The Sirens

They make themselves visible when I least suspect them.
I assume when their presence isn't even present

in my deepest brain cavities,
Long after I have forgotten that such beings

can exist within five senses.
That's when they sneak up on me,

but not from behind a tree

or my back

or any of the many stealthy hiding spots around.
They'll appear before me,

smack bang in front...silent...almost hovering.
Before I can clearly make out their outlines they'll slap my frozen cheeks

with their gentle translucent hands

and lightly frolic away before I can even feel full sting.

And I'm left standing,

my legs somehow still balancing my weight,
My skull somehow still holding onto my jaw as the burn melts into my face

and grabs hold the back of my pulsing eyeballs.
The sirens wail reminds me to breathe again,

I draw in two lung fulls of crisp forest air,

tasting the aged wood and autumn leaf particles pass over my tongue and cut down my dry throat,
I hold onto it for longer than I should,

until my chest hurts and my head starts to spin to the rhythm of the wails,
but sure enough, it too frolics away and the sound and the memory of the sirens fade

and I’m left back in the clearing,

more lost than ever.

She wails.

She wails amongst the others in an attempt to affirm her presence,
Sure, they affirm her voice, her laugh,
her wail and of course her well groomed body,
but the same cannot be said for her presence.

She takes a swig from the bottle and wails,
She takes a puff and bellows the smoke
while wailing her wail.
She passes the bottle and wails,
to whom?…who knows?
Why? Who knows?
She wails, she wails.

I know what’s behind those wails,
at least I like to think I know,
At least I wish what I thought I knew were true.
Behind those wails she can gently smile at the breeze in her hair,
Unaware that anyone’s there.
Behind those wails she can softly stroke and feel what’s really there,
Well aware this feeling is rare.
Behind those wails she can dance to wind, to sound, to silence,
Well aware there isn’t a care.
I remember what was behind those wails and I miss it,
I miss it,
I miss her,
I long for it.

I too have began to wail, I too strain to remain.
I too have lost the winds rhythm.
I too have lost soft touch,
I too have put up these wailing walls of uncertainty,
Like playing the game of being human,
Partaking in the pastime of existence,
Well aware of the rules of the game,
But completely unsure why we play it.

Throbbing wails,
Wails of fear,
Wails of hope,
Wails of pain,
Wails of indecision,
Wails of falsity,
Wails of imprecision.

I remember being behind these wailing walls,
And she was there with me,
Behind these walls was also within,
Now we are free,
But it’s not so cosy.

Neither here, nor there, nor somewhere in between.

Any man's significance seems mighty insignificant
to anything outside the sea shores and mountaintops.

He can try feel at one, but he'll never be more than alone.
He can filter the seas of minerals and life,
but his eyes will never see a speck of purity.

He can leap off bridges, fall through clouds and glide through the stratosphere,
but he'll always fall short of real bending fear.

He can hunt down oxen and deer, study their bones, pick their brains,
drape themselves in their fur,
strap on their horns and wear their hooves as boots,
but he'll never attain their wildness.

He can study mathematics, calculate decimal points, measure bacteria and
square root that by half an atom till kingdom come,
but he won't know true preciseness till his own time has come.

His time and numbers play no real role, His words plays no real role,
fur and bones play no real role, trees and their leaves,
wild flowers and their honey bees play no real role,
bricks, glass, mirrors and plastic spoons barely make an utterance,
while the aging man's body is somewhere in between.

His equations aim to explain, but his science only detracts,
his poems aim at being content with misery,
but his language merely distracts.

Neither here nor there nor somewhere in between.

Every poet, every pianist, every trapper, every fisherman, every cowboy, every tramp, every monk, every shaman, every ju jitsu master, every mathematician, every astronaut, every alcoholic and their fathers and their brothers, their enemies and their friends.

Neither here nor there nor somewhere in between.

you've got to ask yourself...

I sit to rest a while, on the edge of a magnificent, impressive bridge. It is a monstrous mix of metal, looking like machinery, like a robotic arm ready to move both masses of land which it joins. Sitting in the middle of it, I make believe these are my arms, like I can move these peninsulas according to my whims and gather the boats beneath into a pile in the sea just for its aesthetic value. Just to temporarily please my wandering mind and waning sense of self, like priding yourself over making a sculpture of pretzels at a bar whilst getting drunk, but instead of whiskey I have the warm sun and my weariness. I laugh to myself as my giant robot man-day dream begins to turn into a Japanese animation.

I open my eyes and look at my real arm, my hand has been bandaged up after an accident involving a rusted screw piercing my palm. There is something about having a bandaged hand or a slight limp in your step that makes you feel a little bit more masculine, like a boxer or a wounded soldier or Clint Eastwood, it makes you want to spit in the dirt. I reach two fingers into my inside breast pocket, but instead of a .44 Magnum I pull out a small bar of hotel soap. I unwrap the little plastic packaging with a slow smooth finger move and drop the bar down below me, into the sea. It fizzles a while, I watch with the warm Mediterranean wind blowing my straw like hair madly and I smile an evil grin. I Look to either side and spot a pretty girl who has just witnessed my strange act, I quickly try to rub the evil out of my grin and replace it with something nice, but by the crunch of her eyebrows and the wrinkles on her forehead I realize I have failed to redeem myself and she looks down at her feet and continues to walk across and off the bridge.

Frustrated, I dig through my rucksack to find another bar of hotel soap I rip the plastic off with lightning speed and stand up. I look calmly into the distance a moment then peg the soap off the bridge as far as I can, it pains my raw palm wound but the pain is worth the distance. The bar flies through the air, flipping and soaring in slow motion. While watching in anticipation I feel my hand begin to bleed again. The bar collides with the mast of one of the tall sailing ships with a loud clang, it bounces back a few meters and into the deep green sea. It seems to bubble and boil, as does the blood in the middle of my palm seeping into my dirty white bandage. I start to breathe heavily, standing with my legs spread shoulder width apart.

If a pen can be a sword and a boxer can be a butterfly, can a bar of hotel soap be a .44 Magnum?

Ivan has kept the lighthouse for over thirty lonely years, its staircase is filled with old novels.

"...i've kept that lighthouse for over thirty years" he grunts gnashing his teeth, "now the sky doesn't storm, the sea doesn't roar, the gulls aren't flying, the grass is too green, the crabs aren't dying and nor am i."
he pauses, looks to his boots and sighs, then continues a touch more cheerfully "but at least i'm old, have a beard and hook for a hand.

woman and child.

...He sat there for hours, catching the blizzard in his beard. He shook, shivered, snorted and bounced his numb legs. But when he caught first glance of the two walking by him, a whirling warmth lined his stomach and thawed out his insides. He smiled as if the boy was his own.