Into Denial

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Into Denial

 

Denial

No, it’s not

It didn’t

Happen

You were here

Now

Denial 

you are not 

not denial

You were robust

Always strong

Our light

Joking

Denial

With you we were

Safe and then

Fading

Denial

You seemed

Distant

Denial

I’m not here now

And you’re not there

Not

There

Not…..

A memory left of you

But we remember

Always

Always, we remember.

 

Simon C.J. Falk     28 July 2020

 

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Gazing Eyes of Experience

Gazing Eyes of Experience

Eyes gazed

Into the mirror of

What these days

Have meant.

Energy spent

And expended.

So easily gone.

Eyes crazed

Into the fears

In many ways

Eating at

The grief of what

Cannot be done.

Or, of what will

Become

Of the future.

Eyes glazed

As words are read

On the screen.

Words of love and care.

Words there

In the gaze.

The best glance

By eyes

That gazed.

Simon C.J. Falk 10 November 2017

Sick Man’s Stroll: A Kind of Rehabilitation

 

 

 

Sick Man’s Stroll: A Kind of Rehabilitation

Sick man’s stroll

Variations of

An ambling gait

And a staggering shuffle.

The slow stroll

Moves along

Like a metronome

On easy tempo

Gradually

Bringing breath

And circulation into

A kind of rhythm

But oh,

To cross the road,

Turtles could pass by

As try, we do

To gather a little more pace

Into the race

To the pedestrian island.

All that is now needed

Is a dowdy hat

And a shabby old cardigan

With turned up cuffs,

Buff or beige,

And with pockets

All sagged from

Hands, hankies and

Whatever else,

With traces of lunch

Lurking between the lint

On its surface.

And we amble on

Willing the legs

To return home

To their former vigour.

Can we handle the rigour?

Of this new metered life?

Calculated, paced, slowed

Oh, who knows

Where this stroll

Will go?

What of tomorrow?

Forecast of a shower,

Some shuffles between

The sleep.

You know what I mean?

The slow creep

Of the stroll to rehabilitation.

Simon C.J. Falk 10 November 2017

You Are Where Your Mind Wanders

You Are Where Your Mind Wanders

Sitting

In a peaceful garden

Soundings of

Birdsong

Enter in

Interjected intermittently

By automobiles

Rolling on by

Under a warming blue

Sky.

But, the inner eye is

Elsewhere

Harbouring another care.

For

You are

Where your mind wanders

Where your heart ponders,

Regardless of the place

Occupied by your face.

Listen

Be still

Allow the sound to fill

You, with present concerns

Here and now.

Furrow not your brow

In troubles elsewhere

You cannot be there.

Let the scampering ants

Scarper away your troubles

And chance

Yourself here

Mind and heart clear.

Sitting

In a peaceful garden

Breathing free within

Allowing solar rays

To fall upon the skin

And sounds of birds on ear

Just hear

Here.

Simon C.J. Falk 2 November 2017

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It’ll Cut For Hay

Some people may have noticed that I write Christmas poems around that time of the year. One morning, when I was thinking about such things, this poem appeared.

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It’ll Cut for Hay

 

A farmer pointed to his neighbour’s crop,

Said, “Mate, your crop will wilt way!”

The neighbour said,” Oh well, mate.”

“It’ll cut for hay.”

 

When the stripping came around,

And the header has its day,

They heard the threshing on the ground,

As it was cut for hay.

 

They bailed, and trucked and stowed it,

In the shed over by the way,

After bailing was all done,

The last bit was left for another day.

 

They left that bit in the corner,

Loose on the hay shed floor,

For a time of use later on,

Who would know what’s in store?

 

When as it might just happen,

The farmer of pessimistic bent,

After his wife died in tragedy,

His care for all was spent.

 

He hit the bottle hard,

And as the anger heaved inside,

He’d take it out upon his son,

And bash and flog his hide.

 

One day in a stupor,

As he reeled upon his feet,

The young bloke pushed him backwards,

And took off down the street.

 

The young bloke ran along the lane way,

He trudged across paddock and up road,

Finally after much moving,

He had to rest his load.

 

He staggered into their neighbour’s hay shed,

And in the corner by the way,

He spotted the bailing leftovers,

And then crashed in the hay.

 

Christmas Eve, it was, that night,

That he fled his Dad’s abode,

Searching for a place to rest,

He’d taken to the road.

 

It was reminiscent of another night,

On another day and station,

When a family travelling to Bethlehem,

Needed accommodation.

 

When morning came, the farmer went,

Out to the hay shed,

Surprise met him on the threshold,

With the neighbour’s son in bed.

 

He later told his preacher,

Who thought the story had deeper reach,

This plight reminded him of the first Christmas,

So, on it he did preach.

 

The boy’s father just got worse,

And ended up doing time,

In a drunken rage he robbed and assaulted,

And was caught red handed in the crime.

 

But his son looked after his father’s flock,

And worked on the neighbour’s land,

He took the wilted, bailed hay,

And fed the sheep by hand.

 

Then gathered with his ‘foster dad’,

They gave thanks for the wilted hay,

It had served a purpose,

On the needed day.

 

There is more story to be told,

As the prison door swung open wide,

The son and father ran to embrace,

And now work side by side.

 

Our life’s triumphs and failures,

Might grow or wilt like hay,

But even chaff has its day in the sun.

On that needed day.

True life will find a way.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 25 September 2017

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Disconnected

Disconnected

Whether on the wordpress feed, the workplace, or among friends, people disappear for a while.  At times it is tragic.  At others, it’s just the complexity and busyness of life that means we see or hear less of them.  Their return is welcome.  

Disconnected

Disconnected

Adrift

Unhooked

Lost to us and

when

we looked

we a saw a status

blank

and felt an absence where

your place

and face

had been.

Did you also feel

the break

the quake

that made a fissure

spring apart

asunder

where once

you

were seen?

Later the path

came here and

there

and where

you came and went

and returned

towards

us again.

Then we saw

your place resume

your face return

and words spilled

from your

spring

and flowed

to us again.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 27 January 2017

#CBF16 Joseph’s List

Joseph’s List

In memory of Joseph Patrick Falk 1956-87

Here it is

With those long, looping letters

R

U

N

N

I

N

G

Down the page and

Over

The other side.

Testimony to times spent

Reading the hours away.

Doorways into homes from

Other eras and vistas.

Witness also to

A brother’s love

For a brother.

Gathered at the kitchen table

Blessed interruption

To “homework time”

Two pens it took him yet

Finish it he did.

Sharing his joys

Of narrative and verse

With his younger sibling.

Now, he is gone.

Many years have past

Since he penned that page.

Fifteen I was

When he was tragically taken.

Yet his words remain

Penned on a page

Cherished by me

Among the true treasures

Of words and life.

I look upon that list,

That you prepared that day.

At times as my gaze sits,

Tears get in the way.

If only you were still here,

To read these faltering lines.

Knowing what a gift you gave,

When we had those times.

I still cherish some of those authors,

That you revealed to me.

As you showed love for brothers,

In a way so literary.

 


This was posted as part of the Cherished Blogfest 2016.  To see my post from last year look here.


Simon C.J. Falk 29 July 2016

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In #Istanbul

In Istanbul

April 2016 – Some friends and I spent some days in Istanbul Turkey as tourists cum pilgrims.  We loved it.  In recent days the sadness that has descended is crushing.  The good and hospitable people of Istanbul could well do with our encouragement.

 

In Istanbul

 

We travelled in,

We trod the streets,

We slopped the beer,

And ate the treats.

In the Bazaar Grand,

Some tried their hand,

At a haggle or two,

For a rug or a shoe.

And we loved our days,

On the ‘Gold Horn’ way.

They took us in.

Made us at home,

And it made us grin,

To see spruikers roam.

 

But the terminal we travelled,

Has now been unravelled,

Leaving crumble and rubble,

From the hateful trouble.

And streets we walked in peace,

Amidst crowds and police,

Now could appear,

To become pathways of fear.

But people! O people! Of Istanbul,

Do not lose heart when others kill,

Those you looked after

From far across sea,

Call out to you from a land roaming free.

You hosted us,

And we toasted you,

Do not let hatred or fuss,

Your spirit subdue.

Your history is splendid,

Your hospitality is fine,

When the hatred subsides,

You’ll return to your prime.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 30 June 2016

 

Trapped

Trapped

 

A partial response to the Australian Story segment, ‘When the Call Comes’ 20 June 2016 http://www.abc.net.au/austory/ about a man referred to as ‘Mouse’ and his circle.

 

First strike

Trapped

By tragedy

A man trapped

By his painful past

A cycle

Of abuse and torment

Through his days.

Second strike

Trapped

By the ‘street scene’

The rounds

By the moment

Like a mouse

Cornered

Stabbed and

Struck

Gone.

Third strike

Trapped

By the memory

Two families broken

This is

No score.

The bystanders

We

In the background

Look

In sad horror

His place

Abandoned

Monument of memory

Of a life taken way.

 

* * *

 

Memoriam

May he find peace now

A true home forever

And peace for his family

May the torment

Become peace.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 20 June 2016

Another Side of Loneliness or ‘On Living Life to the Full’

Another Side of Loneliness or ‘On Living Life to the Full’

 

Paul Murray, who is a poet, scholar of Christian Spirituality and a Dominican Friar, writes in his book, Scars: Essays, Poems and Meditations on Affliction (Bloomsbury: 2014), on both the gift of our uniqueness and the loneliness that can be felt along with it.  Part of our lives are unique to us alone and others cannot perceive, think and feel exactly the same way that we each do. By the way, I’m fine at the moment.  I just recognise having had this experience before and wondered if others may identify with this in some way.

 

‘On Living Life to the Full’

 

When you heart is empty

And your hands are empty

 

You can take into your hands

The gift of the present

 

You can experience in your heart

The moment in its fullness.

 

***

 

And this you will know,

Though perhaps you may not yet

Understand it,

 

And this you will know:

 

That nothing

Of all you have longed for

Or have sought to hold fast

Can relieve you of your thirst,

Your loneliness,

 

Until you learn

To take in your hands

And raise to your lips

This cup of solitude

This chalice of the void

 

And drain it to the dregs.

 

(All rights to Paul Murray, OP and Bloomsbury Press 2014)

 

Interesting that I had read this, as, in recent times, the author Hannah Kent tweeted on her @HannahFKent account “My favourite new word: Waldeinsamkeit (German, noun). The feeling of being alone in the woods, an easy solitude, connectedness to nature.”

 

I partly covered what Murray is talking about in a closing section to one of my previous posts, “The Great Alone

How do we hold them,

Their damp, dark spirits,

In the fog,

When they realise

That we each

have an alone

that is unique to ourself,

and no other human

can truly dwell

with us

in that beautiful

yet alone

place?

 

Simon C.J. Falk 10 June 2016