Happy Birthday Ditty For Steve The Man, Mann

A happy birthday to dear Steve,

Who as usual will soon leave

To warmer, sunnier parts,

Breaking all of the hearts

Of his friends and his foes

Because everyone one of us knows

He’ll spend a three month all smiley

Leading the complete life of Riley!

A happy birthday to the Mann,

Who lives as full on as he can.

May all his travels be smooth

And copious cheap beer sooth

All the troubles in his life

(No, not his ‘trouble and strife!)

And beach, sand and sun

Make him the chosen one!

Then to Facebook we’ll turn

And for photos we’ll yearn

Of barbecues in shorts

With drinking games for sports.

And Karen only drinking wine

(Remarkably, from a beer stein!)

And Manno counting sheep

As he drifts into sleep.

So cheers to our dear chum,

Let his plumbing all be done,

And the food and beer flow

Where ever he may go.

I wish him happiness without end

As a quite extraordinary friend,

But if he thinks I’ll raise a glass

He can kiss my bloody … posterior!

Are You, By Any Chance, God?

Once upon a time there was this hole in space, surrounded by stars, planets, asteroids and fine things like that.  People who lived on the planets which went round the stars which in turn went round the hole thought the hole was God. 

The people were very small and the hole was very big so they decided God was mighty. 

In the greater truth of the objective universe the hole was but a very little thing and within it there was nothing.  Yet were the people on the planets which went round the stars which went round the hole wrong?  For isn’t God said to be everywhere?  Wouldn’t that include the empty hole?  Indeed, can a hole be empty?

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Once upon a time there was a man who lived upon an island on his own.  Never had he seen another two legged beast which walked with its back straight.  He was fit and strong and his brain was faster than the brain of any other creature on the island.  Yet he was an ignorant man, weak and dull.  He thought he knew all things but he knew very little. 

All the animals knew him and feared him, for he was God.  He knew he was God but it excited him very little for he had always been God and thus took his Godliness for granted.

Was the man, on his own on an island more right or more wrong than the people upon the planets which went round the stars which went round the hole?  For isn’t God said to be within each of us?

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Once upon a time there was an anomaly in space, empty of nearly all things, but because it was different all the creatures on all the planets which circled round all the suns which circled round the anomaly feared it was some super weapon and were suspicious that their neighbours on other planets which circled other stars, knew its secret. 

Thus it was that the anomaly become the depository of fear, and the fear grew so large it became a super weapon and destroyed the planets that went round the stars which went round the hole in space where God lived and also destroyed the man who was God upon his island.

Thus the anomaly / hole became filled with debris and gas and dust.

Did God die when the hole died and the man died?

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Listen.  Once upon a time there was a space anomaly / hole filled with dust, debris, gasses and the like and slowly, even as the universe counts time, all these materials came together and became for a nanosecond a great star which exploded with extraordinary violence. 

Over time the residue from the explosion, leaving a hole where the great star had been, formed many stars and planets upon which creatures started to creep and fly, swim and walk.  And as they grew in smartness and curiosity they found the hole and space and by general consensus it was agreed that within the hole was God.

Was this a new God, the old God or just an empty hole?  Perhaps it was all three?

A Birthday Gift

It is not long, not as history goes,

Thirty four years, most half forgotten

Except for the great joys,

The sorrows and fears,

And, who knows why, random bits

That now seem quite meaningless.

I know.  I’ve been there, done that,

Eight boring, exciting years ago.

And so I must find words for you,

Words that mean something significant,

That say something about life.

You must never stop growing,

Never stop changing,

Never stop taking chances,

Never stop making mistakes.

Never find black and white,

They are illusory,

As are most simple choices.

If you are lucky you'll never stop

Being a child, being curious,

Trusting, getting burnt, trusting,

Finding joy that is so fierce

It makes you hurt but

You would rather die

Than be without it.

Life does not begin at

Thirty four or forty,

It begins each day

With the sun and the rain of dawn,

And if you believe that this day

May be wonderful, may be all flowers

And love and touch and comfort

And jobs well done, well, it may be.

And if you don’t think like that,

Then it probably won’t be.

Life is attitude of mind fuelled by enthusiasm.

Not every choice you face is your choice,

But how you face it, that’s your choice,

Your ultimate freedom.  Life is not always

What you make it, but it may be what you

Hope it.  And 34 is so young that there

Is still almost endless time for folly,

Glorious folly, for learning and for hope.

The hope may not be for now,

May not be for tomorrow,

But hope for someday.

You must hope,

For in hope, there lies chance,

In chance there lies hope.

The Rainbow

I touched the gold at the end,

Caressed the softness,

Inhaled the fragrance,

Felt silk upon my lips.

The gold is not mine,

It never was,

It never can be,

But I have touched the gold

At the end of a rainbow,

And my heart bleeds;

Bleeds with sorrow,

Bleeds with joy.

Unanswered Prayer In The Dark

The dark cloud which hangs over me,

Like a vampire feeding on optimism,

Pours the ink of despair over my inner vision

And darkens the lens that filmed my dreams.

The claws of some known but vicious monster

Are tearing at my heart, flailing my love

To a tattered cloth that I hold desperately

Around my bowed shoulders while my free hand

Futilely gropes for this unseen enemy’s throat.

The sorrow in the air is deep and palpable.

It makes it hard to breathe, clogging my lungs

With the acrid taste of death, my death,

The death of hope, of freedom, of respect.

My self-pity scratches like a rat, starved

And ready to eat anything to survive.

It gnaws at the marrow of my soul,

And my light become darkness,

My reason cowers, mewling in the corner

Of the now black cave that was my mind.

What can I do, Hidden God?

What can I do?

A Cry In The Dark

Nights are long and lonely,

My soul grows numb and cold,

I go on the terrible journey

To when I am old.

Nights are bleak and empty,

No stars shine.

The world has life aplenty,

But one death, mine.

It’s the price one pays for living,

Becoming walking dead.

Each day the axe is swinging,

It swings to take my head.

The further down this road I go,

The colder I become,

Then Sergeant Death will embrace me

And my journeying will be done.

The Swan

When the summer day is over

And the heated hours are gone,

We repair in ones and twos and threes

To the comfort of the Swan.

And there we drink our pints of ale

And eat food that’s quite divine,

And Julia hears that funny tale

For the seven hundredth time.

Mike rumbles from the cellar

Engineer with legs so pale,

Having worked his magic alchemy

On heating, plumbing and ale.

Mum shuttles to the kitchen,

And pool balls clink as the jukebox plays,

While Bass and Lager slide down welcoming throats

Parched by the summer days.

And when the evening is over,

And the customers are all gone

And hoovers are silenced finally,

Let peace reign in the Swan.

Let Mum and Mike and Julia,

Sleep well the sleep of the just,

For when the sun has risen up,

We’ll be welcome back, I trust!

Aphorisms

The clearest picture is the one that is furthest away.  You may not be able to see it, but you see the things around it which make it what is is.
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The people on Earth show a dearth of common sense.  The people who are dead use their head and nothing's said.

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You can't crap wearing a formal coat

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The spirit to overcome what at first would seem to be hopeless odds is greatly enhanced if one doesn't know the odds are hopeless.

The Castle

The Castle stands, alone on a hill,

Somewhere in space and time,

Grey walls that face the world,

Face the weather, face time’s passing,

Imperturbable, aging but not caring.

The rain has stopped, the wind has died,

Calm reaches from the Castle walls,

Washing down the hillside,

Rolling gently to the Valley below.

A bird sings in the Valley,

Somewhere in another World,

But the sound does not intrude,

It takes wing alone and flutters

Softly round the Castle Halls,

A butterfly of life’s sweet song.

In the distance the Sun, milky

In the Spring’s cold haze,

Casts soft fingers out from

Distances almost unknown,

And their soft, tender warmth

Touches the stone which has held

For five hundred years.

She sits, her back against the wall.

Peace is etched passively on her brow

And fine-spun threads of gold

Catch the sun, reflecting,

As her hair moves softly

In the quiet breeze.

She pulls her cloak around her,

Dark pools of eyes throwing back

The images of the Lake

Far below in the Valley.

A smile touches her mouth,

Gently caresses her lips

Into the softest of curves

As she wanders peacefully

Through the corridors of her mind,

And the corridors of time.

For a second the air is clear,

Sun warms her face like a lover’s kiss.

Her smile broadens and her face glows

With inner peace and joy

From a moment out of time,

When she is one with herself,

And true to that.

And that fair face, as her smile grew,

It outshone the Sun.

It glowed and every plain and curve

Was seen in living beauty,

A joyous flash, a shout of life

Against the Castle wall.

She shook her head and rose at last,

Leaving her contemplation,

Her hair aglow, her heart refreshed,

Her beauty like a cloak about her,

Her peace almost tangible,

And the air about the Castle

Quivered as she stretched,

Gazed once more on yesterday

And then, turning away,

Strolled peacefully down

Towards the Valley.

The Castle stood, alone again,

The grey walls strong.

The rain came, the wind came,

Time and tide came.

She was gone.

Mushrooms

Some men eat mushrooms. 

Some mushrooms eat men.

Cold wind blows death across a lonely land,

Filling hollow hearts with echoes of the real,

The unreal and what might be.

Empty men pull weak cloth

Around their frail bodies

And huddle closer for warmth.

Harsh, skin-burning rain, rain of Man

Lashes upon poor dying, withered souls,

Blistering, burning, tearing where already

All is blistered, burnt and torn.

The once mighty shelters, pride of Men,

Melt, decay, rot and return

To the sickened soil.

Eyeless sockets look up,

Feeling again the cool,

Death-carrying, compassionate breezes.

Still they see the mushroom,

Might of Man.

Was there anything more beautiful,

Hopelessly lovely,

Than the mushroom cloud,

The great reaper,

The bringer of peace to the soul?

What an odd countenance death wears,

What grandeur he takes upon himself

When he really tries.

Men must suffer much

To feed such great glory.

If you think about it, it is only fair.

Beauty and suffering, again they embrace,

Love, and produce that extraordinary child,

That mightiest of all, Death

Reaper, weeder of fetid and decaying souls.

Come beauty, come putrefaction,

Come purity, rise up!  Demand thy price.

Let us in these last, pathetic hours

Have beauty born of decay,

Ecstasy and agony co-mingled,

The mushroom, the sadness, the glory,

Mightiest, fairest and last

Symbol of Man.

Memories Of Tomorrow

When the sun warms your face, as

My hands would wish to warm it;

As it kisses your lips softly, as

I would wish to kiss them,

And you walk down the cobbled streets,

By buildings which stood the test of time,

By roofs that lean and windows not square,

Past quiet water, hushed so as to not

Disturb your dreams, think then, my love,

Of me.  I have been there, I will be there,

I am there with you, part of me wrapped

In the deep crimson warmth of your heart.

Bullet

The bullet thrusts forward,

Its crude Freudianism enhanced, somehow,

By its speed and its brutality.

It forges, it thrusts, it lunges

Tearing viciously at the air,

At anything that should stand

Between it and its predetermined passion.

With a bang, not a whimper,

Screaming harshly its great need,

The sleek body tears frantically

At the unimportant,

Blinded by its overwhelming urge.

He stands alone,

Mindless in this millisecond

Perhaps a picture of his mistress

Half formed in his mind.

The passion he has known

Almost broke his heart,

But it is nothing,

Nothing beside the bullet,

Its passion climaxing in his brain.