Nowhere and back again

This poem talks about the journey into and then back out of depression. I’ve been there, read the book, got the T-shirt, cried the tears. Oh Yes – I know the way to nowhere and I’ve had to learn the way back.

Anxiety skulks in

Through the chinks of normality

Lurking un-noticed

Hiding in corners of the mind

Gaining strength

Feeding on itself

Undermining reason

Just a small spark

Fuelled by uncertainty

Consuming belief

Doubting even doubt itself

The spark ignites a fuse

Bonfires in the soul

A dark rocket bursts

Showering its shards of despair

A nebulous crescendo

Of pain, of fear

Of nothing, of nowhere

A blinding flash

Of darkness

Leads you into

The void

A place of nothingness

Not even fear

Just darkness

Darker

Deeper

Colder

Engulfed

A living death

With no way back

Imprisoned in oneself

Nowhere going nowhere

One day hope steals back

Seeping through the pores of despair

A silent blossoming

A faint whiff

A ghost of a scent

A little healing

A little light

Almost lost against the enormity of hurt

Given time, lots of time

The scent of hope pervades

Settling in corners of the mind

Gaining strength

Feeding on itself

Undermining nothingness

An exit

A way forward

Something grows

A vision

Clearer

Stronger

A future

It will come

And maybe

Just maybe

It might linger

Something

Another poem for Maggie. Don't need to say anything more. 

There’s something about your eyes, 

the way they move, 

the way they smile, 

something about the way they look at me.

There’s something about your voice, 

the way you talk, 

the way you laugh, 

something about the things you say. 

There’s something about your hands, 

the way they hold mine. 

Something about your hair,

catching the light, 

catching my eye. 

There’s something about the way you walk, 

the way you stand, 

Something about the things you do, 

and there’s something about .... 

Something about, 

the who you are, 

the who I am, 

the who we’ll be. 

And all the somethings, 

about everything, 

about anything. 

All the somethings, 

they all add up, 

add up, 

to everything, 

everything. 

And that’s what I love about you.

Seahorses

This poem is about how things were when I was at primary school. I've changed the name of the teacher but he could be one of thousands. We no longer see his harsh methods as either acceptable or effective but when people were brought up in such times and did as was expected of them did it make them bad people? I don't really think so.

Mr O’Brien

Sir to you and me

Had a strap

A collection of straps
Different colours
Different lengths and widths
All stung outstretched hands
When Mr O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses

Mr. O’Brien

Stood straighter than straight
He had two pens for marking
Red and green
Hard and soft
Red crosses stung hands
Green a chance to correct
Good! Meant good!
In any colour

Mr. O’Brien
Taught right from wrong
Imposed his discipline
With fairness
In an old fashioned
Outdates, discredited way
Mr. O’Brien was never wrong
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses

Mr O’Brien
Taught what he knew
Knew what he taught
Held his beliefs firmly
Led by example
Cared deeply
Seldom showed it

Jack O’Brien
Was an old man
With steely eyes
Age set free a thin
Wry smile
And bent his once
Rod straight back
And his hands shook
As he spoke
and he spoke of the past
and the pupils he taught

When Jack O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
No more straps
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
But the seahorse
Were gone

Reawoken

Yes I can do romantic - wrote this one for Maggie 

Happy Valentine's Day XXX


I'm awake
Not un-sleeping
But awake
More awake than ever
Awake to today
Awake to tomorrow
Awake to life
Awake with your voice in my ears
Awake with your smile on my face
Awake with your hair in my fingers
Awake with your fragrance in my mind
Awake with your taste on my lips
Awake with your wonder in my heart

You may sleep
Wrapped in my arms
Head on my chest
Breathing shared air
Skin under my skin
Scent on my body
Warmth by my side

I’m awake
Watching, dreaming
Hoping, holding
Shielding, protecting

I’m awake
Don’t ever let me sleep

Not Like the Rest

A true story, very sad and a reminder of how society (government really) can let someone down. This was the ultimate failure of "care in the community". It still happens.

Young, slim, pretty 

Shiny black hair
In satin waves

Freshness of youth

Delicate features

Fragile like the mayfly

A shy nervous smile

Flickers briefly

She looks much like the rest

And she walks and talks

Just like the rest

She tells me her story

Reads me her poems

Glimpses a future 

Inside she struggles

Stresses and worries

Insecurity, plagues her like locusts

Eating confidence, consuming spirit

An empty bottle, beached

On life’s shore

Forgotten, a lonely, abandoned lamb

To face her wolves

And she hurts

“What about me?”

“What about me?”

“How should I feel? I don’t matter”

Not like the rest 

Doctors diagnose, plan intervention

Prescribe medication, a hospital bed

Nurses monitor and report

Administer the treatment

Provide some care

Nobody really listens

Nobody really knows

Or understands

So she remains

Hospitalised, medicated

Pacified, stabilised

Tranquilised, desensitised

Monitored, protected

Contained, controlled 

How does she feel?

She can’t explain

Then how could she

Doped and drugged

Her feelings blanked

Smothered and flattened

And they

Can’t explain

Then how could they?

She doesn’t look ill

She carries no mark

She wears no badge

They say she’s recovered

Finished her treatment

She’s not so sure

They send her home 

Parents plead

A mother knows

She’s not ready

She’s still hurting

She still needs help

Her bed’s allocated

Her budget’s spent

Her resources gone

Released, discharged

Just like the rest 

Her care in the community

Her one brief day 

Of freedom

They came too soon

Unwittingly created

A torment too far

On a bridge

She pauses

No samaritans

No witness

No mothers arms

She’s gone

A solitary column inch

She didn’t matter

Not like the rest

And did those feet?

Here's my newest poem. I'm not what you could ever call a patriot, I've always felt that it is people that matter, not a state. This poem says a little about how I feel.

 

And did those feet in ancient times?

Well did they?

Did their walking

Their fighting

Their belief

Bring us here?

To a land of boom and bust

A land of us and them

A land of me, me and me

And did those suffragettes

Fight for our excesses

And did those soldiers

Die for our bankers

And was democracy

builded here

for the haves?

And does the state protect

The have-nots

And like the small child

Asking forlornly

“are we there yet?”

There could only be one answer