Beautiful Dreamer

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When we are young, many if not most of us like to think we are invincible, the world our oyster and every beautiful dream worth chasing. It may well be that we are able to make some dreams come true while others will invariably fall short of the mark. 

An elderly friend once commented along the lines that what he hated most about growing old was that dreaming becomes redundant. “Dreams are about the future,” he insisted, “What future is there for ordinary folks like me who have neither the money nor energy to pursue impossible dreams?” It was meant as a rhetorical question, but one I could not resist answering. 

As I see it, young people making their way in life have no more monopoly on beautiful dreams than religion has on spirituality. As we grow old, our mind-body-spirit is as likely to tune into our past-present-future just as it has always done- if we but let it. 

Aged 75 and living alone, I cannot pretend that old age is as I imagined it years ago, and I don’t see much of a future for myself. Yet, recalling the better, kinder aspects of my past and present along with those with whom I shared them, continues to fill what otherwise would be long, lonely days... nights, too. 

As I have said many times on the blog, love takes all shapes and forms; friends, places, and favourite pastimes as well as lovers. Old age may place limitations on any or all of these by way of various medical, issues, physical or psychological reasons, but they are part of who we are and that may well change outwardly, but not inwardly. 

The inner self is never too old to dream; if it cannot look forwards, it can always look back, and I defy anyone to say they have none of the better, kinder, things in life to look back on, not with regret for their having passed, but with thanks for their having come our way. 

Such is life; such, too, is the stuff of sweet dreams. So, you ask, what about nightmares? Well, many of us have those, awake and asleep; I guess the trick is letting the light of a sandman’s lantern save us from being overwhelmed by the shadows it throws. 

BEAUTIFUL DREAMER 

I am the glow
that lights up any dark
encroaching
on the mind-body-spirit
that’s edging
too close for comfort
to an abyss,
watching over us though we 
embrace or deny it 

I am close kin
to the star we wish upon
as darkness
threatens to leave us feeling
abandoned, scared,
just as we were whenever
we felt much like
ill-chosen pieces of a jigsaw in
an impossible dream 

I inspire the hopes
of things to come when life
is as likely
to fail us as we may well fail
even ourselves
and each other now and then,
by chasing rainbows, 
only to kickstart yet more storms
in tea cups or wherever 

I, am Love, as eternal a companion
as ever lit a Sandman’s lantern 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

Storm Birds OR Inspirational

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2012.

Since a bad fall about 10 years ago,  I have been physically disabled - if only slightly compared to many people - and had to spend  a good year or so learning to walk again. I will be 75 later this year and  manage to get out and about quite well in spite of various problems with the same foot that suffered a complicated ankle fracture. I use a walking stick which might as well be invisible for all the notice many able bodied people take of it when I am out and about. Cyclists on the pavements and people more interested in their mobile phones and/or listening to music on headphones invariable expect me to get out of their way because they have no clear appreciation of their immediate environment. Heaven forbid they should try looking where they are going! Even so, I remain a Happy Bunny...most of the time. wry bardic grin

There are, of course, disabled gay men and women worldwide; among them, those determined to follow their dreams in various areas of achievement, including sport and the arts. All, like everyone else, can do no more or less than get on with the daunting task of daily life even if - for many if not most - that is likely to prove even more daunting.  

As someone who has suffered significant hearing loss all my life (much improved with digital hearing aids) I often have balance problems. Given, too, that deafness is an invisible disability, with which many hearing people quickly lose patience, it is perhaps not surprising that I have always felt a considerable affinity with disabled people who are frequently - intentionally or otherwise - put down by the less enlightened among the able-bodied majority.

It is great to see more - if relatively few - disabled people represented in the occasional popular TV series like Vera and Silent Witness; mobility problems don't necessarily mean the brain is also affected (as so many people seem to assume.) 

Disabled people worldwide are an inspiration, ordinary folks, just wanting to be treated much like anyone else and encouraged to pursue their natural human potential as far as possible; is that so much to ask?

I am dedicating today's poem to disabled people everywhere.

This poem is a villanelle. 

STORM BIRDS or INSPIRATIONAL

Where able bodied folks go

in a brave new world

the less able, too, dare follow

Nor must we ever fail to show

respect for the D-word

where able bodied folks go

Find inspiration’s brilliant glow

in a storm bird;

the less able, too, dare follow

Love challenges all in the know

(Theatre of the Absurd)

where able bodied folks go

For dreams hid under a rainbow,

hope deferred,

the less able, too, dare follow

Life-force (now ally, now foe)

at best a gift shared...

Where able bodied folks go,

the less able, too, dare follow

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

A Sense of Who We Are

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Life is what it is; we make the best (or worst) of things. Everyone is different and no one has the right to judge another simply because they appear to aspire to less than their potential suggests. Fame, fortune, travel…these are wonderful achievements if and where the cap fits but aspiring to be nothing more or less than a good parent/person is no less wonderful, even more so perhaps for its invariably being less obvious (or newsworthy).

Whatever, we can always fall back on imagination.

A SENSE OF WHO WE ARE

Home truths, like near dead lilies on a lake

running dry

Lifelines, like veins of a turning leaf

come autumn

Desire, taking comfort in homemade soup

in winter

Wisdom, taking its cue from the first

cuckoo of spring

Ambition,  Jack Frost’s tablecloth spread,

our places laid

Passion, saving water lilies from a lake

running dry

Love, preserving archives should humanity

need reminding

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: This poem first appeared in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007 and was subsequently published in CC&D v 270, Scars Publications, USA]

L-I-F-E, Achievement Skills (A Personal Best)

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There is no shame in coming last in whatever so long as we give it our best shot. In my experience, we are often inclined to let the past hold us back to such an extent that we deny our future much of its potential. Childhood hang-ups, failed relationships, being made to feel we are a disappointment to someone whose opinion matters to us…; such issues are never easy to shrug off even as we grow older and (supposedly) wiser.

Life isn’t - or shouldn’t be - a competition. It’s not all about winners and losers. For a start, we’re not all playing the same game even, let alone running the same race. Everyone is different and wants different things from life and that’s how it should be. Even so, we must not - nor should not - live in the past, however tempting sometimes that may be. Besides, we all deserve a decent future even if it doesn't always work out quite as we would have wished.

Body, mind and spirit deserve that we put them first even if it means trailing last in more judgemental eyes (that rarely if ever see a wood for its trees anyway...) Believe me, I know how it feels. I was often put down by family and friends as an 'under-achiever' because I did not do well at school, but still managed to get a good Honours degree at university a few years later, having made time to get to grips with both real life and a less self-conscious awareness of my own potential.

 As I have said before on the blogs - and almost certainly will again - our differences don't make us different only human and we all need to respect that. At the same time, as a teacher of mine used to say, respect doesn't come free but has to be earned. Perhaps if more of us set about earning respect for our differences instead of dragging them into disrepute by employing dubious one upmanship tactics, different people with different perspectives on a common humanity might yet find common ground, even discover that living in peace with one another doesn't have to be an impossible dream...?

This poem is a villanelle.

L-I-F-E, ACHIEVEMENT SKILLS (A PERSONAL BEST)

Judge not the present by its past,
let time fly by
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

Beware memory’s fair blast
make us cry;
judge not the present by its past,

Let not life travel light and fast,
pass us by
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

Hope, its colours at half mast
each day we die;
judge not the present by its past

Come dawn, let’s feed not fast,
or look it in the eye
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

To life, let love a lifeline cast
(if not always at first try);
judge not the present by its past
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2015

Notes on the Sociology of Imagination

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As we grow up, we like to think we embrace the world and its greater wisdom. Yet, we grow old and look at a divided humanity across the world, wondering…whatever happened to wisdom?

Thank goodness for imagination: inspiration, escapism, and the sense of a better, kinder world never entirely out of reach.

NOTES ON THE SOCIOLOGY OF IMAGINATION

Child,

chasing a white rabbit,

relishing the thrill

of discovering places

nobody knows

so nobody goes, and secrets

mean safety

Youth, 

scornful of white rabbits,

relishing the thrill

of reworking everyday

text-speak

if only to nurture new ideas,

keep them safe

Mature,

mindful of a feisty rabbit

relishing the thrill

of discovering places

nobody knows

so nobody goes, and secrets

mean power

Old,

conjuring up reflections,

of Once-upon-a-time,

struggling to make sense

of Here-and-Now,

wondering whatever happened

to its dreams...

Rabbit droppings, proof of life

in a Hall of Mirrors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Heartlands

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Life offers a variety of landscapes, each one a challenge; how we react to these challenges,   defines who we are…but never believe that is written in stone; we all have choices and, yes, we all make mistakes.

While some mistakes can never be properly rectified, and may well haunt us all our lives, we can at least try and compensate for them. Never easy, but a small price to pay for peace of mind if a fragile one, yet strong enough, too, to survive the cut and thrust of human nature in response to which, for good or bad, we shape and reshape our very identity from cradle to grave...

I once asked a friend why he loved so exploring and didn't the potential dangers worry him ? He shrugged. "It's in the blood," said, but the trick is to know when and where to stop. That's in the blood, too," he added with a disarming grin. A good enough template for life for anyone, I thought at the time...and still do,

Oh, and as my mother would often tell me, the only way to think is positive ...or it's downhill all the way.

HEARTLANDS 

Forgotten dreams, lost causes,

a mountain of broken promises

daring us climb and conquer,

save ourselves and each other;

higher we climb, farther away,

yet bringing us closer every day

to a scary, grey, loneliness,

weeping landscape of distress

A faery mist issuing a threat

to those seeking an easy way out,

nature is not (yet) done with us

in denial of its greater mysteries;

kind faces in clouds beckoning,

frail ego and willpower conspiring

to revive an all but dead hearth,

kiss the sky and inherit the earth

Ghosts, sharing our tears,

wiping clear a window on years

that have not been kind to us

nor we to ourselves or each other;

parting now, eyes wiped dry,

Apollo advising let live, let die,

time to descend the mountain,

into the heartlands of its creation

Forgotten dreams, lost causes,

a mountain of broken promises

daring us climb and conquer,

save ourselves and each other;

no easy way up or even down

only (potentially) peace of mind

in scaling peaks of desperation,

making peace with imagination

Fearful, yes, yet anxious to be seen

colouring grey landscapes green

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Defining Moments .

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

How many time have you heard someone say about someone that he or she doesn’t stand a chance of succeeding at this or that because they are too small or too tall, too young or too old, not well enough known or connected or not good looking enough or don’t have enough experience or qualifications.etc…?

Ah, but never underestimate the powers of the human spirit or be too quick to dismiss the old adage, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’

Now, I am not a religious person, but was raised as a Christian and know my Bible. I have since learned that all the Holy Books have much in common; God is a hero, humanity heroic, and everyday life recognised for what it is, the greatest story ever told.

DEFINING MOMENTS

I watched a small red boat

riding waves on a big blue sea;

suddenly, it occurred to me

that small can be big, depending

on whatever our perception,

a popular misconception being

that little is helpless against

a far mightier charge, as small

is to large. Who cannot recall

tales of David  against Goliath

and Samson beating Delilah

at her own game, taken for fools

on a roll call of heroes

Who knows? Sailors on a small

red boat may yet prove themselves

equally worthy. Let’s not forget

that who laughs last laughs longest

nor is best always found among

strongest, for where wisdom lies

and purpose, sheer will defies

any need to avoid where lions feed

as Daniel in the den discovered

and young Isaac to the block tied,

wise men, too, and shepherds

mo less blind to the art of metaphor
than Paul on the Damascus road

A small red boat in a storm

may well defy all odds against

fending off its cries and fury,

come into its own, return home

(as I stay muzzled at the helm

of a grander vessel by far, deemed

fated to follow orders and trust

in my betters to always know best?)

For good or ill, let’s take a turn 

at the Wheel and chance surviving

the re-telling of a tale already

re-worked by idiots, all but lost

and signifying next to nothing

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears as ‘Fools’ Paradise’ in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber Assembly Books, 2004.]

In Harm's Way

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Some readers have commented on my profile photo that was taken by a friend, Christopher King who is also a professional photographer. He also took the b/w photo it replaces. I was delighted with both, especially as I am not very photogenic. You can find more about Chris at:

http://www.christopherking.org/

Meanwhile...

We all have a force for love on the inside looking out for us. Whether or not we pay it much attention, it records everything we do, good or bad, for better or worse. Moreover, it is a permanent archive, available for reference by anyone who may be interested in searching for more than just proof that we ever existed…among the lower as well as higher profiles in history’s much doctored pages.

This poem is a kenning.

IN HARMS WAY

I fly where eagles dare,

tread where hungry lions feed;

among all my enemies,

it’s of short sightedness I most

have cause to be afraid,

that legacy living histories

designed to weaken

if not the bring down the pillars

of its communities

I swim with dolphins

to lead humankind to safe shores,

away from sharks

sniffing for blood in deceptively

still waters,

befriending those beguiled

by a killing tide’s moon

or having taken on high noon

without back-up

I run with hares from foxes,

if less likely to mistake the fortitude

of tortoises for folly

than the less perceptive human being

is inclined to perceive poverty

for weakness or taking pleasure

in those simpler pursuits

cash can’t buy (nor ever will)

as throwing the race

I am that vulnerable mind-body-spirit

shaped by life, seduced by art

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Never Call Me Names

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I left school many years ago feeling a failure, and that feeling stayed with me for years.

One night, a complete stranger and I were chatting at a bar. He was a successful businessman staying at a local hotel. ‘It makes me mad,’ he said, ‘when people talk about success and failure. Some people seem to get what they want in life and others don’t. For a start, though, appearances are often deceptive. Besides, it isn’t what we think we want in life that counts, but what we know we have. If what we have makes us happy, that’s success.’

‘The trouble is,’ he went on, ‘ so many people don’t realize what they have because they are too busy wishing things different. Take me, for example. I’ve done well in my career and worked hard for it, but I’m looking for another job because I’ve finally woken up to the fact that I hardly see my wife and kids for weeks at a time. When I think of my family, that’s when I feel successful, not when I am checking my bank statement. I’ve been too busy trying to give them everything they need that I forgot they need me too, just as I need them.’

‘Look at what you need to make you happy, man, and go for it. Everyone’s needs are different so it follows that everyone’s measure of so-called success or failure will be different too, right?’

I could only nod and think on…

This poem is a kenning.

NEVER CALL ME NAMES

I wear no medals for battles won

nor will I ever walk on a red carpet

while everyone around me

applauds, begs me pause and lend

my signature to whatever

association with fame and fortune

may haunt and taunt us

at every turn, poor companion

to self-deception

It’s unlikely I will journey into space,

walk on the moon, find water on Mars

or even help repair a space station,

cross from pole to pole, raise the flag

on a mountain, pose with royalty,

leave my mark on the century - but

for getting older, growing closer

to nature, letting its finer spirituality

define my sexuality

What care I if no one speaks of me

in the same breath as classic writers

musicians, dancers, inventors,

founders of religions before they lost

their way, politicians suing

for peace where all around them

confounded by lies? I care not,

only that none should speak my name

in fear, pain or shame

Out of sheer spite, some call me Failure

that live among those who know better

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

To The Lighthouse

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

It isn't only sailors that need to watch out for a guardian light.

We all need to keep an eye on light at the end of whatever tunnel we may sometimes find ourselves in; it may dim sometimes, but will never go out...unless we let it.

The poem is a villanelle, its title inspired by a novel of the same name by Virginia Woolf. Even so, where her brilliant, deceptively simple tale might well be seen as a literary variation on the old adage, it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive, my poem could only ever aspire to be, at best, a distant echo. It is true, though, that all that goes into getting there counts even more than reaching (or not reaching) any goal.

Regrets? Yes, of course, we all have them, but we also deserve credit for trying...well, don't we?

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

It’s a light that I will always see

wherever I go…

in spite of shadows crowding me

Day or night, it will constant be,

come rain or snow...

it’s a light that I will always see

I take heart that others can see,

be in the know…

in spite of shadows crowding me

On land or sea, a born sexuality

like a lighthouse glow...

it’s a light that I will always see

It lends me a sense of spirituality

as through this life I go…

in spite of shadows crowding me

Come a time we are but history,

let others follow...

it’s a light that I will always see,

in spite of shadows crowding me

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]