Coming To An End

Finally, my challenges are coming to an end.
No more pain of writers block to drive me round the bend,
a pen clasped in a shaking hand,
a pointlessness to understand,
a fear that simple competence was coming to an end.

Poignantly, the courtship now is coming to an end.
I've bathed deep in a warming pool surrounded by my friends;
comfort and discovery,
discomfort and recovery.
I don't know where I'm going now it's coming to an end.

We deserve a treat

Freshness of spring strawberries,
Ripened on the sill
In the kitchen.
Dollops of gelato, churned
Adoringly.
Yeah... this is the life!

Believe in yourself and try

There's uncertainty in everything that doesn't have an end.
How do you shape the future on a track that doesn't bend?
Understanding who you are is vital to the quest,
Realising anything you do can be the best.
Sometimes, in a melancholy moment, you may sigh,
Despondent as you let an opportunity go by.
Awareness isn't knowledge, fate mightn't gift what you deserve:
You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it surf.

Days are lost whilst finding time

What became of little me?
Each forgotten dream is like an uncaught breath.
Days are lost whilst finding time.
Nowadays, I have
Everything I need but need itself;
Something comfortable preferred to anything
Dangerous. Yet, the pursuit of
Aspiration is like oxygen, and I shall be many
Years dead to lament on breathlessness.

The pen is indeed mightier than the sword

There is a free simplicity to verse,
Unlocked like electricity of thought,
Empathy like sorrows in reverse,
Subtlety where battle-cries have fought,
Dynamism in a dormant state,
Anger in the love that comes from hate,
Young embers where the forgery is wrought.

Mid Life Crisis

My generation is fading
Older than history itself
Nothing to add to the drama
Dependent on others' help
Ailed by the human condition
Yet never in ruder health

Weekend

Saturday was lamentable.
Achievement lost in a frenzy of cold noise,
Tears to the fabric of a toga virilis,
Underwhelment.
Rainclouds of steel grey absorb and release,
Drenching aspirations and control.
Afar, hints of something brighter
Yearn for opportunities.

Sunday lit the hidden fire.
Under wet leaves, slept the tinder of creativity,
Novelty for which the appetite always burns.
Delicate metaphor melts upon an animated tongue,
Air itself tastes better.
Yesterday is gone with the passing clouds.

[After Just Before You Leave, Currie/Harvie 2002]