Monthly Archives: July 2014

I wonder what they are thinking?

The other day my daughter mused as to what it might be like if we knew what people were actually thinking about.  Now as an “old man” Continue reading

Advertisements

Scones, Soup, Sherry and Flora

Knights-Castille, Bushells Tea, Sweet-Peas these were a few of her favourite things.   Today I reflected on the passing of my mum,  Continue reading

The truth will set you free (or me anyway)

I recently wrote about prison walls not needing to be made of stone to keep someone incarcerated.  I lived a life in incarceration for many many years, largely based on some fictional representation of myself that I established as a narrative in my life.  I have blogged at length about the reasons for that, largely fear driven and I realise habitual. Continue reading

Softly Falling

I can touch them,

falling softly from the sky.

Caressing, soothing and renewing,

bringing life and love

Washing over me

 

 

I can feel them

Healing and soothing,

gently warming,

falling,

from your mind.

 

I can hear them,

words of love,

forgiveness, acceptance openness,

falling softly,

on my ears and my heart.

 

I can see them,

tears falling, softly

from your eyes

Falling softly

on my heart,

out there on my sleeve.

Purple Rain

Oh Misery Oh Misery

Rain falling in my heart,

cold, dark, dismal rain.

Soaking through the bindings,

that tied it back together.

A quiet despair, that pervades and infiltrates every nook and cranny.

No hiding from this rain, no place to run or flee.

Sapping the warmth from my heart and reaching into my soul,

this rain. Every where I turn there you are.

What is your name?

Rain falling on my heart, not the rain of spring and life,

no, not the warm gentle summer rain, not the rain of prayers and hope,

not black or grey, not hail or sleet but as cold as charity.

Purple rain falling on me, washing over me drowning my soul.

With you purple rain you have your amigos,

desolation hopelessness, mediocrity, failure.

All along for the ride, come and see what fun we can have.

There it is laid out on the bare hard ground, spilling its life blood,

quickly now while its down, slash a little more, see if the beating will stop.

Teach it a lesson, reckless, forgiving, and hopeful, we can fix that.

Have another dose of reality, have a look at your foolishness, see them

all standing around, “I told you so”, wont you learn?  Why do you bother?

A chorus of disdain and shrill laughter,

shrieking like a polar blast, uprooting and destroying.

Is there any fight in you?

Will you get up again?

Go another round?

Or is that the towel I see thrown in,

bloodied and torn, rent asunder.

Just a useless piece of dirtied rag, fit only to be discarded,

burnt, destroyed turned into ashes.

Oh love you whore, your irresistible siren heart has shown your nature true.

No redemption in you for the shallow man.

What destruction have you unleashed this time,

with your flood of purple rain?

What will be left behind if you ever recede.

Anything worth keeping?

© Paul Cronin 2012

Koru

 

 

Koru

koru

Coiled like a spring you emerge,

just visible above your sisters.

Coil on coil, spiral on spiral.

Embryonic, prehistoric

ancient and wise.

You rest for just a moment,

 biding your time,

waiting and watching,

and then…

You begin.

As if testing the waters of life,

you open your self,

spiral upon spiral,

leaf upon leaf.

Each the same and yet different.

One supporting the other,

perfect harmony and order.

Reaching out and reaching in,

touching and caressing,

like words falling softly.

Ancient wisdom at your centre.

Always the same and yet each frond different.

New narratives unfurling with soft whispers,

Strength and softness,

 constancy and change.

Imagination here, tenderness there.

 Opportunity and hope.

Glorious hope.

Dancing in the dew,

your message draws itself

as if painted on the morning.

New beginnings and old endings.

This too shall pass…

Thus was the sage advice from my sister last week and she is so right.  Unfortunately this too  is still current and whilst  the knowledge that it shall pass is comforting it just seems too far away.  I haven’t posted for a while,but the muse is upon me and if I want to call myself a writer (and I do) then I should write.  I have been deeply angry on a number of levels, for a variety of reasons and whilst have felt the urge to write I was somewhat concerned with the vitriol that was rolling in my head, I didn’t want to write because I had nothing good to say, however there it is, I may still be angry in a week or a month, shall I remain silent for that length of time, those that know me will instantly recognise that as a rhetorical question!

So something positive in amongst this well a couple of things, I celebrate my children, and my nephew who lives with me, that is I am proud of them. Not because of any particular achievement at all but because they are living their lives with passion, and that is absolutely awesome and is comfort to me, so that is one extraordinarily good thing.

The second thing that has occurred is a bit more surprising, those who know me well will tell you that I have a quick mind, a quick  tongue and could even be accused of having a sardonic wit.  Being truly sardonic is an artform to me, it rates well above mere sarcasm, which any amatuer can achieve.  Over the past few weeks I have been presented with golden opportunities to practice the dark art of sardonicism, however I have resisted these opportunities and largely persisted with the firm, (and rather terse) response.  Not as fruitful perhaps as other approaches but more respectful, especially when dealing with minions who have no ability to reply, firstly there is no real challenge in it, a bit like shooting ducks on the water really, secondly it can be extremely hurtful and I don’t want to hurt nobody as Bob Dylan sings.

One of the struggles I am having is around work at the moment.  I have only had one paid day in the last month.  Whist not quite desperate I do need to get some soon, I don’t want to rely on state assistance.  However I will do what I need to do to house, feed and clothe my kin and kith.  But my need to work is deeper than a need to provide, it strikes at my psyche which is a huge difference for me.  Whilst I am an adequate house person, I really find being a stay at home single parent a kind of suffocating, suppurating, scab, that eats at me like some form of gangrene, I feel myself slowly dying a little bit at a time.  However that needs some examination.

People ask me what I do and I describe myself as a writer who teaches for a living.  Blog writing is one form that I express myself in however I am also a poet,, except that I am not writing poetry at the moment, does that make me an ex poet?  One who has a hundred or so poems to his name,I have more blog posts than poems!  Alas I know what is wrong with me, it is not writers block per se as I am able to produce poetry if asked however it is a matter of the heart,  however that will be my next blog post.  I fear that I have lost my ability to love people outside of my immediate family.  More on that later.  For now I am ready to try to sleep.

Take care and live well,

Paul