Invited to a talk

by a humble, yet well respected man

I learn about a life of exile

(that I am living)

& although the spotlight is not on me

it shines brightly

accentuating my distorted priorities

and all the while

I am accompanied by the living dead

A life that shines so brightly and yet fades before my eyes.

A man who is so close to me 

and yet a man I cannot touch.

 

As whispers of conversation

drift before me

like clouds in a previously empty sky

(the dawn of realisation)

my soul is filled

trapped

in a dreamlike certainty

that life is fatal.

 

I look at a familiar face

and fail to recognise features

lower jaw sunken

upper lip protruding

in an unusual and subconscious grimace.

Possibly to the untrained eye

a look of concentration could be distinguished

but the look is one of concentrated anguish

 

and as I learn about my past

I am visited by a vision

of the future.

As if the facial expression wasn’t enough

a slightly quivering right hand

wobbles gently

in the lack of breeze

A more certain left hand

rests gingerly by its partner.

Its index fingers slightly interwoven

in a futile attempt 

to prevent the gentle vibrations

of the hiccuping brain.

 

Brain disconnected from spine

mind disconnected from body

I look down...

and I see...

 

waves wash years from an ape like visage

gritted in determination

to find a stick or a branch

suitable for use as

a staff or support

and we hike in the mid afternoon sun

on an action packed adventure

through the jungle 

that sprawls menacingly

from my garden.

 

As children

 a brother and sister mountaineer

through a wild and harsh terrain

under the expert guidance

of a haircutting soldier

He navigates the trio confidently

through the threatening undergrowth

to safety.

 

A slip, a bloody lip (from the stick)

A cry (from the girl)

A good natured smile and the spirited continuance 

of our guide

results in a return to civilisation

 

The soldier grandfather

now slips under the real storm of life

Its partner, escaping its entrapment

disconnected from a comfortable reality

now trembles again

and the full hand

replaces the finger

in support.

The same drop lipped stare

concentrates mind and body

weakly.

 

The shake cannot be contained

The feeble victim surrenders

and is moved

Hidden?

rested safely, for now, 

under a comforting armpit.

Until the mild tremors of the earth and soul 

once more 

begin.

 

A picnic on moors

ferns so high

they sprout way above my head

our guide only the sun

and the day stretching far into

the future

so far that tomorrow

is unknown.

And this man

into which I entrust my life

my love

 my concerns

strides ever forwards

never glancing back.

 

A series of adventures that are curtailed by a religious experience

deemed worthy enough to sacrifice all this

to make me a man

more important than genuine life skills passed down

this  tradition.

 

And I wonder if he remembers 

that one day he promised

to try to visit me

as a bird

if only he could.

 

If only he had the wings now.

 

Over fish and chips 

I notice

a click 

somewhere between his tongue and his throat

ever so subtle

ever so present

and in the dimly lit future

I envision a man

a guide

unable to guide

with a glint shimmering far

beneath his dulling eyes

unable to communicate

the joys that he once brought

to all.

 

The armpit no longer secure

he returns 

to his original comfort

and the strange ritualistic cycle

is momentarily completed

like a failing dance for rain

of a culture long forgotten

There is no choice

and he sits patiently

supporting a family

that is from a different time.

 

Standing on noisy and breezy platforms,

buying tickets in bustling stations

feeding food into metal machines.

He taught me to ride the trains

the great untamed beasts

that galloped away into the hills.

The speed and rattle of the rodeo

 hypnotised us both.

And now in our own ways we are both numb.

 

His sister, in spirit,

dances and darts fancifully before my eyes

captured in slightly pinked cheeks

and absent minded movement.

 

All I want to do

is grab the hand

and stop the shaking.

 

Each time the strange cycle repeats 

I think

 ... now...

but the moment is gone.

Comfort or insult?

 

& I

the exiled generation

can but watch

and see my future and past

roll into a waking dream

over which

I have

no

control.

I cannot save my granddad

or guide him through this desolate forest.

 

An awkward and forceful hand clap

signals the untimely end of the show

I now know the true meaning of

a stiff upper lip.  

and as hollow reams 

pour forth  from

the empty and drained memory banks

I know that I

am unjust.