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Daily Archives: May 24, 2015

Nature’s Mirrors – Promote Yourself


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Puddles on the pavement,
pools of light beneath brooding skies,
reservoirs of captured rain,
unique displays of movement,
as brilliant white swirls through oily black,
and the storm erases memories of the sun.

A flash of colour, of life, as I pass,
there a moment, but gone now, forever,
a puddle has no memory,
and life is brief in nature’s mirrors.

Next, I pause a while, transfixed,
staring into shallow depths,
imagination runs wild, searching,
knowing only tarmac resides,
yet seeing other rippled worlds,
over my distorted gargoyles face,
perhaps a warning, a guardian?
Fantasies, devoid of reality,
removed from my mind, as
only a mind’s eye has power here,
lost in the moment, drawn down,
lured into the murky lagoon,
where incubus and angels do battle.

Lightning flashes now,
breaks the spell, smashes melancholy,
I surface once more,
gasping for stifled air,
haunting images, crystal in clarity.

I am back, yet will I remember that,
which nature’s mirror will not?”

If you like my words, why not check out y travel blog? Twenty First Century Nomad,
Steve.
Twenty First Century Nomad, Novelist & Freelance Writer.
http://www.twentyfirstcenturynomad.com

The Biography Of An Ordinary Man – Promote Yourself

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The flame passes over,
It can light a cigarette
and also end a marriage
He smiles at the irony
And inhales
Holds it in for that second too long
Slow suicide some call it
Idiots
We are all dying slowly
Life is a lottery
Only this one your number
Is guaranteed to come up.
He is not usually a morose guy
Just practical
Sees life for what it is
The moment when dreams die
And reality takes over
At that point
When dreams become truth,
Disappointment
Also brings an understanding .
He blows the smoke into the air
And toasts the understanding with life
You ground me down
I’ll give you that
But at least now
You’ll leave me alone.
At least he has this place
Not much
But really what do you need
A bed
A nice shade on the walls
And a record player.
Life has taken my dreams
But not my LP; s
Not even the wife got them
Funny
That’s all I wanted from her
But when I’m gone
Those boxes
Will be placed in a charity shop
No clue to their importance
No way of telling
How many tears
Ran side by side with the needle
That’s life I guess
The biography of an ordinary man.

Gabriel Denver

The Taste of Sleep – Promote Yourself

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I awaken with a start from sleep that should be restful; repose and recuperation.

And yet my slumber brings no peace. I admit, no demons stalk the empty corridors of my sleep. No, they are not nocturnal. Every waking hour they roost upon my shoulder, nuzzle at my ear, and whisper torments of nothing and everything.

No monsters lurk in the empty rooms under dusty, unused beds, or in dark cupboards that creak under the weight of childish things. Of memories, of good times.

What pursue me in my dreams are lies. False memories. Reflections of what I fear and love the most, but what simply cannot hurt me now. Abandonment, and constant censure of my failures, mistakes and negligence.

But was this ever so ? I was never thus discouraged, and absence prevents them doing so now. Why then does it hurt ?

Larkin was right. “They f**k you up, your mum and dad, They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had. And add some extra, just for you.”

But knowing “This be the Verse” to be so redolently true, why do I still succumb to somnolent torment? When I close my eyes, to rest my body, soul, my brain, why does a battle rage in my subconscious. The dead and walking wounded loiter on the field to shape and influence my waking hours.

This taste of sleep that lingers like garlic or raw onion sets forth my outlook on the day. A Duvet shrouded, solitary indolence of reading and books. A manic striving to create what is ultimately, pointless and irreverent.

Or simply being a good dad, ignoring those whispers, entertaining the only truly ‘good’ thing I have ever achieved.

“Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself” he concludes. But even the after-taste of night terror will never see me acquiesce. Surely I cannot be all bad, what I leave behind will be greater than the sum of my parts.

No, on days like this I rinse away the unpleasant tang and prefer to savour more pleasant dishes. Infused with hope and enriched with the zest of my child, who reminds me, who proves “our almost – instinct almost – true: What will survive of us is love.”

Copyright © John Bullock, 2013. All Rights Reserved

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