Broken

                                                                           Broken
A trucker walks into a synagogue…

I
t sounds like the start of a joke, but it’s not.

Not a joke when this trucker is a crazed anti-Semitic
looking for somewhere to aim his misguided blame
Not when he perpetrates another of the countless massacres
that have become the wretched lore of America’s shame
Not a joke when any old trucker from Pennsylvania
can inexplicably have twenty-one guns registered in his name

It’s not the least bit funny when this same old story happens every other day.
It’s called the same old story, because the same old story is always the same.

It seems to happen
every other day
Lives change, in the blink of an eye
Lives changed, in the worst possible way
So many lives
The same old story
Every other day

Every other day
I can feel the devastation
Sickening me again, as a broken system cracks
Resonating again, as a broken person snaps
The devastation of every other day
The anger, the heartache, the vast impacts
The scourge of so many weapons, the same cold facts
So many lives,
changed in the worst way
Lost, in the devastation,
of every other day

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A young couple decides to start a family…

It sounds like a very nice story, until it’s not.

A young mother pulls on her favourite boots,
excited about
a long-awaited night out with her friends
Drinks and dancing, and all the best intentions,
missing her daughter more with every text she sends
Her husband sends her a photo of their peaceful sleeping baby,
never imagining, that tonight, his wife’s life abhorrently ends

Yet another lost name on the long, sad, deplorable list of every other day.
Three more victims of a system that breaks far more often than it bends.

It seems to happen
every other day
Lives change, in the blink of an eye
Lives changed, in the worst possible way
So many lives
The same sad story
Every other day

Every other day
I can feel the desolation
Weakening me again, as a broken system fails
Resonating again, as a broken child wails
The desolation of every other day
The anguish, the heartbreak, the immense scale
The weight of so many coffins, so many final nails
So many lives stolen
So many broken
So many changed
Changed, in the worst way
The same sad news
The same sad reality
The same desolation,
every other day
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Consolation

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye.
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth.
I look at you, and I sigh.
William Butler Yeats – A Drinking Song (1915)

 


Consolation

Just me, alone,
raising my glass to you…

 It was eight years ago today.
I remember the exact conversation,
just as I clearly remember the date.
“We both have the same sensibility, I said.
We’re like a fun young old couple, you and I.
It’s really just a shame
that I was born fifteen years too early
and you was born fifteen years too late.” 

It was our last night together.
You were moving away soon after,
so I said good-bye then, rather than wait.
You responded, with barely a hesitation.
“You know that I never cared about that.
We were great together.
The real shame, for us, is
we were both born a hundred years too late.”


So here’s a toast,
to being an old soul.
A toast,
to being young at heart.
A glass raised,
to being both.
To
the end.
And to the start.

 

When day begins to break
I count my good and bad,
Being wakeful for her sake,
Remembering what she had,
What eagle look still shows,
While up from my heart’s root
So great a sweetness flows
I shake from head to foot.
W.B.Y. – Friends (1915)

 

 

Disheartened

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Disheartened


His mind was clearly made up

discussion was getting nowhere
I watched as he sunk down
slouching lower in his chair
I could see it in his eyes
that blank, empty stare
It was clear he’d had enough
and his reasoning seemed fair
Other things to occupy his time
what little time he could spare
It was a shame to see it end
a talent like his was rare
But when you lose that desire
 it becomes too much to bear
Your heart just isn’t in it…
and you just don’t care.

Your heart prevents you from going
though you know that you should
 It’s a time induced reality
 and no time ever seems good
You decide you’ve had enough
before you thought you would…

Because your heart just isn’t in it.

 

The relationship was trying
and he had no desire to try
Constantly testing his resolve
with your wandering eye
  Your self-confidence crutch
  and he was just not that guy
  He wouldn’t indulge you in your games
  Couldn’t be bothered to reply
 When you had nothing good to say
and everything else was a lie
  Thought that he would love you
until the day that he died
But you had worn him down
  and it was time to say good-bye.
  His heart just wasn’t in it…
and you were the reason why.

When other lives are affected
no time is ever good
You hesitate to leave
but know that you should
Feeling more like a failure
than you ever thought you could…

When your heart just isn’t in it.

 

You feel a sharp pain in your arm
like getting shot with a gun
  Remembering that just last week
you had pain in the other one
You’ve lost your motivation
  preparation is no longer fun
Spend less time in the gym
 reduce your training to none
Spend more time with your family
be able to play catch with your son
You know you’ve taken your last shot

that you’ve scored your last run
Realize it’s time to hang them up
your final game has been won.
Your heart just isn’t in it…

and you know that you are done.

Repetition has worn you down
to a level below where you stood
Your motor has lost its drive
nothing left under the hood
So sure that you would do it
until your body no longer could…

But your heart just isn’t in it
And that never feels good.

Life happens to us all
that’s just how it goes
Seldom does it make sense
yet, the heart just knows.

 

 

STORIES

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STORIES


Let’s talk about “ this one thing that happened”.

We all have our stories
and they are shaped
by how we tell them.

Truth, and fiction

Resonant, and relevant

Memory and interpretation

We say what we filter
and we reveal our view
by what we’ve chosen.

Anything, or everything

Reserve, and unburden

Shame and pride

We turn the camera around
and tighten the focus
by pointing it at ourselves.

Observe, and record

Comment, and document

Impulse and exploration

We learn about the possibilities
and everyone plays a role
by being part of the story.

Expose, and suppose

Infusion, and confusion

Tact and responsibility

We leave scrutiny out there
and open for discussion
by inviting judgement.

Audience, and storyteller

Perceive, and deceive

Truth and fiction.

 

All about “ this one thing that happened”.

 

SHELTER

Suppressing the urge to start anew

He knows just what he shouldn’t do

Never opens his doors at all

Never leaves from within his walls

 

His eyes may be open wide

But usually he will choose to hide

Safe within a world of doubt

Deafening whisper, reticent shout

 

Room to room with scattered thoughts

Kitchen cupboards holding empty pots

Basement depths, in cold calamity

Off-white walls, housing humanity

 

Ghosts remind him of past pains

Dragging demons like heavy chains

Apparitions fade into darkest night

Dissolved by cracks of laden light

 

An echo of places and names and places

Unfamiliar feelings and familiar faces

Hallways filled with hollow laughter

Closets shelved with before and after

 

Room to room with scattered thoughts

Kitchen cupboards holding empty pots

Leaking fixture, in bathroom vanity

Off-white walls, housing his sanity

 

His room is colder than ever before

Bitter draft through hardwood floor

He pulls the covers over his head

But feels no warmer in this bed

 

Sleepless hours afraid to dream

Lost alone in a recurring theme

Sheltered from the break of dawn

He always keeps his curtain drawn

 

Room to room with scattered thoughts

Kitchen cupboards holding empty pots

Low ceilings, in harsh tranquility

Off-white walls, housing humility

 

Room to room, in sheltered resistance

Off-white walls, housing existence

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