Riding the Adrenaline Bus

Image: Freepics on the net

Riding the Adrenaline Bus

 

Riding the adrenaline bus

Fueled by a ‘Red Bull’

Mentality and actually

Rocketing along

With ‘Mother’ as a

Bumper sticker

Holding fast,

Yes, fast

As the heart will pump

And the greater

The thump

When the crash

Comes.

Harrowed eyes

Through road maps

The viewer spies

Darting balls this way

And that way

And every way

But shut.

Riding, clinging amid the

Fuss

Why us?

Shut off

The engine and coast

On a quiet roll

Or a rhythmic stroll

At a measured pace

There is no race

For you to face.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 13 August 2018

 

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Again, We Are More

Again, We Are More

When I wrote the poem We Are More, I knew there was more to tell.  John O’Donohue was reputed to have said that, when he had written some poems, there was more left over for another.  What also helped form ‘Again, We Are More’, is the discovery of a fabulous blog by ‘Anna’ called Anonymously Autistic.  It just goes to show that we still have much to learn from the experiences of others and of how they are more than what they seem.

Again, We Are More

(i)

Perched

On the hard brickwork,

Atop a retaining wall,

He sways:

Back and forth,

To and fro,

A catatonic rhythm.

As each sway completes

Its repetitive arc

Groans emit from within,

Groans of a wordless language

Yet, transmitting a pain

All can sense.

He can memorise

Timetables and schedules

And recipes and shopping lists

And here

He’s reduced

To a state

Of oblivion.

But, again,

We are more

Than the episodes acting out

From us

That we cannot control.

 

(ii)

Into the middle distance,

Not looking

At what’s before her eyes,

She is last

To leave the courtroom.

Another case

Lost,

Gone.

She reels,

And feels

A tremble,

Ever so slight at first,

As the adrenalin leaks

From her

And on

To the parquetry floor,

Beneath

Her swollen feet.

Weary

She will have to face

Her colleagues at the office.

Weary

She will then drive

Through traffic

And home –

At last –

Home

To her son.

 

(iii)

“No, no, no!”

She says,

And her son,

He keeps groaning,

And swaying, more

And more

Before

It dawns on her,

As she cries into her hands,

That the more she rebukes

The more he will groan and sway

And cover his ears with the palms

Of his taut hands.

“Why?”

She asked herself

Had she snapped

At her son so.

Her sobs heavier now,

Face pressed against her knees,

Arms hugging legs.

Weary

With work,

With worry,

With life,

And yet,

Again

We are more

Than the building frustrations

That erupt

In desperation.

 

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk       29 October 2016

The Fighter

The Fighter

We all know that life is busy for so many people.  Some days we take it in our stride. On other days it annoys, frustrates or frightens us. This poem explores some of that condition.  It places the primal fight-flight mechanism right into the breach of the dialogue.

 

The Fighter

 I am the boxer

Flailing on the rope

Trying to knock away my opponent

And I fear I cannot cope.

 

The demands come

Like constant jabs

Shooting pains

At times from various directions

Google calendar alerts

Email inboxes

Pushy ‘push notifications’

Piles of ‘snail mail’

Tetchy texts

And more besides

Come in.

“Can we make a time?”

“This opportunity not to be missed!”

“Have you read those documents?”

I want to shred those documents!

 

I am the wrestler

Grappling with the foe

Trying hard to throw them off

Then down the road I’ll go.

 

Then there are the regulars

The constant appointments

Didn’t I just write a report?

“Umm, that was last month’s one,

now we need another one.”

“We haven’t seen you at our group for a while.”

 

I am the runner

Running from the malaise

Darting here and darting there

Fleeing all my days

 

Ahh, a free night!

Put the phone on silent!

Get out of town.

Go to a quiet place

And keep company with your soul.

Be quick!

Or your opportunity will get eaten up!

 

I am the writer

Fighting with pen again

Trying to make some sense

And to verbalise the pain

 

To anaesthetise the pain

 

Or pour it down the drain

 

And purge away the drain

 

Before I go insane.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk  17 May 2014

Soft Rain Falls Over Fields and Hills

Soft Rain Falls Over Fields and Hills

A beautiful sojourn in the Southern Highlands of NSW  (cf http://www.thehermitage.org.au/ ) earlier in the week butts up against the mundane duties of life back at work.  It is not as extreme as it seems at times.  Yet, the challenge to remain centred and integrated in the face of many demands is an experience many of us recognise.

 

 

Soft Rain Falls Over Fields and Hills

 Soft rain falls over fields and hills,

like a blanket.

Stitch by stitch

a gentle wet

covers us

In its bounty.

A peace descends,

and we rest

in the beautiful mounts of Mittagong.

United in one purpose,

we tell of each of our work.

Common cultural themes

rising in our reports

like a similar distillation

of a settled still.

Minds, ears and voices

come together,

to shape,

the task,

that moves us

towards the horizon

that we must go.

And go we do,

when our time is done.

But oh!

Those luscious green hills.

The docile cattle

grazing about their feeding,

disturbed so little

by our presence around them.

Now we have returned.

Back at the fray.

Calendar and diary,

they rule the day!

This event!

That appointment!

This person, that group!

Friend, family or fool.

All make their claim,

as we feel

set upon,

fed off,

like a carcass to the jackals.

Yet,

still breathing,

we feel the bites.

Or, we are spun,

as on a wild windmill.

Bits of us flung off

at various intervals,

yet still attached,

leaving us

as a tangled, matted mess.

This feeling then,

Is one of being scattered,

dis-integrated.

If only the rhythmic axle

and the gravitational force

of the spinning

would hold us connected

to that one centre.

And,

as we dwell

upon that windmill,

we think again,

of fields and hills

on the mounts of Mittagong,

where soft rain falls

as balm on our broken pain,

and feeding cattle

remind us

of nature’s rhythm,

of life and growth,

and of living again.