‘Hello its been a long time’ I was surprised I was able to meet with my voice.

‘Yes it has. You knew I would be here didn't you? I cannot tell you how long I have waited to see you, to here your voice…’ 
Your complexion looked more and more vibrant up close.

Yes I did. I just knew somehow. You always dreamed of living in your paintings. Being able to immerse yourself in the different shades of blue, feel the ocean breeze on your face, your skin burning in the heat. It must feel amazing’.

‘Yes it is blissful. This was my only opportunity to feel it. And now that you have found me, I feel complete, as if my life has gone full circle’ You say.

‘Yes it’s a shame I never managed to take you here, you would have loved it for your paintings, it’s picture perfect.’ Slight tears well up in my eyes as I speak.

‘Please don’t cry! How are things?’ You say giving me that unmistakable look.

‘Life’s good thank you. The kids are just playing in the water with Sandra, they love it here.’

‘You happy with the way you are living?’ You ask.

‘Yes making lots of money, as you can tell being in such a stunning place as this’

‘You make me proud’

You bring me to tears, standing with an awkward stance. I want to touch you but cant.

‘Well you always made me proud‘. I say while sobbing.

‘I must go now David, you know I have to’ You say with a slice of guilt.

I take in a much needed breath of air and pour my heart out to you.

‘I wish I could stay here forever, see those beautiful green eyes again and again. The warmth of your presence. The scent you have, like the summer blossom. Its as if the sky has beckoned us, enclosed us in a bubble of love. The sun showing us the way to eternity. I love you with all my heart. You were there through all the hard times and all the good times. You were my rock on a stormy sea, my faithful shell of hope. I owe my life to you’.

You look back at me with a glowing smile. Without a reply. You vanish into the sea blue sky. I shed more tears, knowing that the moment had gone. Faded into the waves as you left. Would we ever meet again? I could only dream. I took a slow stroll back onto the beach where Sandra and the children were playing football. 

‘You were daydreaming over there weren't you’ Said Sandra with a cheeky grin

‘Yes I had lost track of time. I’m sorry‘. I wipe my eyes frantically.

‘Don’t worry about it, we are here to relax’

The children surrounded me, attempting to pin me to the ground, I grab one and wrestle him onto the sand, tickling his tummy. A folded piece of paper falls from the pocket of my shorts. Sandra notices it

‘You dropped this’

‘Its okay you can open it’

She slowly unfolds the paper, that is slightly torn and well fingered. It’s a painting of the beach with the jetty, the sun beaming down, kids playing in the sand, a family scene depicted in a beautiful watercolour’

Did you do this? ’ Sandra asked with a puzzled look.

‘No of course not but if you walk to the end of that Jetty you will find the lady who did. I’m sure she would want to meet you’

She looked at me with a confused look. Sammy jumped on my back, grabbing my neck and pulling at my wavy hair.

‘Come on you little rascal’ I chased after him running in the deep sand and falling over several times, clumsily.

Meanwhile Sandra’s inquisitiveness gets the better of her, she turns over the painting and reads to herself the sloppy handwriting on the back.


To David,

I hope one day you will find yourself in this painting. Find a wife who appreciates you and loves you as much as I do. I hope you have children, you will make a great Dad, you always had a knack with children right from an early age. I don’t have long left as you know. But I just want to tell you this. Make something of your life, Be someone. Be love, Be kindness. Be hope and be faith. I wish I would have done more in my life, gone to the places that I created in my paintings but my time is nearly up. Yours has only just began. Don’t die with your music still in you. I love you and I hope when I’m gone you will find me in this painting somewhere in the tropics maybe on a business trip or family holiday. Whatever you do don’t forget to smile.

Love Mum xxx

---

I walk back to Sandra exhausted after chasing Sammy. I smile instantly knowing she had read the letter on the back. 

‘You have made her proud David, you have made her very proud. She said

I Don’t forget to smile and never did from that day on.

Turning Lemons Into Lemonade - Part Two

Finding Your lemons

In the last part of ‘Turning Lemons into Lemonade’ we established that we all have lemons inside of us. In others words talents and passions. In this part we will look at how to find your true passion in life.

At infant school I was quite an introverted student. I barely spoke to anyone in my classrooms or even at lunch times. I could easily look back on these times as detrimental to my life and pass blame onto the fact I was an only child, not growing up with a Brother or Sister. But as I've gotten older I realise that this was a blessing and that it has shaped my life in the most positive of ways. I'm not saying that all writer's grew up without brothers and sisters. I am of course speaking from personal experience. It depends very much on the person but I feel this is the reason for my own talents.

My lack of interaction with others meant that I was able to interact with my own imagination. I became more of an observer of others. With time on my hands I was able to immerse myself in my own imaginative state, comprised of scenes and situations that I created in my futile mind. I felt that it was this, that has propelled me into becoming a writer. Having a mind that is open to everything, attached to nothing and surrounded by a world of endless possibilities. For me writing was a way of escapism, a chance to be the person that I desired and to take up the role of a character in a fictional universe where I was able to express myself.

I am now a different person entirely. I interact with others frequently and have lost my shyness. But the seeds of becoming a writer had already been sown and my passion for writing still burns deep within my soul. I notice the more I write and imagine, claim ownership of my thoughts and dream, the more power I have to bring those fruits into the physical world and enjoy the greatest of riches. Fulfillment and purpose to my life. 

Finding your passion in life is easy enough. All you have to do is recognize what it is that you have a burning desire to do. You have a calling inside that is pulling you in a certain direction, contrary to what anyone tells you about what is possible and what is not. It is that inner voice that you should listen to. This is where you will find your lemons. Passion is the thing that you cant stop thinking about, the thing that awakes inspiration at the drop of a hat. It is the thing that you can spent countless hours talking about. Whether it’s  writing, driving cars, cooking or working with children. There is something in all of us that we have a passion for, that shakes the very foundation of our hearts and erupts an enormous spout of fulfillment to our short time on this planet. 


Everyone has lemons inside of them. No matter how they have came about or why they should be inside of you. Your task is to Claim ownership of them, for they are yours to keep forever.

Ego

A line of sports cars fill the driveway
A balloon pops in the sky
The lady ponders her next promotion
The wheels are already rolling
Naked and bear the ego awaits
To check in a swish hotel via the gates
For who could see that it was snowing
While dining with lanterns glowing 
Jewels and money talk louder than prayer
Says the ego with majestic flare
Spending a Summer’s night under the stars
Another credit card bill, it must be yours
Shuffle through letters and mail
You won’t find any peace in this pile 
For as long as you wear that expensive watch
And brag about cars and frocks 
You will not meet with a life as such
And your ego will run amok 

A Thief In The Gardens

The soft crunch of an ice lolly as it scrapes against your molars is enough to make you shudder. First around your neck then down your spine into the rest of your body, it gives me quite a chill. The numbing cold of the refreshing treat is as cool as the autumnal winds, yet faintly romantic, bringing me back to my happy childhood by the seaside.

It’s not often I do this but today the people from the high rises have taken to the little sun shine that has found its way onto the grassy plains of Cranberry Park. The ice cream man looks somewhat bemused by the influx of lolly loving locals. Staggering towards the van, some amble along with crutches, some with shorts and training shoes, the young, the old and the infirm. It’s quite nourishing to the soul that one man and his ice creams can generate such a relentless stream of happiness through the community.

I take position on one of the many bird shit splattered park benches, beautifully positioned next to the Technicolor majesty of Foxgloves, Pansies and Rhododendron that have no doubt contributed to the floral city award ten years prior. There is a prickly chill in the air, the sun sits in the sky, but its all one big illusion, for it looks bright and is emanating some heat on my pale skin but its not the scorching roast that we were promised. 

I finish crunching the ice lolly all the way down to the woody stick that now leaves that horrible wooden tang on your taste buds. Is this what tree bark tastes like? I discard the horrible piece of timber into the litter bin next to me. I’m wearing stone wash jeans, brown suede shoes and a blue striped button up shirt that now carries a small brown Cappuccino stain. I scrape my shirt as if the stain is going to disappear by magic. Finally deciding its best not to draw attention to it.

To be honest the ice lolly had not filled me up in the slightest. I’m forever hungry. You will not be pleased to know that I’m one of those arrogant people who go about saying ‘I eat loads of junk but never seem to put on weight’. It really is true though, the amount of times that I have failed to resist the tantalizing treats of burger vans, fast food chains and cookie stalls and still unable to pinch an inch of my belly is unbelievable.

I take a walk back to the ice cream van, hands in my pockets like a grumpy schoolboy. I scan the menu (if that’s what you call it) that is stuck on the window presumably with blue tack. 

‘Can I have a packet of chocolate buttons please mate?’

The ice cream man looks at me with a perplexing gaze. You could tell I had thrown him off his script, so many people had ordered ice lollies, Mr whippy’s and choc ices, that a small packet of buttons seemed a bit of a challenge to his caveman mind.

‘Buttons!’ I shout to emphasis the fact he’s dragging the transaction into the next century.

He passes the buttons to me with a screwed up face. I pass him an old 50 pence piece.

‘Thank you’ I say with a tiny drop of sarcasm to boot.

I stroll back to the bench with my buttons and to my absolute horror the bench had been taken up my a tramp. Yes a bloody tramp was sitting there if you please. I could smell his pheromones from a couple of yards away, poising the air along with my fragile nostrils. His dead weight of a sack is taking up the larger half of the bench while his fat arse is lent over it, looking down onto the pavement, presumably looking for some crumbs of some sort.

I decide to sit next to him not because I want to, but because I see it as my bench. He’s the one who has stolen it. I pick up the sack and sling it on top of him with anger. He doesn't even glance at me probably, too scared. I am a retired boxer, not that he would know that, but if he did he would scarper like a scolded dog. 

I looked in the opposite direction to him, as if to strengthen my disgust. I turn only to prize one of the chocolate buttons from the packet that sits by my side. Then I become shell-shocked! The dirty old tramp puts his grubby hands into my chocolate buttons, taking one and putting it in his mouth with a smile. The cheeky bugger I thought. I take another one from the packet, while giving him a steely glare. And again he takes one, again with a wry smile. At this point I’m shaking with anger and I’m very close to tossing his sack into the bushes. But it gets worst.

He looks at me again with a cheeky grin on his face. To my surprise he has the temerity to once again pop his hands into the packet and take out three of my buttons and offer them to me. Can you believe the cheek of the man. Never before in my born days have I encountered such a merciless thief. No wonder he’s a beggar no one wants someone who is that nasty and that much of a rotten scrounger. I take the buttons that he has the audacity to offer me and chewing them frantically. There are now two left in the packet, I take both of them before he can get his paws on them.

I have a bit of a temper and who could blame me? Of all the places that dirty thief could be, he choose my bench to plonk himself. I sit up from the bench, not saying a word to him. As I walk further up the lane that kinks and veers through the beautiful gardens, I place my hands in my pockets once more. I suddenly stop in my tracks. The sun beating hotter and the smell of nectar filling the air. And there to my astonishment, were my packet of chocolate buttons, they were in my pocket the whole time. With a glance back at the bench, I realised that the tramp wasn't a thief after all. The beggar had saved up for those sweets all day, it was his bench, his chocolates and I was the thief!

The Story So Far - Inspiration

After blogging for the last few days, I realise that the words flow through my body onto the screen as if the literary fairies have sprinkled some magic dust over my head. It has certainly been an exciting week, for my inspiration has soared and my motivation to put pen to paper, so to speak has put me on the next rung of the proverbial writing ladder. I would like to thank all of those who have taken the time to read through my work, ‘like’ or comment. Your support is valued greatly as I continue my journey on this road of writing. A road which occasionally seems to veer off into unexpected territory (see my first ever poem ‘Dream’).

I think most aspiring and indeed established writers would agree that the most important thing about writing is…writing. Putting words onto a blank document. An empty page is like a demon of misery, grinning at you as if to say ‘I’m so clean and white. I will suck all the inspiration from you so you can’t dirty me with your words’. Despite this little demon I have found a way to defeat the ugly blank page and have inside my head what I wish to write before I open a blank document.

Inspiration can come in many forms whether it’s a conversation I have ear wigged while waiting for the bus. Taking a stroll through the suburbs or simply laying in bed, in that weird half-awake-half-sleep state. There are no rules to what I write, in fact the more I box myself in (‘I only write fiction’ is what I used to say with conviction) the more my creativity suffers.. That is the reason why I have blogged a poem. The words popped into my head, the structure came as I began typing and the rest was history.

I don’t feel experienced enough to give clear cut advice but if I’m talking from my endeavors so far I would say this:

• Keep an open mind to all types of writing, all genres and all formats. Go with your heart not your ego.

•  Don’t be fixated with perfection. Just write what you wish to. It’s true that my work is probably riddled with grammatical errors, its not a big deal. It’s about the content.

• Let go and set your heart free. Let the words flow from your mind, through your finger tips and onto the page. 

• Don’t put pressure on yourself. It’s all about having fun.

I would like to summarize this entry by saying that being inspired is nothing more than getting in a quiet place, free of distraction or noise. A place where images will enter your mind and morph into words. This is what I have managed to do with my recent work. The inspiration behind ‘dream’ was based on own experiences of chasing a passion. ‘Horse’ was inspired by a small picture in a magazine and ‘Lemons’ by nothing more than a casual metaphor. All tiny things but nevertheless they have ignited my creativity.

Trust me, all you have to do is open your mind to creative writing. The literary fairies will visit you just as they have with me. You don’t have to find the words, the words are already there, just waiting for you to get quiet and put them onto that ugly, clean ,white page. Until next time.