Sea and Sand OR Rediscovering the Art of Positive Thinking

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2015. Now seemed as good a time as any to repeat it as there can rarely have been a time in the lives of many of us when positive thinking was harder or more essential as in seeing us through the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic.

Sometimes, we do our best, and yet it never seems to be enough for some people while others simply take our efforts for granted.

Yes, it hurts when all we seek is a little encouragement, and all we seem to have to show for it is grains of sand.

It is so often the case that people do not mean to cause hurt, yet fail to see their comments as a parody of their finer feelings towards us.

We all need to think before we speak sometimes, learn to acknowledge and trust our better instincts, formulate our ideas with care instead of (all too often) falling prey to so-called 'public opinion'.

Easier said than done, though, this refusing to either rush to judgement on others or let ourselves fall victim to those rushing to judgement on us.

Whatever, praise is no endgame in itself but a by-product of succeeding - as far as anyone can - in finding and being true to ourselves as opposed to more or less repeating what others may have said and done, however much we may admire them for it; being inspired by someone enough to follow  in their footsteps, on the other hand, is something else altogether. 

I suspect Nietzsche makes a valid point when he says: “So long as men praise you, you can only be sure that you are not yet on your own true path but on someone else's.”  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

SEA AND SAND, INSPIRATION or REDISCOVERING THE ART OF POSITIVE THINKING

Alone on a beach

among restless white ponies

panting heavily,

rearing at me for they know

a storm is coming,

although not yet a while;

time yet to let me see

the Old Man smile as I drop stars

through tearful fingers

relentlessly measuring out

the rest of my life

Air hot and stale

like the stillness of a coffin,

funeral prayers

long since dead and gone,

tossed to playful waves

as we’d throw a much-loved dog

a bone and watch it run,

tail wagging, anxiously homing in

on its reward

for whatever, only ever needing

to deserve praise

No bones here,

only flailing limbs of ghosts

in dark water

striving for landfall, but sure

of nothing,

like flotsam and jetsam taking turns

to see which will

fall into loving hands anxious

to shape an art form

if for no other reason than leaving

its mark... 

What to do?

Needs must…choose well

or wait for a stampede

to render me less than hoof prints

in the sand,

all human potential left

to natural erosion

unknowingly hastened by fishers

of men rushing to judgement

if for no other reason than needing

to deserve attention

Nothing for me here,

but rage and pain in a pool of stars

at my feet,

urging me to leap a feisty pony,

let it take me where it will,

escape not only storm but wreckage

as sure to follow as day

follows night and tides of humanity,

the course its nature sets us

if for no other reason than failing

to find peace...

Yet, treasures to be had,

sparkling views of sea, sky and sand

filing the inner eye

with memories of (far) kinder times

filled with faith in dreams

nurturing mind, body and spirit

no matter where the spotlight

on everyday lives may choose to fall,

urging that we follow the course

nature sets us if for no other reason

than deserving each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2020

contemporaneity, gender, human, identity, imagination, life, love, mind-body-spirit, nature, personal, poetry, positive, relationships, self-awareness, self-confidence, society, space, spirit, thinking

Unrequited OR Where Angels Fear to Tread

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Although I have not shared my life with anyone (for long) since my partner was killed in a road accident many years ago, that doesn’t mean  I’ve  never met anyone else for whom I’d have given just about anything to share life's ups and downs in the way only loving partners can. Life, though, often has other ideas ...

Whoever, wherever we are in the world, I suspect few of us are never visited by impossible dreams about someone of whom we had high hopes in the love stakes, but our feelings were not returned; there will be those, too, with whom we may once have been  ecstatically intimate and thought this was the 'real thing'  but who lived (and loved) only for the moment …

Various socio-cultural-religious taboos (not least concerning same sex couples) have, of course, prevented love, even friendships from flowering in the past, and still do, so it is good to see that growing numbers among the younger generation, from all walks of life, have minds of their own enough to depart from the more restrictive conventions, dogma and prejudices that certain ‘betters’ would impose upon them who really don’t know better at all.

Whatever, it has been my personal experience, more often than not, that where there's a will, there's a way, and you can bet your life the human spirit will find it ...

This poem is a villanelle.

UNREQUITED or WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

My eyes begging sleep,

stay open for you;

heart, starting to weep

Thoughts I cannot keep

from rushing through;

my eyes begging sleep

Words of love I’d heap

tenderly on you;

heart, starting to weep

Arms that would keep

you safe, loved too;

my eyes begging sleep

Desire, Child of a Deep

few can subdue;

heart, starting to weep

Come dreams, I’ll reap

a harvest rare and true;

my eyes begging sleep,

heart starting to weep

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2020

[Note This poem has been slightly revised - and alternative title added - from the original version that appears under the title 'Unrequited' in  A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; it also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today].

Outlook Changeable OR Engaging with Contemporaneity

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As we enter the first phase of emerging from lockdown restrictions imposed on us by the C-19 coronavirus, many if not most of us remain nervous if not sceptical as to whether or not it may be too soon. At the same time, neither people’s frayed nerves nor the national economy can stay the same for much longer without the threat of freefall looming even larger.

Some people suspect the high death toll here and around the world has been under reported. I wouldn’t know, but wouldn’t be surprised as under reporting has long been a way of keeping the proverbial lid on things and preventing the kind of overspill on to the streets that we are seeing across the U.S. as a consequence of the social consequences of the coronavirus and the high profile death of George Floyd, an unarmed black American, while being restrained by police in Minnesota.

The media is often accused of exaggerating, even exploiting world news; that may well be true sometimes, but I suspect information fed to the media by various governments around the world is invariably less than the whole truth. An old truism springs to mind in so far as you can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all the people all the time …

Among the harsher realities and responsibilities with which human nature has little or no choice but to engage is that posed by everyday life; a challenge at any level, one in which we invariably take varying degrees of pleasure as well as pain. Whatever  'nothing ventured, nothing gained' and we can either rise to the challenge and engage with it as best we can or forget any prospect of progressing to better times. 

For better, for worse, we will almost certainly be judged by any choices we make, but it is always worth remembering that, whatever the consequences of our actions for others, only the individual is answerable to his or her own conscience, no one else; living with conscience is yet another of human nature's harsher realities and responsibilities - arguably the toughest - with which we have no choice but to engage as best we can.

  

OUTLOOK, CHANGEABLE or ENGAGING WITH CONTEMPORANEITY

Dreamy, smoky old town,

draped in a pretty, oily twilight

between showers;

among its glistening spires,

a tolling bell openly conspiring

to wake the dead

Memories, a blur in each

woolly head desperately seeking

clarity of sorts;

gay kisses, easy target

for snipers dipping poison darts,

into the bloodstream

World, invariably dragging

on bony feet like fear scared stiff

of its own shadow;

latest storm, all but passed;

nature, keen to prove its capacity

for regeneration

Civilization, under-reporting 

the cost of resting on certain laurels, 

if only to credit

its potential, at least as good

as it ever was, nor its outlook any 

less changeable

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, rev. 2020

[Note: This poem has been slightly but significantly revised - and an alternative title added - from an earlier version posted on the blog some years ago and which also appears under the title ‘Outlook Changeable’ in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

T-I-M-E, Charging Up for Change

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Oh, but I remember the frumpy fifties so well…as if they were but a few years ago instead of half a century…! The leap in to the 1960 gave us all a welcome shock. Looking back, though, how much do we recall as it really was and how much has been airbrushed along the way by a cult mythology...?

Oh, but where DOES the time go, eh?

T-I-M-E, CHARGING UP FOR CHANGE

Oh, those formal, frumpy fifties!

BBC TV announcers

in evening dress even in the afternoon…

Glued to the radio (hangover

from a bleak wartime) while the likes

of Bronco, Cheyenne, Wells Fargo

and Wagon Train harvest rich myths  

of the old American West

for future generations to look back

with pride, the shame

of Wounded Knee left to Hollywood

with poor excuses

Off ‘n’ away with post-war blues,

we’re looking good…

Enter, skiffle and Lonnie Donegan

before rock and roll began

to take root and Juke Box Jury

woke us all up from days

of ballroom dancing to bold frontiers

of disco (forget the Lone Ranger

and Tonto); Mods and rockers fighting

each other for tabloid headlines,

girls adapting their hemlines to more

than simply fashion…

boys discovering drainpipe trousers

and winkle-picker shoes

Off ‘n’ away with post-war blues,

let the good times roll…

Along came Z-cars, eagerly elbowing out

dear old Dixon of Dock Green

(shortly doomed to bite the dust along

with Bronco and the rest);

the sixties taking over, Beatlemania

on a par with world religions,

politics fair game for anyone free

(supposedly) to indulge controversial

opinions of their own

so long as nothing likely to offend

Cold War ethics among gentlemen spies

and old boy networks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in  A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.] 

Ghost Writer

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Someone asked me recently what I think of modern society. My answer is in the poem. 

I suspect many if not most of us are hypocrites up to a point; we often say one thing, but think and/or do the opposite. What bothers me most, though, is it feels like we are on a conveyor belt, hypocrites being moulded by our so-called betters who are no better than us at all, worse in fact, but untouchable for reasons best known to themselves for having contrived to be placed among society's 'betters'.  

Money talks, power talks, but nothing and no one talks louder than hypocrisy, the more so because it is is a silent, invisible enemy, and if we do succeed in exposing it, the chances are not only that the damage it is intended to inflict has already done its worst, but not even by whomsoever seems the likely author. We are left chasing shadows...

Such is life,I guess. All we can do is stay as alert to hypocrisy as possible, resist the temptation to give as good as we get, and encourage mind-body-spirit to keep looking on the bright side of life. 


GHOST WRITER

You’ll find me among shadows

insinuating nooks and crannies of a mind

co-writing fictions of the heart,

creating ‘No Go’ areas for such truths

as would make themselves known,

walk tall in sunlight, crusade with pride

against bigotry, shred it into pieces

and toss away, cocksure, no loose ends left

for tapers to mischief

I have no time for huts and hovels,

but churches, cathedrals, mosques, temples,

places where authority courts respect,

and if anyone suspect any double dealing

or duplicity, few will care to grasp

the nettle for fear its sting prove fatal

or, worse, provide propaganda

likely to earn a prime time slot on TV,

even win me converts

I always side with Law and Order,

ready to monitor and ratify any small print,

often left unread, I have to agree,

but who can blame me for a human foible

comprising aspects people prefer

to toss away, cocksure, no loose ends left

for tapers to mischief, never dreaming

their best intentions may well provide fuel

for its burning?

I prey on the goodwill of a gullible humanity,

feeding on its conscience, who am Hypocrisy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Note: First published in Tracking the Torchbearer by R N Taber, Assembly Books, 2012

Source and Destination

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The same reader who asked why I often use the expression mind-body-spirit in poems and word search labels rather than mind, body and spirit has also asked why past-present-future appears as one instead of three words. Again, hopefully, the poem below might help the reader to understand my point of view as I am not, as the reader suggests, simply taking poetic licence.

Does anyone really doubt that past, present and future have a significant bearing on the human and natural landscapes that comprise planet Earth, 0000 - 2019 and counting …?

Oh, but counting or countdown … and to what?

This poem is a kenning.

SOURCE AND DESTINATION

Human history, helping to shape

who we are, how we think,

all we believe in – religion or none,

children of Earth Mother,

going with nature as human nature

cajoles, or losing faith

in a socio-cultural consciousness

bogged down in stereotypes recycled

over centuries

Austere shades of contemporaneity

conspiring to project fake news

on social media, aiding and abetting

the worse symptoms

of prejudice, fear, even hate crime

on Everyman’s doorstep,

projecting, in turn, a sense of alarm

following shades of red sunrise to sunset

virtually incognito

Moving on, trusting in the true spirit

of progress to play fair with nature

and human nature, if taking on board

what Hope, Faith and Charity

have to say means providing a future

least likely to be disempowered

by changes of climates and all sorts,

of socio-cultural politics and religion bent

on blaming ghosts

I am past-present-future, making of nature

and human nature … whatever

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2019

Shades of Contemporaneity

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We all want progress, but if you're on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive. - C. S. Lewis 

'If history repeats itself, and the unexpected always happens, how incapable must Man be of learning from experience.' - George Bernard Shaw

'Technological progress has merely provided us with more efficient means for going backwards.' - Aldous Huxley

Years ago, when I was still at secondary school (I am in my 70’s now) I was only vaguely aware of a hearing problem that led to my often failing to catch all of what my teachers were saying, and making a fool of myself when asked to comment. On one such occasions, my English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin, put it to hoots of laughter from classmates that it’s making and learning from our mistakes that maps out our progress from ignorant to less ignorant to worth listening to … adding’ almost as an afterthought (which it clearly wasn’t) that any learning curve needs must leave us sufficient personal space in which to engage with what has to be (surely?) the most basic among human rights, agreeing-to-differ. 

I well recall thinking at the time it was as good an agenda for life as any. 50+ years on, I continue to find myself thinking along the same lines … although how far that constitutes any measure of my progress through life is for others to say and me to but speculate on (at best) an open verdict …

As every generation must discover for itself, life is a learning curve. We all make mistakes, given that we are but human, and we can learn from these or not; better, though, to consciously move up-down-up on it than let egocentricity get the better of us and turn a blind eye... surely? 

SHADES OF CONTEMPORANEITY

Humanity regenerating
mind-body-spirit, struggling 
to keep pace

Love comes, passes,
a posthumous consciousness,
upbeat heart

Upbeat hearts, tearing
at cloth ears for light at the end
of tunnel vision

Love-hate relationships
refusing to be redefined by ties
that conjoin

Nature and human nature
consigning past-present-future 
to the classroom

Life, death, a passing on
of files confessing to fake news
and stereotypes

Personal space abandoned
at the edge of reason where hope
lies bleeding

Endangered species
clinging for dear life to last straws 
of human conscience

Humanity regenerating
chips off tablets of stone recycled
in time and space


Copyright R N Taber 2019

A Positive Take on Adversity or L-I-F-E. No Waiting Game

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I have read poems at voluntary self-help groups from time to time. Many of the people who attend are on welfare and/or have mental health problems and/ or alcohol or drug related problems. These are fine people, trying to help themselves and each other with precious little help or encouragement from outside the group. It is inspiring to see them pulling together in adversity and learning to take responsibility for themselves and each other; a lesson the less enlightened among us would do well to learn instead of preferring to pass judgement on others.

Help, encouragement, reassurance...these ARE all out there, but rarely will they simply knock on our door; we need to knock on theirs and find the words to ASK. I well recall how my mother once told me that life is no waiting game, how we have to get out there and live it, and that means meeting each other at least halfway.

 A POSITIVE TAKE ON ADVERSITY or L-I-F-E, NO WAITING GAME

Coming together, supporting each other,

toes in the Sea of Life, getting a feel for the swim

rather than drown

Making an effort to come down to a shore

where seaweed and shells on shifting sands spread

rather than stay in bed

A part of a life tide’s natural ebb and flow

yet frightened of its fickle nature, all highs and lows

but a Hall of Mirrors

Alone, it is hard to bear the happy sounds

of children laughing, applause for ice cream chimes,

hints at kinder times

In good company, easier by far to break free

of shadows stalking us, driving us to seek sanctuary

in cages of our history

Together, let’s imagine wings, flex and fly,

take heart from songbirds rejoicing seashore and sky,

no matter where or why

As rough or fair as any sea passage may be,

let us look to fellow voyagers, let a creative empathy

reconstruct our history

Coming together, supporting each other,

getting a feel for wings rising above, learning how

to trust in Nature’s love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared  under the title 'A Feeling for Seagulls' in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2007; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

The Crusher

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This Age of New Technology is an Information Age like no other (so far) with information available to us at the press of a button. How much of this, though, is reliable or even correct? Although it is a good 50+ years since I left school, I well recall being taught how to discriminate fact from speculation, points of view from an extended imagination which only just falls short of pure fiction.

Often, I hear people tell me they like to speak their minds, and I am all for it. More often than not, though, they are repeating parrot fashion something they have heard or read about with which they happen to relate; relating, however, and agreeing are not the same thing. We need to investigate further in order to reach an informed conclusion.

While many of us have strong opinions on various subjects, we need to respect that others may agree to differ. Better still, we need to be able to support out opinions with information gained from reliable sources. At the same time, we should not dig our heels in to such an extent that we cannot be drawn into alternative arguments which may lead us to reach an altogether different conclusion.

If a closed mind is a dull mind, an open mind is a lively one although sitting on the proverbial fence is not an option and we need to feel confident about deciding where we stand, and be prepared to be counted; that way, the human animal remains free and primed to resists any attempts to cage it by  misleading information or propaganda. 

Where seeing is believing then sadly so, too, is deceiving at times, no one spared, neither political nor religious leaders, while social media targeting the likes of you and me as well.

THE CRUSHER

I will crush you in my grip,

but slowly, relishing the torment

of each victim fallen

into a trap of his or her own making

but deserving better (perhaps?)

than finding me there, rendering

any bid for freedom

no more or less than a pathetic

waste of time

If I show mercy now and then,

be sure it is but part of a dark design

intended to give more false

an impression even than I gave you,

who thought you knew better,

leaving yourself underestimating

your defences, vulnerable

to attack on all sides, quick thinking

your only recourse

I cherish any advantage over you,

relish reminding you time and again

of what deaf-blind vanity

has given you to me like a sacrifice

to Gods of Desire on hand

to enjoy their wicked ways with you,

only to toss their leftovers

where I wait to chew away at live flesh

on the bones

Call me Fake News, active and scary

in world societies believing in me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016, rev. 2021

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised since it last  appeared on the blog under title 'Enemy at the Door' 2016.] RNT

x

Deep River OR Fishing for the Twinkle in Time's Eye

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

A friend who, like me, lives on his own, commented that he would so love to find someone special with whom to share his life, but simply didn’t have the time, what with work and seeing to the shopping, laundry, keeping the house clean and everything else that needed to be done. Fair enough, but how often do we wonder how other people manage to find the time for leisure activities and generally enjoying life? If the answer is often, then we need to make time too or risk life dumping us in some metaphorical river carrying us along with the rest of its human waste…  

We are often told that the cut and thrust of modern life is all about prioritizing. (How managers and supervisors, not to mention politicians love that word!). Well, making time to get a life needs to be a priority, too, surely? Oh, of course things (relationships?) don’t always work out as we'd hoped (in my case, more often than not) but there is so much in life to miss out on; we need to pause for thought, and then make time to GO FOR IT. True, we all have our limitations, but as a teacher at my old school once pointed out, limitations are a challenge not an excuse.

My dear late mother once told me, ‘Always make time to reflect on life because it’s food for thought that makes the feast all the more enjoyable.’ Wise words, indeed!

DEEP RIVER or FISHING FOR THE TWINKLE IN TIME’S EYE

A man by a river is always there,

often fishing, now and then sketching

or gazing into the air as if watching

birds in flight only, invariably,

there are none in sight as light on a face

all grizzled and worn (at first sight)

seems to shed all trace of care,

take on a saintly profile, a beauty rare,

sublime, less in thrall to time

and place than the river passing us by,

emanating centuries of loving, dreaming,

despairing of ever finding whatever

we dare not cease seeking if half scared

of naming, growing weary of hoping,

trying to express in the ways we look, talk,

pressing on regardless, feeling alone

even in crowds, begrudging time to pause

for breath (forget positive thinking)

half expecting to find Someone ‘out there’

(but where, and if we do, what then?) 

‘A strange man,’ people mutter and move on,

few pausing to ask why he’s always there,

by a river, often fishing, sometimes laughing

or just gazing into thin air (at what, ghosts?)

deflecting a general incapacity of native curiosity

to translate into… an oral perspicacity leading

to whatever, but something (surely?)

that has to be better than this mere moving on

like a river ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note : An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Bitter Harvest

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In reality, there is no such thing as easy money. Even a huge lottery win is rarely roses all the way and more often than not leaves a trail of heartbreak. Someone recently mentioned that betting is easy money (he had just won £50 on a horse.) Ah, but how many bets had he lost over years, I wondered? Even so, I resisted the temptation to ask and risk throwing cold water on an old man’s elation.

Many years ago, during a period of mental illness, I became addicted to fruit machines and probably wasted thousands of pounds over a period of several years. Fortunately, I am cured now and have a life. Gambling is no less addictive than drugs, smoking or alcohol. It can destroy people and their families. At the time, I was caught up in the protracted aftermath of a nervous breakdown. That’s when addiction strikes, when we’re at our most vulnerable. It can happen to anyone. So never give up on an addict, yeah? The challenge is trying to prevent addicts giving up on themselves.

It is an appalling indictment on contemporary society, especially given the stresses and strains of modern living, that there are relatively few rehabilitation centres or other avenues of help for addicts or those less obviously in the grip of mental illness. They may be the last to admit, it but they need friends and family to stand by them and be willing to go that last mile.

If you know an addict (drugs, gambling, whatever) please, please, be there for them. You won’t get much if anything by way of thanks, but no one can beat addiction without support from someone who cares that they should. Sometimes, yes, it’s a losing battle for everyone concerned, but we have to try…for all our sakes.

Did I say it was easy?

Every day, I hear someone say in the street, media, library, bus or train...words to the effect that there’s ‘easy’ money for the taking if we only play our cards right.  No, I don’t think so, not unless those 'cards' happen to be in sync with the kinder or at least more responsible elements of mind-body-spirit.

BITTER HARVEST

Public faces reaping

more respect than many

have earned the right

to expect in modern times;

paper tigers wandering

corridors of power, seeking

an easy prey, a nose

for more; bits and pieces,

(when put together)

likely to create an incomplete

jigsaw 

People come and go,

all history in the making,

fortunes for the taking;

winners, losers,

gamblers paying respects

to palaces of pleasure,

Stock Exchanges,

After Hours bars ringing

with a cacophony

of celebration, despair,

whatever...

Worldwide, trails

like snails’ slime tracking

the best and worst

of us, no discrimination;

looking to the future,

(things sure to get better)

Family of Man living

up to old myths, bearing

fruits to feed a world 
last observed harvesting 
lemon trees

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

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

An Affinity (of sorts) with Winter OR World, Half Asleep

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

Some readers will recognize this poem as I once posted it over the Christmas period as one of my Poems for Christmas. However, I have decided to make several significant changes which I think makes the poem more perennial…like the Heath itself.

The editors of a delightful Hampstead Heath site that includes the original among other poems will be editing accordingly. ('Culture' button.)

http://www.hampsteadheath.net/heath-poetry-introduction.html

I am so fortunate to live within easy walking distance of Hampstead Heath. I love to stroll there in all weathers.  Conscious of walking in the footsteps of giants - Keats, Turner, Dickens…to name but a few - I feel similarly inspired. I cannot compare myself with their talents, but suspect I am filled with much the same sense of love and peace as they for communing with nature in all its shapes and forms. 

Photo: Hampstead Heath in winter

AN AFFINITY (OF SORTS) WITH WINTER or WORLD, HALF ASLEEP

One wintry day,

I strolled on Hampstead Heath,

snow almost ankle deep

in a world whose very life-force

fallen half asleep

A deafening silence

hurt my ears as I made my way

among trees like chandeliers,

ran a gamut of moon shadows

and winter’s tears

Apollo’s footprints

buried among kinder memories,

yet every now and then

I would chance to catch the eye

of a custom snowman

I had started out alone,

but not for long, friendly ghosts

of seasons past anxious

to keep me company, lend hope,

transcend worst fears

Redbreast, too, began

conjuring up images of a lasting

love, comfort, and peace;

songs composed by Earth Mother,

plagiarised by clerics

Mind and spirit so inspired,

every host body welcome to share

(no matter whose or where)

that holds this life’s finer dreams

close and dear

One wintry day

I strolled on Hampstead Heath,

snow almost calf deep

in a world posturing life balance

while half asleep

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

Shades of Mythology at the Cliffs of Time

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

Let us hope history will not judge the entire 21st century by its poor beginnings, certain world societies and socio-cultural-religious groups within them paying lip service to the basic human principles of mutual respect and understanding.

Yes, there are many good things going on and good people making them happen, but from where I am writing this sorry world of ours has not made a good start to the new millennium and badly needs to get its act together.

Can it be that leaders from all walks of life need to give less thought to their own egos and more to the ordinary man, woman, and child in the street to whom, invariably, relatively few can even begin to relate?  It may well be the way life is and history is made, but that does not make it right or mean things cannot be done differently, hopefully for the better, before it is too late and irreparable damage done to planet and  human condition alike.

Maybe, one day…

Meanwhile, humankind keeps busy creating  new mythologies that distant future generations will probably gloss over as metaphor - for what, exactly? 

SHADES OF MYTHOLOGY AT THE CLIFFS OF TIME

Dark angels attacking from the sea,

only to hover defiantly between a misty

earth and sky, like bats put in cages,

choice specimens to admire, touch even,

without fear (or real appreciation);

we are safe enough since they can’t fly

in our faces like the world’s vices,

invite us to turn a blind eye or join in

the euphoria, excusing themselves

(and us) with fine rhetoric, no matter

we prefer to look eyes closed, innocents

playing fast asleep

Now, all quiet. Now, a rush of wings

depriving even the inner eye of light along

with harsher cries at ears listening out

for warning sounds, hints at reassurance

(of course, what else?) urging we visit

nether regions of the spirit, view dark angels

with awe if only for drawing our attention

to some patched-up failings in personal space

where we can but watch warily, afraid,

long since repressed by adopted criteria

for a ‘civilized’ life brooking little empathy

with its conscience

Marked for having made bad choices,

(like flying with bats, safety in numbers?)

in a frantic rhythm blithely imposed

by Earth Mother, composed by artists

inspired by passion’s adventurers,

content to leave all sense and sensibility  

to its own accountability and Apollo’s 

predilection for shadow play among rocks

and hard places of a maturity eroded

by time, forever vying with Omnipresence

for a place in history, human nature sticking

to its guns

New mythologies, last spotted breaking

into old Poseidon’s lair;

twenty-first century in denial,
affecting to get real about climate change

even in the face of pleas
from Earth Mother; icecaps, glaciers,
all creatures great and small
carrying the can for its complacency
beyond belief in turning
a blind eye to happenings in a world
where it makes itself a priority second
to none,

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the title 'No Strategy for Surrender' appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]