One evening bored with tele-V, we hobbled out with zeal, to spend our cash unfrugally, and splash out on a meal. As pensioners you understand, not used to flashy scenes, a little speciality, not bacon, chips and beans
We found a comfy restaurant, down upon the Strand, the menu carried nowt you`d want, the food was oh so bland. With empty hearts, and hollow parts we walked with aching hips, back home again, shoved on the pan for bacon, beans and chips.
I've written many in my time. IMO, the best thing I ever wrote was this ending to a really long (3500 words/505-line) narrative poem about a particularly traumatic experience with tornadoes and floods. Basically, the majority of the poem is told in flashback, and the end is basically me waking up and reflecting on stuff. It doesn't quite make sense without everything that comes before it, but close enough:
I’m back in late September in the first Moments of dawn, a new life spreading through The life I see—my neighbor’s conifers Are golden-green—and through the life I knew. I start to understand those dreams that burst Through us, blazing the trails across a dew- Damp mind. I trace the silver light until it ebbs Into the empty fibers of a spider’s web.
That web has been there all throughout the summer. Most nights I’d find it built before I came, The muted architect there at the center, Who makes and masters its own private game To catch what comes and sate an ancient hunger; And is this different? Is it all the same? What weaves such crystalline geometry Only to kill what kills it, rebuilding nightly?
I’ve seen it catch a moth before (what “steered The white moth thither in the night?”), but not Then hold it “like a kite.” It rather sheared Its own design to wrap it like a clot, So quick and so precise, no seeming fear These tremors are from something that, though caught, Will destroy not just the web, but the spider too; “The process kills the fear, or fear kills you.”
The ready web, the waiting weaver, that Enduring patience for whatever comes, Events that hover near its habitat, And those that land to bang the battle drum That resonates across the thin-skinned mats, Plucking the strings until it wails and thrums, That shakes and struggles, rips and shreds the cage To its foundations… then the empty page.
So there are days of dearth, a staid perfection That means no struggle, and no nourishment. The challenge is to see all those infections That kill us slowly by our own consent, To want the death that breeds the resurrection, To kindle that which sparks the soul’s invention. “A lovely sentiment” I think I heard The rumbling stomach of the spider slur.
And then an unexpected thing: a flood Of cottonwood seeds drifts across the yard, Like someone broke a snow globe, silent thud, Then this unnerving whiteness that bombards The lyrically liminal spring buds, The broken cage lying in scattered shards Somewhere below these ever wandering feet, Still treading water, not quite on the beat.
Maybe as well a need for dissonance, Residual interruptions unresolved. Yes, yes, I’m well aware that ignorance, Those damned pervasive blank-spots that convolve Us, shouldn’t make us wallow in romance, To think that magic’s real, that gods involve Themselves with our too petty lives. Design Only governs in a thing so small: a mind,
And only writ by an automaton. Yet, insofar as those blank-spots exist, They’re part what is daily undergone And need, as much as others that persist, Woven into the web, if just so dawn Can find it empty still, a kind of mist That makes the twilight barely visible, Like something not quite inexplicable.
To end with the beginning—there’s a way, Like variations on the theme of nights That illustrate the transitory sway Of everything we live and are, how lights Flicker and burn, go out, but kindle days’ Designs until the final thread’s pulled tight, Content and form dissolving into one Under the sheets where midnight meets the sun—
I’ll say that it’s late evening and I’ve just Awoken from another kind of sleep, A hibernation from the cold (I trust You’ll guess it’s winter) that’ll surely keep Us all inside until the spring. I’ve thrust What happened in my soul, but not too deep. It all came in—a sigh, a lover’s kiss— To see its children wading through the bliss.
Everything I've seen needs rearranging And for anyone who thinks it's strange Then you should be the first to want to make this change And for everyone who thinks that life is just a game Do you like the part you're playing? -- Love (Arthur Lee) - "You Set the Scene"
Listen, my children, and I shall report The famous ride to Sudbury airport. On the 18 of April, at a quarter to five; I was drinking at the Bull-n-Sheep, hardly alive When my captain came in and gave me an assignment, “Get down to that airfield, keep binoculars in alignment.”
He said to me, "If the British lurch By air tonight, You hang a light on the wind sock’s perch And fire up that signal light,—
The signal code is Wilco, Tango, Foxtrot.”
“Yes, my Captain,” I replied with a burp. “I’ll ride my horse without a lurch.” As my little pony galloped, my drunken butt felt sanded, We had to reach the airport Before the BOAC landed. “To the airport, I must!” I screamed to my mare, “Ride harder Old Gal, I don’t care if I bust. The British are coming tonight by air.”
She jumped a fence and I held on my best, But I flipped over, so my East turned West. Riding backwards I was, Yet I clung astraddle, To the airport, I must. And remain in my saddle.
Through Lexington and Newton The patriots stared amazed, Seeing my horse a-shootin’ My face opposite ways.
Then at Sudbury we based, And I leaped from her back, To secured the air space, From British attack.
But no invasion presented I came to know, As the airplane had not been invented. That came as a blow.
So I mounted my Bucephalus And headed for Annapolis, To tell my saga Of air riding drama.
So listen, my friends and you shall hear Of the Airport Ride of Reverse Revere.
Why do birds exist? I look up to the sky and wave my fist They flap their wings and get me pissed Birds are on my most hated list I hate their dumb songs and I hate their beaks I hate a parrot when it speaks I think about a bird for weeks and weeks When it poops on me down by the creeks
Dawn and evening, midnight and noon The river runs, the world spins sun in day, stars and moon at night when the day ends the end begins
I only miss summer when winter arrives I only miss you when you're not there I only miss light when darkness comes I only miss that you care
If I stare into the the abyss all I see Is my reflection staring back at me the sadness seeps from me as I watch the sky at night the city lights grow dim I sit alone in the fog of white waiting for the blue light to embrace me
I'm like an empty cave with wind rushing through me without you when a flower gives up its dream it fades and the dream dies if I wait too long I'll have been laid in the ground pale and alone without you
I wonder where the wind is going in such a hurry If I sleep all day, tell the sun I'll see him another time As of now my dream of love is ended When the day stops, I die in desperation
There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light and I'm frightened by those who don't see it