You-Me-Us, a Garden for all Seasons

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

A new poem today, relevant to everyone, regardless of ethnicity, sexuality, religion...or whatever; for this reason it will appear on both blogs. (I am encouraged, by the way, that some readers who use a shared computer have, in turn, recently felt encouraged to dip occasionally into both blogs after years years of being wary of others rushing to any misleading judgement of them for their reading one or the other.)

Now, the singular beauty of memory is that we can not only revisit kinder times when life is treating us badly, but also revisit the same positive feelings feelings that inspired us then and call for a repeat performance; such is the lasting power of inspiration, neither subject to time nor place, but a 'live' memory upon which we are free to draw upon for inner strength at such times as we need it most. Oh, and we can all be sure of those if  (hopefully) only now and then, no matter who or where we are in the world.

YOU-ME-US, A GARDEN FOR ALL SEASONS

It could have been just another walk

in the garden, only it meant more than that

to both of us as we would never walk

this way again, among flowers all colours

and trees whose branches might well

have been greeting or waving us goodbye,

sunlight glancing off smiley leaves like tears of joy

for being alive and well

Clouds across the sun attempt in vain

to send our spirits into free fall just yet awhile,

the sunshine of your smile inviting me

to fly with you across a world struggling

(but succeeding, if barely) to combat

its fears of homegrown bigotry and hate

fed a mind-body-spirit taught but to trust our “betters”

to know what’s best for us

A light rain, as if the heavens weeping

at this, our parting from a garden more beautiful

than any Eden could be, Earth Mother

embracing us, any tears but for the passing

of a Here-and-Now into an Unknown,

where contemporaneity as fickle as the wind,

now friend, now enemy, no sooner dragging us down

than lending a helping hand

Hugging, kissing, our parting less in sorrow

for treasuring and archiving the moment

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

[Note: This poem also appears on my gay-interest blog today.]

Sometimes Dawn Is A Long Time Coming

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

In 2010, a set of unforeseen and unexpected circumstances once forced a close friend of mine to walk the streets of London all night. In my younger days, fate dealt me a similar hand. 

More than once, I have forgotten or lost my keys and been unable to contact friends who either kept my spare keys or would have gladly helped out in such an emergency. At first, I’d panic. In no time, however, I would become philosophical and resolve to make the best of a bad situation. Eventually, though, I confess I’d be past caring.

My friend said he’d felt much the same way. Even so, we agreed that the experience was a learning curve. Moreover, neither of us will ever observe people sleeping rough on park benches (or wherever) during the day, probably having walked the streets all night, in quite the same light again.

Every town and city has its share of homeless people. For my friend and me, it was really no big deal, but for homeless people it is a way of life. What kind of indictment is that on this 21st century of ours? These people need help, encouragement, and incentive to be integrated back into mainstream society albeit, it has to be said, the same society that let them down in the first place...Is it any wonder then that, vulnerable as they are, many are driven to alcoholism and other forms of drug addiction?

This poem is a villanelle.

SOMETIMES DAWN IS A LONG TIME COMING

No wanderer more alone than I,

heartbeat fading fast;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Tears cornered by the inner eye,

defiant to the last;

no wanderer more alone than I

Old Man smiles, asks not why

I look to the past;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Ghosts, anxious to probe and pry,

midsummer night’s die cast;

no wanderer more alone than I

Nature stirs, world reborn, a cry

and dark ghosts dispersed;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Lost and found, the will to try

my best nor fear the worst;

no wanderer more alone than I,

weary streets, indifferent sky

[London: August  2010]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Potential for Escape

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

There is a strong case for associating depression with the weather, especially here in the UK, not renowned for its sunshine. The sad truth is that any of us can fall victim to depression any time, anywhere. It is usually the result of various tensions that life has a nasty habit of laying like animal traps for us to fall into. We feel isolated, threatened, scared and - perhaps worst of all - helpless.

Breaking free is never easy and will take time. Whenever it (frequently) happens to me I struggle to take my cue from that old truism, ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way’. The first giant step, of course is recovering that will; the next, finding the way, then we need to stick at it, no matter what.

It’s never easy. There are no quick fixes. Anti-depressants, counselling/ therapy...these can help along with (even more important) the support and understanding (and patience) of family and friends. Sadly, too few people have much understanding of depression unless they have been depressed themselves or are close to someone else who is prone to depression. Far too many run a mile from mental health matters.

Society could and should do more to promote Mental Health Awareness. Yes, where there’s a will, there really IS a way….but it’s down to us.

Someone recently asked why I often write about depression in my poems as it is such a depressing subject! Well, apart from trying to raise Mental Health Awareness, writing positively about depression helps me beat the frequent bouts from which I continue to suffer.

Many years ago, I began the long, slow, painful climb out of a nervous breakdown.  I swore I would never hit rock bottom again. If  just one poem can help prevent just one person descending to that same pit's stone slab bottom, it will have been worth the writing.

POTENTIAL FOR ESCAPE

I lie in a pit staring up at the sky,
wondering if cloud faces passing by
can see my lips move (no sound)
might even let someone know where
to find me, so cold, frightened,
unable to move, every limb refusing
to answer frantic screams for help
from a mind whose live connections
all but severed by its distress

Clinging on to a failing willpower,
I feel my frail grasp slipping in this,
what must surely be my coffin?
Yet, it’s not my past I see unfolding
before my eyes, only blank sheets
of paper…slowly coming to life, words
I can’t quite make out but vaguely
recognize shapes comprising a prose
and poetry ascribed to nature

All my eyes cannot see, my heart
begins to acknowledge as the words
(now bombarding all my senses)
demand entry at the doors of a mind
shut by fear and excuses, forcing
it ajar, piling in like old friends arriving
at a reunion, figures in clouds
assuming human form, Earth Mother
resolving to be kind but firm

Hostage, seeking to break free (again)
from a dark prison called depression

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010