We human beings can imagine that we understand where someone else is coming from, be convinced we know their motives and then find it difficult not to opine thereupon.
On the wind,
Carried by the wings of perception,
The words of another,
Telling of how you feel.
Convinced and convicted in the beginning.
Tenuous and stretching,
Well meaning but wrong,
Painting themselves in impressionist points.
The message and the shield,
To massage and deflect,
Holding that point in sea of the floating things.
Formed in the rust of trust,
Sewn into the fledgling in the nest,
And rewarded by the worm of the early bird.
The clamour of the glamour of it all.
Life is too short to be right.
Dressed in dead-letter logic,
And the twelve-bar blues of again and again,
The so-called facts question.
But hidden beneath and,
In different clothes,
The sound echoes an empty tone, going through the motions.
Under the carpet,
Where all the fears lie,
Are brushed the fragile bones that hold the tissue intact.
The cabbage patch dolls,
Huddle to write their play, to have their say,
Performing to conform and looking at their cake.
Consent and compromise,
Coerce and corrupt, rob the spirit,
And drive the man from the parapet.
The courage of silence is not.
Life is too short to be rite.
In the clay cup he puts the Tea,
Pours water and takes the brush,
Deftly he stirs.
In the swirled of the floating things,
Searching inside for:
The meaning of it.
The raft of bubbles breaks,
And foams in the Maya of it all,
Yet another storm in a teacup?
Words like tiny purses,
Score double top, as sharply,
As the dart players take chalk in hand.
Five hundred and one,
Itches under his skin like mosquito bites,
On a summer’s night.
He never liked the Joneses anyway,
Their white picket fence and pet crocodile,
Were Saatchi and Saatchi.
The salt of the Ganges is ours.
Life is too short not to write.
What is a truth,
And how does it taste?
Clear on the palate and fresh on the tongue.
Far from the pre-packed and processed,
Wrapped in cling film
And sold at Sainsbury’s on Saturdays.
Personal and specific,
Not agreed by committee,
A feeling of feelings and a knowing of knowledge.
No less than a flame,
Kindled inside and singular,
An island in the floating things.
Seen in a dream as in the dream,
Watched in the circus,
Without puppeteers’ strings.
There is more to life than process,
Immeasurable and imprecise,
No key performance indicators here.
The air that we breathe is free.
Life is too short not to read.
The pages of Kells,
Illuminated with love
And decorated with care on the journey of the Dove.
Set free from the Ark,
The un-caged bird in search of the olive branch,
Comes back in sea of floating things.
Soaring in gentleness,
White with vulnerable beauty,
To tell of its travels and share of its fare.
The memory of before,
And the sense of the divine in each,
And the eyes of a child, awestruck and in awe.
The warnings are there,
The cloying sterility of the Vulcan mind
Overpowers the beating passion of the heart.
I re-member Martin,
And the Christ in each of us.
I have a dream and it dreams me now.
Brave heart be strong and beat on.
Life is too short not to see red.