Inspired by all the adult men who never learned to stop being spoiled children and end up in despair when their facilitators (often parents – dads who went through the same process) are no longer there for them. Shared with Momoetry April Poet Month challenge – free verse Title borrowed from Mission of Burma
Bedtime stories, parables of life on the shelves, still dusty; rows of cans, of unopened wisdom; the teachings, the learnings, the Buddhas – where the father remains…
Left in the hands of the monkish – scholars, not teachers; words like paper airplanes flying overhead, tumbling down to joyous boyish cries…
All the toys lay broken – it feels as if the tears will never dry; in search of the comforts of the womb – gift givers keep giving gifts until the boy learns when to cry…
Soon, the world is full of giants, wandering, aimless and distraught; – fear distilled into crystal glasses; a fisheye lens to view a world that owes nothing…
All the pleasures dull the pain until the pain becomes the pleasure; The wisdom trail long disappeared, black eyes follow from the dark snapping at heels with impish grins…
Chasing the dopamine dragons, their fires pierce the thickened skin twisting deep into the calcified heart The face savers are dead – left alone to laugh… alone…
I seem to end up watching it every few months. In fact, I’m going to watch it again now.
Zu – Zu were on my record label’s very first release so I’m familiar with them too: https://tenzenmen.bandcamp.com/album/eccentrics-vol-1 This is a good reminder for me to go check out some of their more recent stuff though.
Prairie WWWW – I came across this band about five years ago and some of the band members names are familiar to me though I’m not sure why. I never listened in depth before but it’s obvious that this style is right up my street!
Fulu Miziki – vaguely familiar with this band too, I think from stumbling across videos of theirs. Listening now brings back strong vibes of listening to John Peel late at night, waiting to hear the one or two punk tunes he might play and being subjected to what seemed like hours of the Bhundhu Boys (which, ironically, I find quite enjoyable now)
Sonora Tropical – the brief snippet here also brought back John Peel vibes and this one not enough for me to investigate further – these hips are too old to shake these days.
Shared with Momoetry April Poet Month challenge – micropoetry (not very micro but it is one of the forms included) with a few links back to some borrowed or paraphrased lines of inspiration including one* that I forgot to take note of.
ink, blood; blood-ink spills, chiselled in stone, etched in flesh, carved on bloodied bones; the words of God in your hands to be rewritten again.
shaken foundations; in the cracks, a seed takes root until flowers bloom; you must destroy to create a space to keep all your words.
then, in audience they become your cross to bear; these words are your sword to cut through stone, to lay bare, making sense of destruction.
in theatres of hate, coliseums collapsing at the empire’s feet; when the wind whispers its threats* fanning the flames of defeat.
ink, blood; blood-ink spills, in the cracks, a seed takes root these words are your sword when the wind whispers its threats gather our friends, make a storm.
1. Down in the deepest depths, a mind swirl of grab-bag memories enmeshed with fantasies and stimulating synapses, comforting the realities of the day ahead.
2. A familiar haunting incites instant action followed by a brief hesitation, a sigh and conviction.
3. Muscle memory stirs a stiffness, a stumble towards the mirror. Dusty eyes grab at sticks to mint a mouth full of dry and dirty breath.
4. Sat, for a moment of relief, as brushing teeth and emptying stagnant waters. Now the body reacts, switching on the internal engines, and pulling the winter choke for an idle putter.
5. Hungry mewlers wait impatient at the door, screaming ‘me first, me first!”
6. But this is my house so it’s ME first and the engines crank faster, pushing against the weights of gravity and fighting for air. It’s now or never as the land of the living rears its ugly head and the end of the tunnel approaches.
7. Turning to the criers, those who would die if not fed immediately, expectant eyes pointed skyward. Soft munching sates, satisfied crunching placates.
8. A process nearing completion, the final pieces unconsciously acted. Stood naked under frozen falling waters, cascading and foaming to wash the dusts and sweats of the night.
9. The machine is fully prepared with gut juices flowing, gears grumble complaints made for a refuelling. Let’s check what’s at the cooling station and charge up.
10. Now to greet the sun, wave at the sky for the day begun and get the old grey matter ticking.
“…feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s with us wherever we are.”
― Pema Chödrön
The actions were not mine yet I filled them with disappointment, taking offence where none was intended; – there’s a message here for me.
I landed face-first in a puddle of mud and couldn’t deflect the embarrassment by laughing and wiping it off; – there’s a message here for me.
When you poke a finger deeper into my wounds you are not affected by my irritations, in fact, they may spur you on; – there’s a message here for me.
When the rewards came your way, only resentment came along mine and I could easily justify that feeling; – there’s a message here for me.
When all that resentment bubbled over, a daily garbage collection of anger, regrettable bitter words were unleashed; – there’s a message here for me.
If I could only just be like you, yet not be filled with a jealousy that I use to punish myself further; – there’s a message here for me.
I’m so stuck here with this other me, paralysed by an illogical fear, that I can’t live without this other; – there’s a message here for me.
Lucky for me I found the perfect teacher, The angel on the other shoulder that speaks with clarity to deliver these messages.
1994ever 