Monday, 26 September 2016
H-E-L-P, Echoes Across Contemporary Landscapes
We all need something or someone at some time in our lives, but asking for help is not always easy; sometimes, pride gets in the way or we may well be at such a low ebb that we cannot get the words out.
There is no shame in asking for help; the first step is acknowledging to ourselves that we need it while the next (sometimes the hardest) is finding someone we can trust to listen without judging us or simply telling us what they would do in our situation.
Failing at the second step is invariably down to the inability of many if not most people to use their knowledge of a person to be able to offer constructive advice. We are individuals, all different; telling someone what we would do in their situation is rarely much help.
The listener is the greater source of inspiration because any advice forthcoming will be based on what he or she has heard; heard us out, encouraging us now and then by all means, but not interrupting or prompting along lines we think the other person is trying to say,
Need is not always obvious; too often, it is left to fester simply because there are none so deaf as will not hear. Where the listeners of this world are a rare breed, the friend who listens is a friend indeed.
This poem is a kenning.
H-E-L-P, ECHOES ACROSS CONTEMPORARY LANDSCAPES
I haunt the human spirit
as an alley cat might its territory,
fight off every challenge
until grown weary with battles,
ready to admit defeat,
yet without (quite) conceding
surrender of the kind
that sheds dignity like a second skin
for caving in to despair
I worry the human mind
as a dog might a flock of sheep
that knows no better,
simply goes with basic instinct,
chancing life and limb
to the farmer that will shoot
on sight, worth the risk,
beats gnawing away at an old bone
just because it’s there
I taunt the human heart
where expectation often misled;
peer-led competition egged on
by target-centred education…
chalices passed from generation
to generation, mistakes
coursing its veins like a slow poison
too often left untreated
Call me poor, inarticulate, Need;
on life’s leftovers, I feed…
Copyright R. N. Taber 2016