The Battered Shell

A shell washed up on the shore
along the coast of a battered sea.


The shell's former inhabitant long
gone, moved on to the next, whatever
that may be.

Rough, grooved, cracked and worn
from the tossing and tumbling in the
angry oceans.


Bleached, blasted and beaten on its
uncharted journey through storms and
glassy calms.


The sands of the shore cradle the shell,
its destination found, if not reached.
Gentle and lulling the beach soothes.


A rising winter sun, dappling the shell,
highlighting its iridescent rainbow of
pearl.


The waves lap gently at the edges, licking
the travel wounds, rolling the shell
further inland.


To be found by a passer-by, to be put on
a shelf, to be presented to a lover as
a heartfelt token.


"This is for you," they'll say as it's
presented. A shy smile on eager lips.
"Thank you my sweet," followed with a
kiss.


Significance re-made, re-named, through
struggle, through strife, through all
adversity, to be made brilliant by those
that can see.


The story of a shell, on a beach, by a
battering sea. 

In Review of the Review

The end of the year

should illicit some creative

burst, some all encompassing

year-end diatribe about the

life we leave behind and the one

to embrace as it’s messily born

out of the aging womb of the past.

 

I’m not sure I want to do that though.

I don’t know what can come from a deeply

introspective review of the past year.

I know when I failed, I know when I succeeded.

Do I need to catalogue memories and wrap them in a

bow and name them all, “Nostalgia”.

I don’t think I want to.

 

Perhaps 2015 followed such a familiar pattern of

triumphs, let-downs, hurts and joys. So common

in fact that I can hardly remember if they even actually

occurred in 2015. Did that really happen in the last 12

months? Did it? Are you sure? Wasn’t that like, three years

ago? Hm, just in June you say? That’s insane.

Completely unworthy of noting.

 

Or was it an eye opening year full of new

realizations, mind altering therapy, long wrought

battles of the brain finally won, acceptance discovered,

personal understanding revealed? Were there less anvils

dropped on your head? Were hearts opened to new

ideas? Was it a year to go in the books and referred to

as The Golden Year of the Self?

 

It’s both and neither.

It’s the same and different.

It’s the same hurts by old lovers,

It’s the new smiles by old friends,

It’s the old heartaches,

It’s the new desires unfulfilled.

It was the same stuff a new life is filled with.

 

I’d like to think that 2016 will be “My Year”.

I’ll turn 40 years old.  

I’ll reach some mid-point in life,

Some milestone of living,

a grand entrance onto the next

stage where I can act the part of a

grown-up but be far more believable.

 

I never know what the next year will

bring. I never have much of any

expectations, other than keeping my

heart from breaking too often and the

wish that people are generally good to each

other the majority of the time.

I know, from experience, that it will not be easy.

 

No year ever is as easy as we wish,

No month, day or hour spent in this life

is ever easy. Yet through it all, the fog and mist

of the future, I still think there’s a glimpse of

hope, a light, a flicker of something good coming

and that makes the new year something to look

forward to. It makes the only real difference at all.  

Another Christmas Shaped Sort of Thing

Hey there Christmas,

What did you get me?

 

Hey there Christmas,

What did I get you?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Where’s all the mistletoe?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Where’s all the snow?

 

Hey there Christmas,

How’s Jesus?

 

Hey there Christmas,

How’s his dad?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Where did my girl go?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Is there forgiveness in Santa’s sack?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Will you play my song on the radio?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Will the lines be short or long?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Have I been naughty?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Was I ever really nice?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Will I ever get it right?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Will she be mine tonight?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Will she find our love?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Will I forget if she doesn’t?

 

Hey there Christmas,

I’m not pestering you, am I?

 

Hey there Christmas,

Have a good night.

The Screaming

Do you hear me.

my broken savior,

can you hear me

screaming

can you hear me

in all the broken

time, the lost times,

the sad times.

Can you hear me,

when I’m done,

when I’m hurt

and bleeding

Can you see that

the smile on my face

is really a scream

can you hear it,

the bellowing

heartache, the unrelenting

noise

can you hear it,

the awful hell of it,

the tolling of bells,

the unstoppable

noise of silence.

Can you, can you,

can you hear it?

It peals, and hurts.

Or maybe it’s just

noise and I should

stop.

Heartache is the loudest

noise I’ve ever heard.

In like thunder,

out like lightening.

The Clay

Life has crafted me,

a block of clay, sculpted,

molded, hardened, broken,

chipped, repaired, aged,

repaired again. Made whole

and unmade over time.

I was cut from a quarry of

centuries, plopped out into

a world I didn’t make and have

had no part in making. And yet,

I want to unmake so much of it.

I wish to remind the world.

Beliefs change, ideologies change,

principals change like phases of the

moon. Everything can change, does

change. A mountain isn’t a mountain

forever. Eventually it’s worn down by

weathering. Eroded into dust.

There is no perfection, there is no

truth in action, there are lies in deeds,

they’re just ideas, passing through a very

short period of time, ideas of people who

will also pass into nothingness and the void

of the universe.

Beliefs are pillars shoring up what we’ve

been told is the truth. Tear them down and

the nerve is exposed. Two or three centuries

go by and those fossilized pillars are meaningless symbols

of a backwards and bygone time. All the fighting,

struggling and manipulating is lost to new pillars of belief.

I’m made from old clay. Bloody, sweaty, trampled

clay, underfoot warrior’s whims and hopeful dreamers.

I still believe though. I still believe there’s worth to be

had in our temporary souls. I believe in humanity and

the most noble parts of our nature, even in the face

of others infernal disbelief.  

Perhaps we’re more boulder

and less Sisyphus.

Perhaps that example is all the more

reason to see that beliefs can change,

evolve, forgive and become something

common, rather than divisive.

Be unmade, be broken, be remade.

As many times as you can.

Made from the parts of many pieces

spread over time.

Change is the only truth, change is truly

the only constant.

Mortar & Pestle

The great and terrible
grinding, mashing and
powdering of bones in
vessels of terror.
 
Pulped, pureed, smashed,
squashed and destroyed
in the swirling turns of
the angry hands of time.

A planet, beleaguered in

the mutilation of souls,
in the cosmic beaker of
an untamed universe.

The chewing, the biting,

the masticating of the
essence of what makes us
who we are.

Ground, grind, ground,

repeat, mash, smash, mash,
again.
Specks of pieces of pieces.

Shattered, broken, torn,

stricken, sick with disjointed
aspirations and misjudged
happiness’s.

An ivory vessel, a bone

pestle, churning the sandy
remnants of childhood dreams
into reconstructed and medicated
nightmares.

To Take.

To Take It.

Punk Rock Lamentation

Punk Rock kid,

where did you go?

You didn’t give a crap,

now that’s all you know.

Where did that punk go?

Anti-establishmentarian,

now you’re a corporate librarian.

All about Anti-conformity,

now you drink the corporate tea.

It’s delicious.

You lived in waffle makers,

now you’re a deal breaker,

You made your own clothes,

now your sheets are dry clean cotton rose.

So comfy.

Never had a phone or HD,

now all you do is watch TV.

No second thoughts on chai latte,

but now it’s something you must say.

Extra Chai please.

I don’t even know that that is,

but you say it’s something that’s the shizz,

New lingo from the kids,

from your mouth God forbids.

OMG LOL ROFL! Emoji?

Go get your Doc’s, throw that beer,

we’ve got to get you out of here.

It’s a state of emergency, we need

you out with some urgency.

I’ve got smokes!

Where’s my punk rock friend,

the one that was with me till the end,

walk the rails or drive off a cliff,

it never made a diff.

Where’s that punk rock kid?

Wipe off the mirror, get ready for

work, too much steam in the shower,

fogged the memory, clouded the mind,

Catch the train, time for work, off I go.

Leave that punk behind.