I hold in my hand
my seeds of anger,
of resentment,
of frustration,
of bitterness,
of regret.

What flowers will grow from these seeds I wonder?
What colour will they be?
What of their perfume?

I cast the seeds onto the ground
where they were swallowed by the Earth.
I watered the ground where they fell and now I wait …

The sun rose and fell for many days
before I returned to my plot and there they were:
blooms dark as night
atop black stems
and jagged leaves.

And a strange perfume filled the air:
not foul as I would have thought
but pleasant,
intoxicating even.

I breathed deep,
savouring the aroma,
and a sense of calm overwhelmed my senses.

I shut my eyes,
basking in their bouquet.

And when I opened them
mere moments later,
I held in my hand
a few seeds,
seeds like no others I have ever seen;
they seemed to shimmer in the light.

I cast the seeds onto the ground
and they were swallowed by the Earth.
I watered the ground where they fell and now I wait …

The sun rose and fell for many days
before I returned to my plot and there they were:
blooms white, bright as day
atop the greenest stems
and greenest leaves.

Now I had a simple choice:
which of the blooms to choose?
Should it be those blackest blooms
dark like the night
or the white bright blooms,
leaving the others
to wither and die from neglect?

I am yet to decide …

“Don’t bring the past into the present and don’t project the present into the future.”

― Brittany Burgunder

_________________­_

Then …

is lost in a cloud of vague and shadowy memories,
and comes in waves of melancholy nostalgia
for that distant time;
how can it have been so long ago?

Now …

is enduring the present,
each day blending into the next.
The clocks tick so slowly
yet day passes into night
into day into night
in a never ending cycle.

When …

is that far horizon
shrouded in fog,
beckoning me towards it relentlessly.
How far it is I cannot know;
it could be tomorrow or many years hence.

But I know
that all too soon,
now will become then,
the fog will clear,
and I will realise I have reached the end.

And the clocks will stop ticking.

No matter how hard I try
I cannot put what I really feel
down on paper.

You’d think that
something no one will ever read
(probably even me)
would allow free reign
to say what is really going on
inside my mind …

These thoughts and feelings,
my truths,
are there,
sometimes quiet, passive, dull.
Other times,
a maelstrom;
of anxiety,
of anger,
of regret,
of shame,
of loss.

And yet,
as I sit with my pen poised to write down my truths,
I am held back from writing what I need to say
and my words on the page
are empty,
meaningless,
passive,
dull.

And every day I vow to myself,
‘This will be the day I write down my truths.’

But not today -
maybe it will happen tomorrow,
or the next day,
or the next …

The heat of midday has passed
giving way to a cool evening breeze.
The Sun is slowly falling into the horizon
and its beams cast lengthening shadows.

Other than the gentle rustling of the trees,
as the wind breathes over the leaves,
the only sounds are the trilling of insects
and the glorious birdsong
sharing the warmth of a summer’s eve.

We sit in silence,
letting the warm rays caress us,
basking in the tranquility of the scene.

I feel my eyes growing heavy
as a calmness envelops me
and a sense of joy
washes away my cares.

You whisper,“Look!”
and opening my eyes
I catch my breath as I view the sky
turning vibrant orange and red
as the Sun touches that distant horizon.

On an evening walk the other day,
I found a sack of words.
It’s old, very old,
made of hemp and tied with cord.

There was no one about,
no clue as to its owner.
So I took the sack of words
and made my way home
as dusk turned to darkest night.

Once home,
I tipped the sack out onto the table
and a jumble of disjointed ideas cascaded across
its surface …

Then questions formed:
who did the sack belong to?
how did the sack become lost?
Or was it placed in my path for me to find?

I then thought of its previous owner …
If the sack of words were truly lost,
has its owner become mute,
unable to ask for help in finding the lost sack?
I felt sorry for them
and contemplated what I should do with these words …

I could write a heartfelt verse about regret,
or another about lost loves.
Maybe I should use the words
to tell my story?
But no one would want to read that.
Perhaps telling another’s story
would be better served by my discovery?
I could retrace my from steps that evening walk
and look for its owner,
stumbling about in dusk’s half light,
lost for words?

For now,
the words remain just a jumble of disjointed ideas
scattered on my table
waiting for me to decide.

©  2025

Again today
I went to bed as the sun rose.
The creeping blue-grey dawn
signalled to me
it was time to sleep.

My sleep does not come easily though
and many a night,
I sit through the dark hours
waiting for that dawn to come.

Should I worry that my sleep
comes only as dawn breaks?

I don’t mind;
the night holds no fear for me
in fact, I relish those dark hours,
the solitude,
when all is silent,
when all is calm.

And when I do sleep,
it is fitful and fraught,
just a few fretful hours
embellished by strange visions.

And on waking,
I am not always refreshed
but the days are long enough
for a few more hours
of fretful rest
before the sun sets
and I can again enjoy
the dark hours
in my solitude.

What joys, what torments, what treasures
does this new day bring?

I have left sleep behind,
fitful and unsettled as always,
with its strange images
and surreal conversations with the long dead,
conversations that make no sense.

As consciousness comes back to me,
I hear a tolling bell
calling the faithful to prayer
but I pay no heed
because I know my prayers,
if I had any,
would go unanswered.

Instead, what prayers I may have had
are given to the coffee cup
as I drain yet another
and swallow its bitter grounds
and draw on another cigarette,
taking its harsh smoke
deep into my lungs.

And even though it’s Spring
with the burgeoning of new life,
it is cool and a wind stirs the newborn leaves
and the sky remains dull and grey.

Fully awake now,
the familiar pains return.
Not just the physical
but also the ones in my mind
as I contemplate another day ahead,
mundane and alone.

But, if I were honest with myself,
the mundane satisfies me
and I relish being alone.

I put on some melancholy music
and lets its sad sentiment
flow over me, gentle, welcoming,
to keep my sombre mood
from falling too far into despair.

This state of mind
is all too familiar now
and I no longer try to push it away.

And every day I make a cursory effort
to stop myself from contemplating my remaining years
but acknowledging that all too few lie ahead.

Looking back,
I can recall from over those many years, many decades past now,
the memories I have
as a child,
as a youth,
as a man,
as a father.

I remember those memories fondly:
of people, too many now the ghosts I speak with in my dreams,
and of times when the future was so far beyond the distant horizon
that I didn’t give it a moment’s thought.

But now that once far-flung horizon looms ever closer
and where before I could contemplate
ten, twenty, fifty years hence,
now even a mere ten, twenty years from now
is uncertain and shrouded in a fog of unknowing.

It is with this mindset I face each day
and this new day is no different from yesterday’s
and will be again tomorrow,
and the next day,
and the days beyond that
until I reach that horizon.

And I dare not contemplate what lies beyond.


© 2025