The Rage Rages On

The Rage Rages On (edited) – Retro Post

TableLight

We are coming to the end of #Movember and, as I think on matters mental health, I am reminded of this set of lines that I penned years ago.   Back then, due to various reasons, I had spiraled into a situational depression.  I am fine now, but was not then.  It was important to get help. So, in these last days of #Movember, I urge men especially to get help from their doctor or other helplines in places where they come from.  The idea to do another retro post came from  witnessing our esteemed blogger colleague, Robert Okaji at O at the edges, do a great retro post recently.

The Rage Rages On

And the rage rages on!

The rage is maintained:

Surging up,

Billowing forth,

Pulsing through the veins.

The rage rages on!

War against terror,

Against Wall Street,

Against each other,

Against ourselves,

The rage rages on!

I feel it in me

Like a twirling tempest,

Like a surging sea,

Then I feel flat:

So flat,

Heavy,

Weighed down,

Septic,

With exhausting, raging weight.

I anger

At where I am,

At who I am.

I know not who I am anymore,

Save that I want to write again.

Verses, poems, stories

I want to write again.

My eyes are dry and heavy,

My limbs, like suspended concrete

Stiffly droop from my frame.

My head feels heavy

And thick like all its

Liquid is turning solid,

Or like gooey grease.

I am losing my memory

Or am I in fact retaining or attending?

I feel as if I am shutting down

Like a flower retreating from the evening time,

Closing its petals to the gloom.

And I feel in the eventide of my years

Ageing, old-ening, arthritic in body and ideas,

Stiffening against the blows of life

And the pains of past excesses

And yet

To put it down

To lay it on the page

Somehow that helps,

Anchors it,

Shapes it,

Puts it in its place,

And ejects some of the venom.

 

Original 22 February 2008, edited 28 November 2015

A Pilgrimage in Poetry

A Pilgrimage in Poetry

It all started on some animals,

And a school assessment on ‘The Drought’;

But as the years began to flow,

I then encountered doubt.
Did I have the rhythm?

Did I have the rhyme?

How could I get into the zone?

And where would I find the time?
But the poem always found me

At a time l least expected;

It found me when I was exultant,

It consoled me when dejected.
At times I wrote of love,

At others I wrote of hate;

Or of the carnal twinge of lust,

Of the dullness or dread of wait.
I wrote of persons parting,

Of time’s great passage on;

Sometimes it spied me in a picture,

Or motioned in the melody of a song.
I mourn the poems I lost,

When moving house or tidying things;

I cannot recollect those words now,

And the pain of loss within still stings.
One time I co-wrote with a friend,

On a drizzly day in highland retreat;

She finished it off later,

And then mailed the draft complete.
Sometimes I cannot finish,

The verses for a piece;

But when I conclude a poem,

I always feel release.
A release of a creation,

While still connected here to me;

It has been gifted to the reader,

And its verses can can roam free.

Simon C.J. Falk 17 November 2015

 

You Know! So, Stop!

You Know! So, Stop!

 

You know the feeling when you go on and on

Galloping here and there and up and down

And around and about and in and out

And you just want to slow

In a more rhythmic flow

And stop and be still

Stop still.

Stop!

Simon C.J. Falk   15 November 2015

Petals… Paris… Peace…

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Petals… Paris… Peace…

It seems so strange to see peaceful gardens in our yards when tragic events have unfolded in Beirut and Paris in recent days.  The words below somehow wrestle with it.  May those who suffer soon know some peace.

Petals… Paris… Peace…

Petals,

Perched on limbs,

Holding our gaze,

In their mauve and magenta hues.

Fallen petals,

Like covering of carpet

Resting on the gravely soil,

Like fallen innocents

On streets of Paris and Beiruit.

Their beauty and lives still.

And still matter.

Matter to us.

Fallen petals,

Soft and serene

Know not the struggle.

Yet we delight in them,

In their life for us.

Their colours fade

As their moisture wanes,

Yet their goodness is passed

On to the grainy gravel,

And,

It rises up.

A new shoot,

A stock of green,

Bringing new life

To the sight,

The form,

And the texture,

Of our days.

Fallen flowers

Fallen innocents

Visit regret upon us.

May we witness

New life coming,

As the goodness of the fallen

Rise in us.

Violence may taunt more retaliation.

But a life well lived

Inspires, yes, breathes anew,

Life in others.

Simon C.J. Falk       14 November 2015

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