This evening should never
have happened, the die had
been cast, the road ended
and things let loose
in mayhem of sadness
which overcame the reticent
looseness, the mind pondered, the road ended
swashbuckling traffic mended, all in hush,
all in spate of rush
the mind’s strange phenomena, no acid test
noumena, I wondered at this lacklustre road which
could end so suddenly
so strangely leaving me
in a forest I never saw.
spring sunset
a yawn from a frog
catches the silence
spring sunshine
daffodils tangle
in a spider’s web
My Mom had the most common sense of anyone I’ve ever known
She was right about everything, so much so, it was infuriating at
times
I bucked her many times thinking I knew better
Which of course I didn’t, I was no match for her
The only thing she wasn’t right about
Was her need to always be right
She didn’t go looking for problems to solve
Situations presented themselves and she always had the answers
Somewhere in my 50s I discovered the joy of not being right all the
time
Like her, I possess great common sense
There is a burden however for always trying to be right
If you are never wrong, how do you learn from your mistakes I asked
I’m not sure she saw my logic
Being the matriarch, being right was burned in
It’s been 15 months since her passing
I miss her greatly and could use a few answers, right or wrong but
probably right…
In the psych ward we sit around the television
Little seeing or hearing the shows,
We think about the fistful of pills
About the man who jumped under a train
Wondering if it was worth it.
If we’re worth it.
Another enters the room
He’s been to see the doctor,
We know the doctor hadn’t said anything,
We know the nurse had spent the entire time thinking
She’d forgotten the can of milk on the kitchen table.
The middle aged man just arrived goes to the corner
From the table he finds a plastic cup and a water can.
It’s empty — it’s always empty.
“How was it?” an old lady asks him.
The man laughs, “Over and done with.
I’m going home tomorrow.”
We nod, some smiling faintly, others frowning deeply.
There’s no place as full of hope as the psych ward.
And no place as noteworthy by its importance
In being the place for lost souls just before they dissipate
To become once again part of the public society.
Life can often throw a sucker punch,
sometimes crippling blows
come along like buses… three in a row.
Absolutely everyone hits the floor,
there is nothing unique or shameful in falling,
it’s the getting back up wiser that counts.
The real secret is to bounce back brighter each time,
get in a few jabs of spontaneity of your own.
Do something different regularly, go places new,
comfort zones are for recharging batteries
not camping in… where’s the adventure in that?
Laugh at the strange and ridiculous,
never let fear guide you to nowhere.
You’re full of life, possibility and magic
get out there in that big wide world and enjoy it.
Collect memories not grudges,
don’t follow others unless they’re going your way
and may your way be vast and multiplied by many.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
reading the tea leaves
a difficult future
for the mayfly
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
After Niagara
there was the dispersal,
the slower spread,
the gentling over stones,
the river flushing
to the size
of a street,
a house,
a room,
to cotton tumbling
in clear water,
to a kettle singing,
to the turbulence
of tears.
As a child
dreams were of crumbling ruins, matchless in Greece and Rome,
travelogues of the home
the clash of the sword the word of god, dreams were a river, the
Tiber, Romulus and Rome, a mind quiver
the empire and Charlemagne’s home
the myth of Sisyphus, Hector’s modus, the vulnerable heel, all like
the keel, it hovered wavered. History phased into phantom, dark and
bright,
inner light, the world mine.
I mimed, chimed.
Dreams not Jungian, not Freudian. Only livid, vivid.
Metaphors of dark horses,
meditative Norses.
History shuttled, opened and closed. Me, daydreaming.
One day put on all shutters, broke gates, threw them
into an abyss of gutters.
Do not let them reclaim you backwards
with their clever tricks and morbid traps,
For it is not really relevant anymore,
merely candy floss ghosts of yesteryear.
Tuck the nice memories safely up in bed,
shoo the nasty, negative ones away,
wash your hands of past unpleasantness.
Open up the attic window of your mind
and let a through-breeze spring-clean
your dusty first edition leather-bound soul.
Look back only at moments of affection,
prize-winning smiles and friendly hearts,
The times you lived so full that you
almost burst open carving your initials
into the eternal bark of youth’s wonderment.
Be kind and gentle with your memories,
select and file the brilliant ones up front.
Let the other kind drift away from you
upon the stream of experiences no longer
needed and lessons well and truly learnt.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
