India Bonanza

I’ve been amazed at the great blogs being written by people from India. It’s as if some magical wind has passed over the country and brought its writing to life.

Also, it’s quite noticeable that many of my followers are from India. So, can I just say thank you for following my blog,

and if it’s not too pompous of me, thank you, everyone, for your wonderful writing.

Song collaboration: Chris’s poem

I noticed that the four verses of the poem can become two super verses.
The first super verse is the sad one with the darkest hour, night time errors, black dog moments etc.
and the second super verse is the opposite with sunbeams, laughter and song, we will survive etc.
So amazingly, two contrasting super verses, see!

The difficult part of fitting chords to words and melody. I’m very disorganised at this. I go through everything I can think of until it seems to work. It’s like trying to hold three cats at the same time, one named lyric, one named melody and one named chord.

Now I have a guitar problem in that I tried to put new strings on my guitar and one of the plastic bridge pins was broken so I had to carefully drill out the half that was stuck in the hole to remove it, so now I’m waiting for some new unbreakable I hope bronze ones to arrive in the post. I just hope they aren’t being posted from Shanghai by container ship.

 

Long life and good health

I didn’t know what to do
So I blogged it

Teachers are few, students are many
But artists are treated like dirt
Artists, are teacher and student
Artists are explorers where it hurts
Artists are often to be pitied
A few are honoured, and loved
All of them give some happiness
In our lives both hard and tough

I didn’t know what to do
So I saved it
I didn’t know what to do
So I engraved it
I didn’t know what to do
So I remade it
I didn’t know what to do
With my life, my love
With my freedom, my time

I didn’t know what to do
So I hid it
I didn’t know what to do
So I got rid of it
I didn’t know what to do
So I refitted it
I didn’t know what to do
With my life, my love
With my freedom, my time

Oct 2, 1995

A poem to all the followers over the past year or so, I wish you well through the present crisis.

BabyFunbo, Blackwings666, Victoria, farhad Kaiser, ludwigcobaya, notlimey. Vincent Ehindero. Nguoidentubinhduong, Universo Web News, myplace3187, thompsoncrowley, Aquila News, Katy Claire, Harman Kaur, Don Charisma, Tatterhood, dangerkit, womaves, Chinamancreek, @yl10tian, TodayVitamin.com, pickvitaminhome, Shubhi Rawat, Elephant Under the Bus, Shirobanryu, ebookvaultbiz, Trev Jones, AmritaVitamin,com, Albert Shmidt, fromasparktoaflame, thetradersdaughter, Author_Joanne_Reed, Shayleene MacReynolds, Vishal Dutia, Climate Change Take Action now, Jason A. Muckley, Daniele Peluso, Sayer Teller, srijan, Luke Otley, Mugilan Raju, webrootcomsafe1, Elin,MJ, mrfanxietyanddepression, patientandkind, the freedonmof, Meera Daesil, EPR, PurpleStar, Deep Tuesdays, milkencoffee, Sandra J, violatogom, appdeally, Speaking Bipolar, janettbeloved, napilapertiwi, Lou des Anges, Baffled Bear Books, uniqueproductstobuy, Mark Tulin, YouLittle Charmer, aramblingcollective, Shelly Ann v. Joseph, simple Ula, Lauren, Phillip Knight Scott, Charles A. Kush 111, whatsonsidsmind, Elk Arse Vet, Nature At Your Back, Sonam Tsering, Asish kumar, Shell-Shell’s tips and tricks, alikhansrk, laurencelewis1960, Greg Dennison, Your Last Day On Earth, wesm18, Nathan Cocker, Anonymous Scribe, Sean Crawley, sarabeth98, m. caimbeul, Au Au, parkashpencia,bleusapphire, Dr. Perry, Cosima, VeganialLifeStyle, sharonmastel66, Shawn L. Bird, The Only Place Where You Can Find Extraordinary, prajwaleliya, Mondukpe, Steven RM, The Divine Voice For Women, ragstark, Bill, lunatikenigma, Andrew Dalrymple, Cryp Tee, Riddhi Chitalia, Neil, pouringtruth, irevuo, SHAERINAA MEGESAN, Seolin Jung, Hyperbola, Phobe, MD: Medicine + Poetry, kenyacara, ysshekhawat347, Nancy Botta, neeldip1998, Mitali Rajawat,, TOmRobbins, Stress Management, Joshua Idegbere, PoojaG, sevenburnedlillies, femalefilmfestiva, lemonjooz, equipsblog, Russell Deasley, reistatrascendiendo, Blogging Tips, Claudia, Ren’ee Verona, Romantic Ninja, 1800PetsAndVets, davidguerrieriwrites, poetryfest, beznco, cloudigitalogix, shllyn, truly_kendi, visualartlive, Hettie D., Education, c17princess, rashidul.huda, Self Development, Destiny Tuning Secret, DPAPA, ProfitScapes, Click the “View Complete Profile” button for an A, JoeTeriault, Spandex Kitten, Pritam, Walter, JPE, Savvy101 – Writers, Family Today, Saumya Kushwaha, Alison Little, Abhinav, AndyTheRomantic, Lily, TCast, Cristian Mihai, Jamie Dedes, By the Left Hand, gsethi2409, Tim Miller, Art of Blogging, Chris Hall, Sonderwriter, Celia Hales, Halbarbera, Jordan Peters, Kristie Weaver Realtor, Leecoppin.com, Tthenumber26, Lucid Being, RTW Roxy, NewsTodayPW, Erwin Wensley, tombriscoe, Shreya Vikram, dlaofficial, The Godley Chic Diaries, Prasna Velcheru, Word Hunter, pennington writer, Joao-Maria, Lillian Hendricks, petesteph1, lemanshots, peimankhosravi, thebettermanprojects.

Une fois qu’ils se sont enfuis dans la nuit

Once they hurtled off into the night
Regardless of the distance or the time it took.
Two hundred miles along the motorway
To a town near Paris in the night.

Finally they reached their destination
But the Lou Reed concert was over.
They laughed driving back to Villefranche
To continue picking grapes in the vineyard


Une fois qu’ils se sont enfuis dans la nuit
Quelle que soit la distance ou le temps qu’il a fallu.
200 milles le long de l’autoroute
À la ville près de Paris dans la nuit.

Enfin, ils ont atteint leur destination
Mais le concert de Lou Reed était terminé.
Ils ont ri en revenait à Villefranche
Continuer à cueillir des raisins dans le vignoble

 

Good Morning

 

My exciting morning. Pretty much the same thing every morning. Backstop and Brexit. Looming disaster. But feeding the cat has priority. Painting is of me and my new born brother in about 1962. The song I’m presently working on first saw light of day in my bedroom, on Mossley Estate, Bloxwich in about 1970. No photo of me though, don’t want to scare anybody away.

Toothy Edna Ironsides New Blog

She had just posted her first post on her brand new blog. It was a brilliant start, an item about the Glasgow whiskey industry. She remembered, (just as her friends, who all had blogs, had taught her), to pick her categories and make up her tags; and then she waited. Next morning she awoke and it felt like a Christmas day to her; she was so happy she felt like singing. She opened up her blog page to read the messages and count the likes and follow the followers and … nothing, nobody, zerox with an empty ink cartridge. She went into a slump; where were all her friends? Where was the support? Where was the bloggers glory? She had told all her friends and family to look for her page; she had given them the exact address with the http:// and the name on her Welcome page, but nothing. She looked out of the window, it was raining, and the sky was grey, autumn leaves fluttered onto the street. She made up her mind not to follow up or try to find out what had happened. Maybe a disaster had prevented them all from looking, maybe a vanishing. She’d wait, she’d wait until finally from among the millions out there someone would open, read and like. She wanted to be liked.

Patient Poems

Doctors

A prose piece about how much society needs doctors and the strange power they have.

Doctors: picture a world full of doctors, doctors walking everywhere, everywhere you go you see doctors in white jackets.

Doctors from the mould, doctors in white jackets. The only way to tell male from female is short hair or hair tied up at the back. They all look alike, like shapes cut out of paper.

There are doctors, everywhere you go, doctors, in and out of every train door, revolving door, and shop door*. Doctors not smiling because they are serious, they are doctors, and they fill the planet.

And what do they all do, all these doctors? I am the only one left who is not a doctor. I run naked down a brightly lit corridor and out into the street screaming. I climb a high building and then I jump, then, doctors like clumps of snow crowd around the last pool of red blood that they will ever see.

*The sliding doors of the underground train; the revolving doors of banks; the glass doors of department stores.

There’s a Place in Boston

A lyric about how the wealthy can neglect their children

There is a place in Boston Where the people are so perfect
And anyone who starts to scream Is treated like a convict.
There isn’t a wrinkle in a sheet And they always say their prayers
But I don’t think God listens to them I don’t think he even cares
There are the homeless on the street And therapy is just in reach
And everyone is secretly In the bell jars of society
The heart is broken like a plate And when it breaks it leaks our hate
For all who scream to be set free From the perfect people who won’t leave be
And as you walk the Boston break-yard Where the freight trains alone can scream
Where you climb aboard an empty boxcar For it’s the only place to dream

Fears

As a child I experienced loneliness and fear at school

I was just a child. I was placing my feet precisely in the center of the paving tiles as I walked, hoping that no one would hurt me anymore if I did not step on the cracks.

I had no idea what unhappiness was or why I felt it all the time.

The idea occurred to me like how the smallest of wild flowers suddenly appears in the shadow.

Stepping across the tiles like that gave me a feeling of security like how the feeling of a small key would feel to a wind-up toy.

And that’s how I discovered the meaning of feelings, of security, unhappiness and, strangely, the existence of a Me.

Where I lived there was a brick wall

As a very young child living in a slum I couldn’t make sense of all the wlls around me

Where I lived there was a brick wall and in the wall, there were several crumbling bricks.

I would see the wind hammering at the bricks trying to get through. I would see the winter weather eating away the cement and the broken bits of bricks.

Then one bright spring day I looked and I could see right through the wall at the sun on the other side and I watched as the wall sagged and then caved in and then collapsed entirely.

And there are parts of society that thinks itself strong like a wall but they never ever talk about there feelings and some of the children in that society grow up having never expressed how they feel about anything that has happened to them. Then they are made to see a doctor, then they are put in a hospital, then they kill themselves.

And it’s a sign about the wall; that the wall is growing weak and that the wall will someday collapse because it’s a wall with no feelings, it’s a wall without love.

Blue Flame

Prose exaimining how society can set thepath of your life for you

Some machinery released the trapped gas in the bowels of the earth. It travelled along pipes into a factory to be cleaned up than along more pipes until it popped up out of the gas ring where it tried to escape to freedom, and then it was set fire to, in the blue flames that were destroying millions of years of formation.

You had been in the womb for a long time until formed into a baby you; you travelled through a tunnel and into a place where you were cleaned up. Then you were taken by car to a house (did you see the engine that turned your relative into exhaust fumes). There in a house it was both hot and cold. Your mother loved you; your society awaited you. There in the house, you received mixed messages; your mother nurtured you and society waited for you like a wolf.

You expect society to be like a home, but instead, your mother let you go free and society turned you into a blue flame.

In a Cosmic Mist

I have known friends who spend time in mental hospitals

In a cosmic mist where no real people could live was a hospital with six beds and one electro shock treatment room.

The nurse and the warden came silently through the pinpoint of reality gate and down the long white corridor into the ward where Henry VIII’s six wives were sitting on their beds.

She was taken down into the dark cavernous basement. She looked up but she could not see a roof in the thick black silence.

The fat Henry the VIII bird flew onto the warden’s shoulder. It had a tasseted breast and a gold chain around its neck and a hat tilted roguishly on its head.

She lay down on the contraption and the nurse and the warden strapped her down. An order was made and a great bolt of lightning passed through her temples and she became unconscious.

In the evening, a little recovered she joined the rest of the wives in the ward. Their faces were bright white. The room was bright white and everyone shone with a jangling brightness, from the earth people talked in wonder of the new constellation of six stars, bright as gleaming toothpaste blobs, icy white. There was a droning noise coming from it as if it were trying to give birth to a boy.

The Falling Gate

A prose story cartoon about the neglected child in me

The big gate fell down and shut me outside. It was a grey morning; I looked through the iron grill at the creature inside. Who are you, didn’t I know you once? This creature was black with dirt and long black uncut hair and rags … and was crying.

The inside of the dungeon room was small; there was nothing to give light. It was black as jade.

Who was this person? Did I know them?

I felt cheerful in spite of myself, cheerful to have my freedom, to see the winter light of a cloudy day.

I struck a match and looked into the darkness. I was looking into a mirror. There reflected back at me was myself.

Am I real? Is this really me outside here or is it my imagination? Am I really the person locked away in the dungeon?

I sat on the old crumbling ivy covered wall opposite the arched dungeon under the railway bridge and as night drew in, I seemed to disappear

– Like a phantom into the night.

I wanted to be like everybody else.

I wanted to be like everyone else, maybe because I had no help in understanding myself.

I was everyone else. Everyone else was me.

Yet when I greet someone in my “everyone else” character I wish I could be myself too.

Words are not just in the head
Words are not only in the mouth
It’s all connected. It’s connected by spirit.

I believe that if we didn’t have vocal chords, not only could we not speak, but we would not be able to think either. I believe that the vocal chords give us the power of our thinking words. I could be wrong. But there is a point where loud thinking moves the vocal chords ever so slightly.

I had a bad experience with my father once. He kept picking on me, trying to pick a fight with me. All I ever wanted from him was love. I was crushed and broken, Ii became depressed and I had issues with my own voice. How could my voice say those things? It was now what I wanted. No, no, no.

Just to survive more than anything else I had to be a person by being like everyone else. I failed, I was, I am, self-protective without even thinking to be. The hardest thing for me to do, is to be myself.

 

Sleep Little Misery

Poem about chronic depression

Sleep little misery
Your whole life has been death
Sleep little abortion
You will never have breath.

It’s the way I have carried you
Since time began
With bruises and beatings
Confused, as a man.

An impossible beginning
In the wrong body
Without thought or feeling
A stone cold nobody.

A poem about long term, undiagnosed depression, which I think has become common in society. I thought to publish it here; maybe it has wider application than original idea.