blog, creativity, poetry, productivity

Making my way

StockSnap via pixabay

It’s getting cooler now, autumn truly setting in as what’s left of summer fades away. Rain trickles down the windows. I stare out at the grey sky, and I don’t know what I’m doing or why.

I begin work.

Sometimes nothingness and oblivion are far more appealing than they should be. Have I had a good life, someone asks. I’ve been good. I’ve done good. Followed the rules. Not made a fuss.

I don’t know if that is a good life. If it is good for me.

I keep working.

It seems futile, shouting into the void, scratching symbols on the sand for the tide to wash it away. Hurricanes blow away human constructions, suck the very ocean from the earth. People talk feverishly of end times, booking places in the lifeboat of faith. They know they will be saved. All seems futile, all comes to an end, why not here?

I have not come to an end. I wake, and it is another day, and I go on working.

There are lean times, and times of plenty. There are droughts, and oases of green. There are things made of grey, and nothings made of black. There are places where all these co-exist, a Schrödinger dimension of ideas. My head is one of these places.

In the midst of death and endings, my fingers sprout new lives and beginnings that never were. I build word bricks into sentence walls and so construct whole cities of fanciful notions, airy and insubstantial and leaden. If I don’t spit them out they weigh me down and I drown in a sea of tears.

I must work.

Fly my pretties, out into an uncertain world of indifference and pain. Let me birth you one by one, sit gasping and bleeding in the road, then catch my breath and move on, never looking back. Another cuckoo grows within. I sleep, and life comes to me again with dawn. I rise, weary.

The work compels me.

If I have material or if I have not, it is the same. It is only the work, the creation, the what if spur in my flanks, that gives meaning to the day. I may turn my back, but it is always there.

And so I’m doing the work.


 

audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

September’s end

 

autumn-tree-leaves-red-63614
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com  

 

A breeze blows still, cooler and sharper than summer’s soft sigh, an edged whisper stealing beneath my ill-advised layers of silk. I should wear a sweater, perhaps. It’s almost time, but I cling to the dying summer as a drowning man cradles the last hopeful flotsam to his chest. It’s not enough, in the end. But it will do for now.

Vibrant spring greens gave way to lively grass greens. Varied hues fade in sunlight that promises much from behind a window, but delivers less than wanted in reality. Here and there, wine red blushes leaves while others flicker orange and yellow, a final bonfire of colour to warm the season’s end. The green of life retreats to its source. We know the dark is coming.

Not today though. Today energetic clouds bustle in cool blue. Scarlet fruits bob and sway. Nature keeps her promises in generous bounty. And in the imperceptibly shrinking day another voice hides. Now you see me, then you won’t. But the world turns, and brings another, harsher time. Gather in while you may.

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

individu[al(one)]

man sitting in cell_Free-Photos
Free-Photos via pixabay

He is at work. Wednesday comes.

Hey, we’re off to the pub. Coming?
Sure. Why not.
Football scores. Office politics. The girl in the corner wearing blue.
Nothing to say. Sips a beer. No response to desperate glances.
Must be getting home or there’ll be hell to pay, right?
Right.

He is at work. Friday comes.

TGIF, am I right?
Right.
She’s got my weekend booked up, shopping and a BBQ, groan. You?
Nothing much.
I wish.
Three beers and Netflix. Pizza delivery. Quiet bed.

He is at work. Monday comes.

So busy this weekend, didn’t have a minute to myself. How about you?
Oh, you know. Quiet.
You’re lucky, time to yourself.
Yes. Lucky me.
Friday can’t come quick enough, am I right?
Right.

He is quiet. No trouble. No drama.

No sun. Engulfed by eternal cloud, muffled, numb.
Rain drips icy fingers down his neck, freezing his bones.
Invisible, lost, a lone wolf.
Teeth ripping at his own heart.
A final scream, choked. Unheard.
None to sing his elegy.

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Echoes

 

boy-dirty_Mohammad Moin Ulhaq
Mohammad Moin Ulhaq via pexels 

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

George Santayana

listen: 

The lessons of the past are clear to see
on pages dripping with blood shed in vain
and still we can’t escape our history.

When no-one questions how we come to be
repeating ancient wrongs, one truth remains;
the lessons of the past are clear to see.

A genocide becomes legal decree
some disbelieve an innocent’s refrain
and still we can’t escape our history.

When facts are fake, debased commodity
and Orwell’s warnings are chillingly plain
the lessons of the past are clear to see.

Complicit, distant, blind to misery
we turn away and shrug, not this again
and still we can’t escape our history.

It’s too easy to say it wasn’t me;
I’m not responsible for all this pain.
The lessons of the past are clear to see
yet still we can’t escape our history.