I see possibilities arrayed
like a great flagstone path
and each flagstone has moss
and plants grow inbetween
And each flagstone is carved
from stone milled from language
the language of books and films
they are stacked about the path
And the rain and wind-grit
are giving them a hard time
so the titles have ripped off
or faded in the sun – the path
(this may be important)
only appears retroactively
that is – I can only see it
looking over my shoulder.
The path in front of me
looks clean and I am walking
but I don’t mean to be walking
through a mist from the waterfall
Worry fills the air, it has always filled the air
In the dark crouched under a cliff edge, clutching
Close our churchly comforts, curling
Fingers round our hope and hurting.
In bed caressed by muster horns of a great storm
Our worries go riding out over the top of the trenches
Gunned down by merciless death-machines, our dreams
Turned nightmares, teach us mercilessness to utopian thinking.
We live on the thin red line which hedges provisionally
The blurry gap of dystopia and the real.
We see burbling spitting demagogues rising from the ashes of war and despair,
And wait for nothingness to dry like mould in the bathroom
Peeling into oblivion and resting on a stone floor, forgotten by the universe,
Not marked by a single smile, but marked by a single frown or dry tearduct.
Our challenge, our tribulations and trials
Are but one – to keep the bleeding faith in life, sharp teeth gritted
To stand high above the wave and teach it like lightning it lacks a purpose we fulfil
To dance in the fire like fire and lift our friends up, and the weak,
(who are strong but if they can flow
like mercury among the other metals)
Say, Drudgers, worriers of the world, rise up, you have nothing to lose but your fear
We have the stars to win.
And if one day, sun rising on a field of martian grass,
Disaster comes, we will deal with this disaster
Shuffling our cards and smiling at the draw:
We keep the fire and pass it on, whirling and cavorting from soul to soul
Lift the handful of dice and play your role,
Forging humanity from the sparks and defying the world to fall.
Get angry, get warm, and never bow.
Never bow at all.
How do we begin?
As our stuttering lives stall at the start
and our momentum leaks on the cracked flagstones
How do we choose?
Our choices crawl in the grass
but things are decided by feet walking
until our wails are cut short by the stamp
How do we live?
We don’t know how to choose, or begin.
How then, can we live?
We can live in the moment, maybe.
But living takes longer than a moment
and if the debt of many a moment piles up
in a greater accident – what then?
And our future moments are marked out
as so many digits in a bank account
How then can we live?
And living itself, what is living?
This waiting watching breathing sitting
Or the many flows of respiration
moving on through generations
not allowing us leeway to miss
these concrete hooks, and those who bait them?
Or maybe we can shore ourselves up
against the future’s distant storm
dark on the horizon, and our calm before it
By writing, thus, for futures to come
and hoping for rememberance, though not by that name
Or some strange force of propogation
Or pouring our measure into our friends –
the measure of our worldly time.
This at least is worth it.
This at least offers reply.
The question is a tricky thing
Posing ready to receive something quick
But certain questions won’t accept;
minor obsolete packets of sense
And rather burn for us to move ourselves
Out and about, to salve them.