Janus

 

When we were young

we raged against the storm

biting at our hormones,

engulfing our senses

and our sensibilities.

 

The deep penetrating

oxblood on our

Doctor Martin boots

polished

to an indignant sheen.

 

Pre-conditioner hair,

split ends and acne,

Shredded Wheat moustache.

A groove worn on the chin

by pondering fingers.

 

Myopic vision

filtering the world

alive with a seventies sheen

of glam rock

and anarchy.

 

Ideas

wider than Oxford Bags,

higher than platform boots,

as resilient as cheesecloth

In the rain.

 

It never rained in summer.

It always snowed in winter.

Baked beans and toast on the table,

American Cream Soda

guzzled through early onset cavities.

 

Art school melancholia -

vibrant colours

painted over

the pastel shades

of mauve reality.

 

We flew the nest.

Got drunk.

Got high.

Got jobs.

Got lost.

 

Time passed…

 

We got paid.

We got married.

We got commitments.

We got drunk.

We got lost.

 

Time passed…

 

We got paid off.

We stayed married.

We settled commitments.

We got drunk.

We found ourselves.

 

Time passes…

 

Now hair has lost its colour

and joints creak like old chairs.

The rage still burns

like raked coals of youth

reigniting our words.

 

When you write something on paper

and leave it in a drawer for forty years

the paper yellows with passing time,

the ink fades into a gray graphite blur

yet the words are just as relevant and powerful.

 

We look older

but we are young

in thought and action.

We are as powerful now

as we ever were.

 

Time has passed

but we are still

the beating heart,

the trickling tear,

the raging storm…

 

the passing time….