Archive for November, 2013


Vincent & Ludwig

Vincent and Ludwig.

“Do you know, my dear Ludwig, that I’ve sold just one of my paintings?”

“Yes, Vincent, do not despair, my friend, they cannot, will not, fathom the flower that reveals its petals before their eyes”

“I suppose you are right, old friend. They cannot, will not, hear your ‘Ode to Joy’, though it is you who are deaf!”

“But my dear Vincent, you do hear my ‘Ode to Joy’, deep in your soul”

“Yes, I hear it, I feel it, Ludwig, flowing like liquid paint through the canvas of my veins”

“My dear Vincent, I too feel your brush-strokes, and in each swirl of colour I hear your joy, and I can touch your pain”

“What does that make us, my friend? Two men cast adrift on the bluest seas, leaving nothing behind, yet heading nowhere. What does that make us then?”, asks Vincent.

“Human”, replies Ludwig, smiling.

“Human, yes, dear Ludwig”.

“And that is enough”, says Ludwig, almost to himself.

“It is enough”, smiles Vincent.

“To be human. It is enough.”

Vincent laughs, as Ludwig watches a gentle wave caress their toes, through their tattered shoes.

My Poetry Recital

Rolling and Rambling…

(for my heroes – Woody Guthrie,Huddie ‘Leadbelly’ Ledbetter, and Pete Seeger)

Rolling along the meandering pathways of half-torn memory,

Rambling through the deserted highways of jagged doubt,

Rolling and rambling,

along and alone,

I’ve seen the hounds of hunger,

I’ve heard the howls of prejudice,

I’ve felt the dull-edged stiletto of need,

Rolling and rambling,

I’ve tasted the sweet waters of unquenchable thirst,

I’ve been thrown to the wolves of endless war,

Rolling and rambling,

walking and talking,

with a man in whose eyes, I saw the depths of the sea,

with a woman who laughed through her tears,

Rambling and rolling,

here, there, everywhere,

searching for that elusive anchor,

that may unshackle this vagabond heart,

Rambling and rolling,

searching for that elusive anchor,

to rest finally,

and gaze upon the echoes of pain,

as they silently depart,

rambling and rolling…

An Untitled Scribble

An Untitled Scribble…

The leaden streets that I have roamed,

call out to me from time to time,

questioning me,
as I crawl on my knees,

blinded by the garish ostentation on display,

deafened by the raucous cackle of the crowd,

my mouth sewn shut,

while a million tongues wag,

I am tired,

exhausted,

as I continue to drag,

this husk of a man,
broken and torn,

while,

dreading phantom horrors,

the morrow may spawn.

Wrestling fragmented memories as they scurry away,

into the broken arms of a fate that scoffs at the dying of this day…

All these scribbled words left to rot under a bleeding moon,

sweeping the emptiness into the fabric of a night so bitterly hewn…

Teasing tomorrows tantalise and tempt,

down alleys of silently breathing contempt…

I stand alone, pummelled by destiny’s torrential rain,

laughing at the insanity that has kept me sane…

I look all around me, and my unseeing eyes behold,

a billion shattered souls left out in the numbing cold…

So walk with me, for a while,

let us leave this place of pain with a weary smile…

We will walk these dead streets hand in hand,

we may be fractured, but together we will always stand…

With you by my side, I banish the hurt, the pain, the tears,

and I smile, as I bid a long, overdue adieu,

to all my desolate years,

and all my paralysing fears.

Song for Bruce Springsteen

” … so you’ve been broke, and you’ve been hurt, show me somebody who ain’t … I know I ain’t nobody’s bargain, but hell a little touch-up and a little paint, I ain’t lookin’ for praise or pity, I ain’t searching for a crutch, I just want someone to talk to, and a little of that human touch, just a lil’ of that human touch …” Bruce Springsteen, ‘Human Touch’

Song for Bruce Springsteen…

do you revisit those sultry summer nights,

sweet sweat pouring off your skin,

your hair fanning an eternal fire,

toasting deep within,

ever since I saw you, standing at our old train station,

wearing your red beret,

and paging through a book by Emma Goldman,

somethin’ ’bout the tragedy of women’s emancipation,

we stood there in the pouring rain,

wishing we could race down the cobblestones on a renegade lane,

to take us away, from the stasis, the bruises, and the pain,

we laughed, we cried,
we held onto each other,

yearning for freedom,

from the straightjackets they tried to wrap around everyone’s brain …

Well, that was all those years ago,

when love meant something more than a ten buck stage show,

now the guys at the watering-hole tell me that you’re a big deal today,

it looks like you’ve packed Emma Goldman, and all your other books away,

perhaps they remind you of our younger selves,

it’s a pity that you’ve grown so large that there’s no room left for me on your neatly lined shelves,

ah but I still remember the woman that you once were,

but now you’reΒ  weighed down by your pearls and your faux-fur …

I wonder if you even think of me at all,

the boy who promised to be beside you,

always,

f you ever were to stumble, or to fall,

or has your new gucci-clad crew,

stripped you of your soul,

as you laugh and drink and screw,

I wonder if you even remember my name,

or have you buried me along with all that you once were,

out of sanctimonious shame …

… I’m still here, where you left me, festering in this rotting old town,

unemployed since the years when those stock-tickers went plummeting down,

today as I stand in line for my warm bowl of soup,

the TV on the homeless shelter wall says it’s going to get worse,

cos’ even the banks have flown the coop,

well, I think of you often, as I lay my head on the cold ground,

tasting your soft lips as our tongues waltzed around,

but tonight I kiss my bottle of moonshine,

that keeps me company while the sophisticates wine and dine …

I know you’ve forgotten all about me,

cos’ you’ve got futures to trade,

blue-chip stocks to sell,

so sleep tight tonight, my darling, in that penthouse where you dwell,

I’m used-up now, there ain’t nothing more I can say or do,

I’ve run out of yarns to spin, I’ve exhausted all the stories I once could tell,

so all that I can offer,

is a silent fare-thee-well

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