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I've never outgrown my childhood.

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2.03 Childhood - Youth - Old Age

The three around the fire sitting,
Gossiping of Life and its doings,
Reached a point thought provoking,
Of their journey and life prevailing. [1]

“Please do not leave me at this time,
Youth, do take me in your prime,
For I an entertainment will but be,
With playful antics in life’s journey.” [2]

“No! You can not accompany me,
As struggles exist in my journey,
Your playfulantics will but not be,
In my stride of any necessity.” [3]

When on Youth tiredness grows,
Childhood memories do then glow,
But Old Age with its aged face,
Now stares at Youth in this race. [4]

“Of no use it be to remember him,
You move ahead now in this game,
Childhood once gone never returns,
Forget Childhood - Love me in turn. [5]

Struggling ahead as you had moved,
Your tiredness now I shall remove,
Come on my lap relaxingly do lie,
And sleep with my pleasant lullabies.” [6]

Thinking of Childhood - its payful taps,
The Youth now lies in Oldage’s lap,
Who caressing with weak trembling hands,
Sings cradle songs of eternal sleep grand. [7]

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Childhood Revisits Me

The childhood days of my life so gone, unforgettable days
The childish fights in the end I sure did get my way
Innocence and freedom the world seemed to be fair
With happiness and no worries not a single care
Love was pure, always there and I do so clearly recall
The many celebrations parties endless just on a call
When sorrow knocked on my door came in gifts a plenty
Smiles that never did fade away and with kindness a many
The freedom of pictures, the many famous stars on my wall
The fridge with chewing gum. chocolates and that's not all
Collecting butterflies and fish, picking flowers for my hall
The many impish doings laid for the brothers to trip and fall
Sore knees, sprained ankles and wrists playing hide and seek
Stung by bees and the catapult by the boys we didn't freak
The cycle race. cricket matches, fun and frolic it was till into bed
Enjoying mum's pastries and cakes it was always a grand spread
Our favorites never denied as we each had a special taste
Always planned with décor, love and care it never went waste.
Childhood dreams dancing on the streets making great friends
Breezy beaches, watching the trains, childhood days soon it did end
Memories many, the chats with dad, mum, siblings runs through my mind
As the days of my childhood visits me my eyes wet and I go blind! ! !

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Everything else you grow out of, but you never recover from childhood.

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I think you never forget your childhood, whether it was happy or unhappy.

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I never had any childhood, for the word means sunshine and freedom from care. I had a starved and pinched little childhood, as far as love and merriment go.

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To Wordsworth

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude:
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,--
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

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Fantasy Girl

Lately I'm learnin'
That so many yearnings
Are never to be
Childhood illusions
Mearly delusions
Of a girl that I see
In my minds eye
I see clearly a vision of how it could be
Me and my fantasy girl
Hold on to me
Be my fantasy girl
Don't set me free
Now I've had my share
And sometimes I swear,
That I've had me enough
You end up in sorrow
Broken tomorrows
Love can be tough
But my minds eye
Sees a vision of true love,
And how it should be
Me and my fantasy girl
Hold on to me
Be my fantasy girl
Don't set me free
Be my fantasy
Yeah, yeah, yeah
I see clearly a vision of how it could be yeah,
Be my fantasy
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah
Be my fantasy girl
Hold on to me
You're my fantasy girl
Don't set me free
Be my fantasy girl
Hold on to me
You're my fantasy girl
Don't set me free yeah,
From this fantasy

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When The Running Stops

When the Running Stops

In the enclose, outside the slaughterhouse, sheep were running in rings,
first to the left, and then to the right; in the end there was only one left
and it was too tired to run. I have lost two more friends, feel as I’m
the only sheep left in the enclosure and too tired to run. Heartache and
fun, we had it all in our adolescence. Then our way parted, but you never
forget a childhood friend.
Two years ago I was going to see them, a reunion of school friends going
back fifty years. In the end I didn’t go, knew we would talk a lot first then
fall silent. What we remembered was our friendship then and the past is
another country, as the poet says.
I knew the chasm of years could not be bridged, over meal and too much
wine. One of my friends sent me a photo of the party, a group of old men
I would have walked past in the street and not recognized any of them.
I put the photo up on the wall in my office, but soon took it down again.
Time is a cruel enemy I cry for them and me.

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Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.

Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.

The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.

I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.

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All is well—in a prison—to-night, and the warders are crying ‘All’s Well!’
I must speak, for the sake of my heart—if it’s but to the walls of my cell.
For what does it matter to me if to-morrow I go where I will?
I’m as free as I ever shall be—there is naught in my life to fulfil.
I am free! I am haunted no more by the question that tortured my brain:
‘Are you sane of a people gone mad? or mad in a world that is sane?’
I have had time to rest—and to pray—and my reason no longer is vext
By the spirit that hangs you one day, and would hail you as martyr the next.

Are the fields of my fancy less fair through a window that’s narrowed and barred?
Are the morning stars dimmed by the glare of the gas-light that flares in the yard?
No! And what does it matter to me if to-morrow I sail from the land?
I am free, as I never was free! I exult in my loneliness grand!

Be a saint and a saviour of men—be a Christ, and they’ll slander and rail!
Only Crime’s understood in the world, and a man is respected—in gaol.
But I find in my raving a balm—in the worst that has come to the worst—
Let me think of it all—I grow calm—let me think it all out from the first.

Beyond the horizon of Self do the walls of my prison retreat,
And I stand in a gap of the hills with the scene of my life at my feet;
The range to the west, and the Peak, and the marsh where the dark ridges end,
And the spurs running down to the Creek, and the she-oaks that sigh in the bend.
The hints of the river below; and, away on the azure and green,
The old goldfield of Specimen Flat, and the township—a blotch on the scene;
The store, the hotels, and the bank—and the gaol and the people who come
With the weatherboard box and the tank—the Australian idea of home:

The scribe—spirit-broken; the ‘wreck,’ in his might-have-been or shame;
The townsman ‘respected’ or worthy; the workman respectful and tame;
The boss of the pub with his fine sense of honour, grown moral and stout,
Like the spielers who came with the ‘line,’ on the cheques that were made farther out.

The clever young churchman, despised by the swaggering, popular man;
The doctor with hands clasped behind, and bowed head, as if under a ban;
The one man with the brains—with the power to lead, unsuspected and dumb,
Whom Fate sets apart for the Hour—the man for the hour that might come.

The old local liar whose story was ancient when Egypt was young,
And the gossip who hangs on the fence and poisons God’s world with her tongue;
The haggard bush mother who’d nag, though a husband or child be divine,
And who takes a fierce joy in a rag of the clothes on the newcomer’s line.

And a lad with a cloud on his heart who was lost in a world vague and dim—
No one dreamed as he drifted apart that ’twas genius the matter with him;
Who was doomed, in that ignorant hole, to its spiritless level to sink,
Till the iron had entered his soul, and his brain found a refuge in drink.

Perhaps I was bitter because of the tongues of disgrace in the town—
Of a boy-nature misunderstood and its nobler ambitions sneered
Of the sense of injustice that stings till it ends in the creed of the push—
I was born in that shadow that clings to the old gully homes in the bush.
And I was ambitious. Perhaps as a boy I could see things too plain—
How I wished I could write of the truths—of the visions—that haunted my brain!
Of the bush-buried toiler denied e’en the last loving comforts of all—
Of my father who slaved till he died in the scrub by his wedges and maul.

Twenty years, and from daylight till dark—twenty years it was split, fence, and grub,
And the end was a tumble-down hut and a bare, dusty patch in the scrub.
’Twas the first time he’d rested, they said, but the knit in his forehead was deep,
And to me the scarred hands of the dead seemed to work as I’d seen them in sleep.

And the mother who toiled by his side, through hardship and trouble and drought,
And who fought for the home when he died till her heart—not her spirit—wore out:
I am shamed for Australia and haunted by the face of the haggard bush wife—
She who fights her grim battle undaunted because she knows nothing of life.

By the barren track travelled by few men—poor victims of commerce, unknown—
E’en the troubles that woman tells woman she suffers, unpitied, alone;
Heart-dumbed and mind-dulled and benighted, Eve’s beauty in girlhood destroyed!
Till the wrongs never felt shall be righted—and the peace never missed be enjoyed.

There was no one to understand me. I was lonely and shy as a lad,
Or I lived in a world that was wider than ours; so of course I was ‘mad.’
Who is not understood is a ‘crank’—so I suffered the tortures of men
Doomed to think in the bush, till I drank and went wrong—I grew popular then.

There was Doctor Lebenski, my friend—and the friend, too, of all who were down—
Clever, gloomy, and generous drunkard—the pride and disgrace of the town.
He had been through the glory and shame of a wild life by city and sea,
And the tales of the land whence he came had a strong fascination for me.

And often in yarning or fancy, when she-oaks grew misty and dim,
From the forest and straight for the camp of the Cossack Ive ridden with him:
Ridden out in the dusk with a score, ridden back ere the dawning with ten—
Have struck at three kingdoms and Fate for the fair land of Poland again!

He’d a sorrow that drink couldn’t drown—that his great heart was powerless to fight—
And I gathered the threads ’twixt the long, pregnant puffs of his last pipe at night;
For he’d say to me, sadly: ‘Jack Drew’—then he’d pause, as to watch the smoke curl—
‘If a good girl should love you, be true—though you die for it—true to the girl!

‘A man may be false to his country—a man may be false to his friend:
‘Be a vagabond, drunkard, a spieler—yet his soul may come right in the end;
‘But there is no prayer, no atonement, no drink that can banish the shade
‘From your side, if you’ve one spark of manhood, of a dead girl that you have betrayed.’

‘One chance for a fortune,’ we’re told, in the lives of the poorest of men—
There’s a chance for a heaven on earth that comes over and over again!
’Twas for Ruth, the bank manager’s niece, that the wretched old goldfield grew fair,
And she came like an angel of peace in an hour of revengeful despair.
A girl as God made her, and wise in a faith that was never estranged—
From childhood neglected and wronged, she had grown with her nature unchanged;
And she came as an angel of Hope as I crouched on Eternity’s brink,
And the loaded revolver and rope were parts of the horrors of drink.

I was not to be trusted, they said, within sight of a cheque or a horse,
And the worst that was said of my name all the gossips were glad to endorse.
But she loved me—she loved me! And why? Ask the she-oaks that sighed in the bends—
We had suffered alike, she and I, from the blindness of kinsfolk and friends.

A girlhood of hardship and care, for she gave the great heart of a child
To a brother whose idol was Self, and a brother good-natured but ‘wild;’—
And a father who left her behind when he’d suffered too much from the moan
Of a mother grown selfish and blind in her trouble—’twas always her own.

She was brave, and she never complained, for the hardships of youth that had driven
My soul to the brink of perdition, but strengthened the girl’s faith in Heaven.
In the home that her relatives gave she was tortured each hour of her life.
By her cruel dependence—the slave of her aunt, the bank-manager’s wife.

Does the world know how easy to lead and how hard to be driven are men?
She was leading me back with her love, to the faith of my childhood again!
To my boyhood’s neglected ideal—to the hopes that were strangled at birth,
To the good and the truth of the real—to the good that was left on the earth.

And the sigh of the oaks seemed a hymn, and the waters had music for me
As I sat on the grass at her feet, and rested my head on her knee;
And we seemed in a dreamland apart from the world’s discontent and despair,
For the cynic went out of my heart at the touch of her hand on my hair.

She would talk like a matron at times, and she prattled at times like a child:
I will trust you—I know you are good—you have only been careless and wild—
‘You are clever—you’ll rise in the world—you must think of your future and me—
‘You will give up the drink for my sake, and you don’t know how happy we’ll be!’
I can work, I will help you,’ she said, and she’d plan out our future and home,
But I found no response in my heart save the hungry old craving to roam.
Would I follow the paths of the dead? I was young yet. Would I settle down
To the life that our parents had led by the dull, paltry-spirited town?

For the ghost of the cynic was there, and he waited and triumphed at last—
One night—I’d been drinking, because of a spectre that rose from the past—
My trust had so oft been betrayed: that at last I had turned to distrust—
My sense of injustice so keen that my anger was always unjust.

Would I sacrifice all for a wife, who was free now to put on my hat
And to go far away from the life—from the home life of Specimen Flat?
Would I live as our fathers had lived to the finish? And what was it worth?
A woman’s reproach in the end—of all things most unjust on the earth.

The old rebel stirred in my blood, and he whispered, ‘What matter?’ ‘Why not?’
And she trembled and paled, for the kiss that I gave her was reckless and hot.
And the angel that watched o’er her slept, and the oaks sighed aloud in the creek
As we sat in a shadow that crept from a storm-cloud that rose on the Peak.

There’s a voice warns the purest and best of their danger in love or in strife,
But that voice is a knell to her honour who loves with the love of her life!
And ‘Ruth—Ruth!’ I whispered at last in a voice that was not like my own—
She trembled and clung to me fast with a sigh that was almost a moan.

While you listen and doubt, and incline to the devil that plucks at your sleeve—
When the whispers of angels have failed—then Heaven speaks once I believe.
The lightning leapt out—in a flash only seen by those ridges and creeks,
And the darkness shut down with a crash that I thought would have riven the peaks.

By the path through the saplings we ran, as the great drops came pattering down,
To the first of the low-lying ridges that lay between us and the town;
Where she suddenly drew me aside with that beautiful instinct of love
As the clatter of hoofs reached our ears—and a horseman loomed darkly above.

’Twas the Doctor: he reined up and sat for the first moment pallid and mute,
Then he lifted his hand to his hat with his old-fashioned martial salute,
And he said with a glance at the ridge, looming black with its pine-tops awhirl,
‘Take my coat, you are caught in the storm!’ and he whispered, ‘Be true to the girl!’

He rode on—to a sick bed, maybe some twenty miles back in the bush,
And we hurried on through the gloom, and I still seemed to hear in the ‘woosh’
Of the wind in the saplings and oaks, in the gums with their top boughs awhirl—
In the voice of the gathering tempest—the warning, ‘Be true to the girl!’
And I wrapped the coat round her, and held her so close that I felt her heart thump
When the lightning leapt out, as we crouched in the lee of the shell of a stump—
And there seemed a strange fear in her eyes and the colour had gone from her cheek—
And she scarcely had uttered a word since the hot brutal kiss by the creek.

The storm rushed away to the west—to the ridges drought-stricken and dry—
To the eastward loomed far-away peaks ’neath the still starry arch of the sky;
By the light of the full moon that swung from a curtain of cloud like a lamp,
I saw that my tent had gone down in the storm, as we passed by the camp.

’Tis a small thing, or chance, such as this, that decides between hero and cur
In one’s heart. I was wet to the skin, and my comfort was precious to her.
And her aunt was away in the city—the dining-room fire was alight,
And the uncle was absent—he drank with some friends at the Royal that night.

He came late, and passed to his room without glancing at her or at me—
Too straight and precise, be it said, for a man who was sober to be.
Then the drop of one boot on the floor (there was no wife to witness his guilt),
And a moment thereafter a snore that proclaimed that he slept on the quilt.

Was it vanity, love, or revolt? Was it joy that came into my life?
As I sat there with her in my arms, and caressed her and called her ‘My wife!’
Ah, the coward! But my heart shall bleed, though I live on for fifty long years,
For she could not cry out, only plead with eyes that were brimming with tears.

Not the passion so much brings remorse, but the thought of the treacherous part
I’d have played in a future already planned out—ay! endorsed in my heart!
When a good woman falls for the sake of a love that has blinded her eyes,
There is pardon, perhaps, for his lust; but what heaven could pardon the lies?

And ‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘You are mine, I am yours—and for life.
‘He is drunk and asleep—he won’t hear, and to morrow you shall be my wife!’
There’s an hour in the memory of most that we hate ever after and loathe—
’Twas the daylight that came like a ghost to her window that startled us both.

Twixt the door of her room and the door of the office I stood for a space,
When a treacherous board in the floor sent a crack like a shot through the place!—
Then the creak of a step and the click of a lock in the manager’s room—
I grew cold to the stomach and sick, as I trembled and shrank in the gloom.
He faced me, revolver in hand—‘Now I know you, you treacherous whelp!
‘Stand still, where you are, or I’ll fire!’ and he suddenly shouted for help.
‘Help! Burglary!’ Yell after yell—such a voice would have wakened the tomb;
And I heard her scream once, and she fell like a log on the floor of her room!

And I thought of her then like a flash—of the foul fiend of gossip that drags
A soul to perdition—I thought of the treacherous tongues of the hags;
She would sacrifice all for my sake—she would tell the whole township the truth.
I’d escape, send the Doctor a message and die—ere they took me—for Ruth!

Then I rushed him—a struggle—a flash—I was down with a shot in my arm—
Up again, and a desperate fight—hurried footsteps and cries of alarm!
A mad struggle, a blow on the head—and the gossips will fill in the blank
With the tale of the capture of Drew on the night he broke into the bank.

In the cell at the lock-up all day and all night, without pause through my brain
Whirled the scenes of my life to the last one—and over and over again
I paced the small cell, till exhaustion brought sleep—and I woke to the past
Like a man metamorphosed—clear-headed, and strong in a purpose at last.

She would sacrifice all for my sake—she would tell the whole township the truth—
In the mood I was in I’d have given my life for a moment with Ruth;
But still, as I thought, from without came the voice of the constable’s wife;
‘They say it’s brain fever, poor girl, and the doctor despairs of her life.’

‘He has frightened the poor girl to death—such a pity—so pretty and young,’
So the voice of a gossip chimed in: ‘And the wretch! he deserves to be hung.
‘They were always a bad lot, the Drews, and I knowed he was more rogue than crank,
‘And he only pretended to court her so’s to know his way into the bank!’

Came the doctor at last with his voice hard and cold and a face like a stone—
Hands behind, but it mattered not then—’twas a fight I must fight out alone:
‘You have cause to be thankful,’ he said, as though speaking a line from the past—
‘She was conscious an hour; she is dead, and she called for you, Drew, till the last!

‘Ay! And I knew the truth, but I lied. She fought for the truth, but I lied;
‘And I said you were well and were coming, and, listening and waiting, she died.
‘God forgive you! I warned you in time. You will suffer while reason endures:
‘For the rest, you will know only I have the key of her story—and yours.’

The curious crowd in the court seemed to me but as ghosts from the past,
As the words of the charge were read out, like a hymn from the first to the last;
I repeated the words I’d rehearsed—in a voice that seemed strangely away—
In their place, ‘I am guilty,’ I said; and again, ‘I have nothing to say.’
I realised then, and stood straight—would I shrink from the eyes of the clown—
From the eyes of the sawney who’d boast of success with a girl of the town?
But there is human feeling in men which is easy, or hard, to define:
Every eye, as I glanced round the court, was cast down, or averted from mine.

Save the doctor’s—it seemed to me then as if he and I stood there alone—
For a moment he looked in my eyes with a wonderful smile in his own,
Slowly lifted his hand in salute, turned and walked from the court-room, and then
From the rear of the crowd came the whisper: ‘The Doctor’s been boozing again!’

I could laugh at it then from the depth of the bitterness still in my heart,
At the ignorant stare of surprise, at the constables’ ‘Arder in Car-rt!’
But I know. Oh, I understand now how the poor tortured heart cries aloud
For a flame from High Heaven to wither the grin on the face of a crowd.

Then the Judge spoke harshly; I stood with my fluttering senses awhirl:
My crime, he said sternly, had cost the young life of an innocent girl;
I’d brought sorrow and death to a home, I was worse than a murderer now;
And the sentence he passed on me there was the worst that the law would allow.

Let me rest—I grow weary and faint. Let me breathe—but what value is breath?
Ah! the pain in my heart—as of old; and I know what it is—it is death.
It is death—it is rest—it is sleep. ’Tis the world and I drifting apart.
I have been through a sorrow too deep to have passed without breaking my heart.
There’s a breeze! And a light without bars! Let me drink the free air till I drown.
’Tis the she-oaks—the Peak—and the stars. Lo, a dead angel’s spirit floats down!
This will pass—aye, and all things will pass. Oh, my love, have you come back to me?
I am tired—let me lie on the grass at your feet, with my head on your knee.

I was wrong’—the words lull me to sleep, like the words of a lullaby song—
I was wrong—but the iron went deep in my heart ere I knew I was wrong.
I rebelled, but I suffered in youth, and I suffer too deeply to live:
You’ll forgive me, and pray for me, Ruth—for you loved me—and God will forgive.

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Childhood never returns

Memories remain
Childhood never returns
Deep in the heart
They always burn
Life takes a turn
When youth comes
Becomes more difficult
As one grows old
More responsibilities
One has to hold
The freedom goes
Tougher it becomes
With future in mind
Memories rewind
Old days were better
Everybody chatters
Give my childhood back
One remembers
God for that

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Patrick White

Childhood Never Ends

Childhood's never over.
It goes on evolving along with us
as if maturing had nothing to do
with growing up.
It's what's still creative about yesterday
that lives on inside us
like an ongoing work of art
whose finishing stroke of genius
was never to abandon it.
My childhood has the eyes of a homeless boy.
The eldest son of a single welfare mother
how could I not become a hero
to be worthy of her
who gave her life up for me?
Even the worthless can make noble mistakes
and if I started out tilting at windmills
the ironic absurdity
of my many-headed imagination
has long since turned me into
some kind of dragon voodoo doll
that keeps taking hits from the past
like a junkie trying to curse someone
by sticking pins in himself
as if his blood had eyes.
Who knows the fate
of the fatherless son
who's been martyred
on the heartless altars
of maternal compassion?
I was middle-aged by the time I was seven years old.
I'm sure my mother never meant to raise this.
But there you go.
Things get out of control sometimes
like morning glory vines in a cedar hedge
after a forest fire.
Some people are the point of the sword.
Some are the edge.
Some grab the blade by the hilt
and then there are all those who bleed.
I played Russian roulette with the moon
to clarify my intensities
with Zen bullets
I held to my head like koans
that kept bouncing off my platinum skull
or went clean through
without touching any of my vital organs.
There's a subtle ambiguity
about enlightenment
that makes it hard to distinguish
a great bodhisattva from a contract killer.
I've been watching myself for years now
like a C.I.A. drone
learning all my routines
and personal habits
waiting for the right moment
to make the perfect hit.
I can remember when I thought I was Zorro.
A Spitfire pilot over London in the autumn of 1940.
Born a recipient white-washed by gratitude
like a white picket fence
with a couple of palings missing
for everything from the shoes on my feet
to my next breath
I wanted to make a contribution
that was a liberating payback with interest
for all that we'd received
as a welfare family
living like economic gypsies
on the fringes of better things to come.
The slave wanted to buy his freedom
from the infernal kindness
of his economic masters
indulging themselves in charity
to live forgivably
with God's obscene abundance.
If great oak trees from little acorns grow
and you can get Neils Bohr
out of a single atom
and there was even hope for me
way back then
when I was a switchblade
winning book awards
that alienated me strangely enough
not only from those who gave them out
like well-cut jewels
to a diamond in the rough
but baffled my more bituminous friends
into keeping their distance
as if intelligence
were an untouchable
in a criminal caste system.
I didn't want to be someone
my mother had wasted her life for.
So much of what I am.
So much of what I've done.
So much of what I've not done.
Not much of a son
when I look at it through her eyes
and even less of an outcome
when I look at it through mine.
Things were supposed to come to fruition.
But they've proven to be all vine.
In my grailquest for redemption
I've followed the dark star of my intuition
like black wine
that delighted in leading me astray.
The rational disassociation of the sensibility
as Rimbaud used to say.
Method in your madness.
But that was yesterday
before the center did not hold
and things fell apart
as Yeats said they would.
Not that it does a lot of cosmic good
to know these things.
It's hard to console a pteradactyl
by telling it why
the dinosaurs disappeared.
Everybody goes
with the evolutionary flow of their lifestreams
running downhill
to the big landfill
of their schemes and dreams
coming to a standstill
like the genes and memes
of a homesick Neanderthal.
They knew how to flint knap the moon
but they never learned
how to spin their delusions
like I did
in blood red ochre
on the wombwalls of a limestone cave
deep underground in southwest France.
It's not so hard to be a hero
when there's nothing to lose
and you don't stand a chance.
Think about it.
We're all given minds to express ourselves
and most of humanity
only says what it really means
when no one is listening
like Iago behind Othello's back.
What kind of a play is that?
The actors keep their mouths shut.
The theme's a re-run.
And the heroes
are all vicious petty
snakeoil salesmen
milking both fangs at once
like the crescents of the moon
to heal the last first
of all they have wounded
like a drug addict
in the realm of the Fisher King.
I may be as dark
as an oxymoronic anti-hero
blinded on the road to Damascus
by an improvised explosive device
that was wired like two snakes coupling
in the name of an unknown goat god
but at least I mean what I mean.
I don't say the kingdom's green
when it's black.
I'm not a latter day Teresias.
The fix isn't in on the prophecy.
I don't look at two copulating snakes
and see a double helix.
I live in eclipse
like one of the real heretics.
I am the estranged genius
of my own genome
wholly at home
in my homelessness.
I have learned how to mutate.
To shape-shift my form
like an old Etruscan god
of zodiacal kings
where the river turns towards Rome
like the bloodline of a mad emperor into the arts.
I'm not trying to sell my story to the stars.
I don't believe in lullabies that leave scars.
I don't think there's anything in the way of wealth
that's worth asking for
that's worth more
than the strength to stop asking
and the wisdom to ignore your own power
like an annoying habit
you're trying to transcend
to be a bigger man
than the one you thought you were.
I wanted to be the kind of son
that turned all those floors
all those windows and tables
my mother had to scrub
for rich women in Lansdowne
into glass slippers
that fit her
like a shoe-shine Cinderella
with a prince of a reflection
for an eldest son.
I started out well enough that way.
But look what happened.
Someone once told me
the earth was a sphere
and so it is
if you're rich enough,
but if you keep falling off the edge of it
you take as a sign you're poor.
You look at it
like an old starmap
that never goes out of date
like the full moon
of an empty dinner plate.
You know it's flat.
And hope's not much of a parachute
when it flowers
as if wishes were horses
and beggars could ride
because that's the way
it insists with coercive intensity
things ought to be
and all in one voice
we all agree
to the same inane absurdity.
All the intellectuals
are trying to divine
the direction
of our mutual devolution
like an apocalyptic watershed
right under their feet
by reading the biography
of a best-selling mutant
they're dying to meet
in a debate about creation
and misinformation
as the basis of reality.
And I may have been stubbed out
like a cigarette
or a big toe in a bad dream
on the stone of the earth
whenever I laid my head down
to forget who I was
more than a lifetime or two
because I was a slow learner
with a Mongolian tolerance for pain
but I've never blown a personal crisis
up into an astronomical catastrophe
that makes everything I think
the cosmic life
of a self-conscious dinosaur
that went extinct upon impact.
I've never done that
though that doesn't make me
much of a hero
in the eyes of my undoing.
A hero needs to act spontaneously
on the facts of the situation
through four consecutive acts
of tragic superstition
playing to the crowd.
I've got the scars
to say I've done my time
standing up in the arena
armed with nothing
but long odds against the Christians
but I've never learned how to scream
like a sestina, or the ballade royal
of an approximate Horation ode,
not even in the terza rima
of a divine comedy in hell
the way it says you're supposed to
in all the rhyming dictionaries
that teach you to write
like a social form of etiquette
about things that made you fight for your life
like a lion-god with claws
the size of lunar crescents
that knows how to part your heart
as if the waters of the Red Sea
were nothing but a minor flesh wound
compared to how
you can be opened up like Egypt
the moment you dropp your guard.
Thieves in the pyramid!
Thieves in the pyramid!
Stealing my body of thought
like the tools to build
a better afterlife
than I was dreaming of
like the only way out of here.
Let's hope there's someone waiting
on the other side of the wall
between that freedom
and this prison
with a car
and new clothes
and a snakey mistress
that looks up
and smiles like a gun moll
then hisses and moves
like an anaconda
in black pantyhose
listening to rhythm and blues
on a police radio.
It may not be a cure for cancer.
But it's my last answer
to those who ask me what
I'm doing here
checking my spiritual rear-view mirror
every few minutes of my getaway
like a return journey
I'm not going to make
back to Heartbreak Hill
like Sisyphus
on tour with the Rolling Stones
in the town where I grew up
watching my mother
try to make it through every month
as if she were trying to swim
the Straits of Juan de Fuca
like Marilyn Bell.
Hell is a seven year old boy
sitting at a kitchen table
like a broken toy
late into the night
listening to his exhausted mother
get the sorrow rage and despair
out of her system
like the venom of another day
by making two little Xs with a razorblade
and bleeding it out loud
as if you crossed your heart
and hoped to die
because even death was better
than living the way we did.
I've thrown a lot of snakes
without heads
in the fire ever since.
I've bruised them with my heel.
I was inspired by the views
of a Promethean thief
to introduce fire to the snakepit
that reached out to bite my mother
every day of her life
she couldn't feel anything
but harm at the door of her heart
and dangerous shadows
under the windows into her soul.
Though sometimes
when the world had shut down for the night
I could see through the tears she tried to hold back
beautiful rainbow serpents
still swirling
like the Northern Lights
on the oilslick that overwhelmed her.
Even on her hands and knees
scrubbing the filth
off other people's floors
she found a way to dance
the way she did before
the swan died on the lake
and she was hobbled by four kids
and a seven to five chance against
getting the next month's rent.
She could have let go.
But she didn't.
She hung on to her children
like a fatal mistake
she was deep enough to make
for love's sake
in the middle of welfare hell
where night after night
staring at greasy walls
and torn linoleum
childhood never ends.
You just sit at the table forever
trying to pick the brighter bits
of broken chandeliers
out of the ice-storms
of your frozen tears.
And there's so much you want to do
but you can't
because you're not God
and you're not the genie in the lamp
you're just a child
terrified of hope
thinking to yourself
some people cling to life
like a strong rope up to heaven
and others are barely hanging on by the thread
of the sword
dangling over their heads
like the brutal truth
of a debt to society
that's always in arrears.
Looking back over the years
it gets easier to see
that if nature abhors a vacuum
then it doesn't miss me
or the futile childhood clarity
of a social pariah
sitting at the table
like one of the four elements
my mother gave birth to
listening to the sound of humans
snapping like wishbones
that never came true.

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Never Saved

vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
cynicism scrawls the map
leading to my resting place,
a symptom of a drying mind,
what once was fluid, now is blind.
each denial of childhood dream
fractures now my world it seems.

mothers tears dried in her grave,
childhood view: never saved.

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Childhood Decisions

Isn't it wonderful, faced with unbearable
circumstances, I fell back to childhood
decisions how to deal with loneliness
and pain, seems to me we make up
our minds once and for all when
we are small

The rest is just window-dressing to pass
the time, I have never deviated from any
course I decided upon as a child, have
you and how did it feel? I'm not sure
I understand myself, much less the
world around me…

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Childhood tears

As a child I would hide in my room.
I always had the gloom.
Going out to play would only bring doom.
But he even found me in my room.

I never told thouhg.
I was always good and kept it a 'secret'.

As a child I would cry myself to sleep at night.
I stayed in mainly out of fright.
He had the power and the might.

My childhood was made of secrets and tears.
Even to this day I still have the tears.
And still have the fears.

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I look through my childhood

I look through my childhood as if I were there,
but yet remain in this grown up body, which in life is not fair,
I have forgotten the good times in my past,
I can't believe that my childhood moved on very fast,
I thought it would last, and last forever,
but I was wrong, it did not last, it never.
but all happens for the best,
so that I could grow up to be a man and experience life
which comes in han 'd'.
I look through my childhood.

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And Her Going Away That Never Comes?

Newly wed bride goes out
Hand in hand with her bridegroom
and the sinful lass who sweats to the manor
since her childhood,
She had a tear in her heart
and she knows her sad fate
That she has to serve them forever
and her going away that never comes
till she gets old?
She thinks of her poor mother & father
Once she served to this manor
Now rest in peace in a faraway tombless graveyard
and the brave father was missing in a rage battlefield?

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Childhood Scar

She looks out
The wintry window
With a heart full of screams
That no one can hear.

Yesterday goodbyes
And departing words to memorize
Fall from the eyes of her mind
Like summer tears
On a lonely beach.

Puzzling predicaments
And ex-lovers to resent
Pile up like autumn leaves
From vanquished and barren trees
In the grey desert of the city.

What have I done to myself
To drown in such a girl
Until nothing is left to notice
Of who I was but a childhood scar
That never disappears?

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Never could you hide from...

1. Never could you hide from
Years, passed in turn.
Childhood is left for
Adult's life by all.

R.: But the school desk
I'm dreaming,
And the school books
I'm reading,
I remember all the teachers
One by one.
And the freckled girl is crying
From my childhood, when I'm
Trying to recall in mind the old time.

2. If you know, the childs
Try to grow fast,
Being in hurry
Turn to man, at last.


3. We feel being tighted
In the golden age,
But we long for childhood,
When it comes to end.


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You Were Never A Little Girl

Your world is fragile glass
Every day breaking like bones
Against the heartless pavement
Of this dingy city where dreams disappear
In the blink of an eye
Like a thousand species
Growing extinct
In the dying rainforest.

Divorce and disintegrating family life
Stole from you a happy childhood
With the malicious hands
Of a marauding thief,
You were never a little girl.

Next time I see you
Stranded on some dirty street
In the hopeless dawn
With no fuel in your tank
To get back home,
Take my twenty free,
I won’t bother you for sex.

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