Free

The king is dead

The courtiers fled

The soldiers bled

For a loaf of bread

The maid it fed

Now makes his bed

And in her head

Wakes a foreign dread

These bars of steel

Sheer walls of stone

Have echoed forth

Many thoughts unknown

Cut through the cracks

New sun has shone

That light is mine

And mine alone

I am a beast

Of heart and bone

A hungry seed

In desert sown

When towering weeds

Had overgrown

I wrung their necks

To forge a throne

A summer sung

Among my own

The bird remains

The nest has flown

For them that see

Past the canopy

Waits a misery

You must agree

You will decree

The swelling sea

Her sunken tree

Ever home to me

When in that boil

I choose to be

Am I then caged?

Pray, are you free?

Ordinary

You are a waster of time
A taker of space
You are a thinker of things
A forgetter of names

You are older than yesterday
Younger than tomorrow
Taller than your standing
Smaller than your ego

You are a maker of sound
A crasher of gates
You are a flipper of coins
A feeler of pain

You are harder than cloth
Heavier than light
Better than your worst
Faster than your stride

You are a soaker of sun
A watcher of waves
You are a breather of air
A catcher of rain

You are this and that
You are one or another

The only thing you are not, however,
Is ordinary

The Fame Paradox

The light never dies on a person of greatness. It burns immortal, a warm glow that reminds us of the stature they once occupied, and still do. The same light burns brighter for their progeny. But, not in quite the same mellow timbre

For the young of a colossus, the light is deafening. An inescapable reality, it stares them in the face from the moment their eyes open. Through night and day, it is their unrelenting Sun, a cruel reminder of life’s sole purpose. To live up to the name they’re deemed fortunate to be born with. While the rest waltz through existence in the search for meaning and a higher calling, theirs is predefined. Their benchmarks etched in the sky, finish lines drawn before they learn to say ‘go’. The light teases and taunts them at every turn, as society prods them to follow in hallowed footsteps and occupy the circle it casts

From the dawn of time, the children of famous parents have been expected to outshine them. We can observe, barring the odd exception, that famous men and women seldom come from famous parents or give birth to children who grow to become equally if not more famed.

Most of us have wondered what it would be like to be born to titans. Lives in place, world at our feet, a sizeable serving of success and its many privileges without having to raise a finger. But, we’ve overlooked the heat that is always on. And feeling it up close, the gargantuan obligation to go one better, as we squirm under the shadow of a giant we’re always being compared to, can get suffocating. For us world is no stage, it’s a rancid lot of hecklers watching our every step, waiting for us to fall, and ultimately fail.

About time I made my point?

It’s simple, and becomes evident shortly. By chasing fame and achieving it, are we building or derailing the lives of our children? Are we landing them the luxury of a struggle-free upbringing or substituting it for the greater struggle of rising to, and hopefully besting our stature? Are we securing a precipice for future generations to look down at creation from, or are we preparing them for an untimely roaring leap off the edge? Is our quest noble or is it the veneer of our vanity, our constant need for power and the recognition it begets? Does ‘I’m doing it for myself.’ have more truth in it than we imagine? Do we go for gold or settle for scraps so our children can swap silver spoons for blank slates? Are we who started with blank slates obliged to leave blank slates for those to follow? If we forsake our thirst for glory, will our children do the same for our grandchildren? Should we be grateful to our parents for underachieving (achievement is subjective, but you get the drift) or prepare to face an impending outburst from our children against the pressure we have already begun piling on them? Is it better to be born to a legend or to raise one?

I don’t have the answers. Do you?

Come

Come. Come from your bright yellow lights and half-remembered nights.
Come from the emptiness that fills your window sill as you struggle
for a frame of thought that will keep you still. Come from a long day’s work,
from a hard day’s work, from all work and no play, from all work and no pay.
Come from no work at all.

Come from the dream you had last night, from the hopes
you’ve carried through sleep. Come from heartache, heartbreak, from a place
where you’ve given more than you can take. Come from being cared for
and having none. Come from sunshine, and red wine in glasses that never run dry.
Come from laughter and abandon and recklessness and surrender.
Come from rebellion.

Come from your intimidations, from your fears, from the worldly wisdom
you can’t unlearn. Come from hate and passion and pride and misgiving.
Come from a difference of opinion. Come from your relationships, your upbringing,
your scratchy beginnings and patchy acquaintances. Come from your expectations,
from birthdays and surprises, from red ribbons and pink lace, from long hours
in front of the mirror, from a few words and many faces.

Come from the roads you've left behind, from dark alleys and white corridors.
from burnt pages and broken bridges. Come from a full life, from a life well fought,
from contention, from little joys in little things, from big smiles for little reason.
Come from the TV shows, from late-night cinema, the smell of snow,
that song in your head that won’t let go. Come from history, from the renaissance,
from the countries you've seen and the events you will.

Come from the daily news, that book you must to get back to,
your boardroom scribbles, the attention you can’t afford to spare, the coffee
you sip by the sidewalk as it rains, those pretty shoes you never wear.
Come from birds in the trees and kittens and ketchup and lakes and rainbows
and orchids and bicycles and architecture and every romance you acquire
as you flit through routine. Come from your photographs of birds in the trees
and kittens and ketchup and lakes and rainbows and orchids and bicycles
and architecture and every romance you acquire as you flit through routine.

Come from the things you are, the things you do. Come from yourself, from company.
Come from a moment ago. Come from thin air. Come. Let us walk.

Ride

My head is a bus
A dozen-winged octopus
Take a ride if you will, it won't hurt
It brakes like a dream, kicks up no dirt

There is a place I've set aside
At the window to this hazy glide
The seats recline to soak your sins
In this twisted deck, I am your prince

Night and dark, you clutch the heat
Warmth between bodies that never meet
You travel without moving, carried by a whim
By affectionate curse and hateful hymn

Coasting through a simple spell
You cast your net into the well
Bait is tender, the catch too steep
Short triumph peering into rapid-eyed sleep

Hills of reason, towers of hope
An elusive nether where rebels elope
Slave to journey, sworn to cause
My wanderlust, to think is to pause

Write I Must

I want to write but words fail me.

Let's take a moment and consider my options.
Make that a few moments.

I could mull over existence and her many virtues.
Spin a yarn of passionate unromance that would
wind its way into your next conversation with me.

Maybe my last fall from grace would appetise your attention.
The hundreds that preceded would do just as well.

An ode to accomplishment, an elegy to desire,
a sonnet to anarchy or a thesis on the art of shoveling.

I could demystify the irreverence of the irrelevant.
Or the solitude of the destitute.

Dwelling on basic courtesies might easily be
swapped with a lesson in gratitude. Maybe fortitude.

The lusts of a rising phoenix could well be juxtaposed
with the cries of a lost chihuahua mistaken for a wild hare.

The storming of the Bastille or the Earl Grey
that never made it to the tea party.

The roving libido of the French premier could hold its own
to the modest ambitions of second coming
of the father of the world's largest democracy.

Maybe a concoction of lofty language
laced with a symphony of unparliamentary anecdotes.
Some non sequitur. Yes, I fancy the vernacular.

I want to write but words fail me.