Man Inside

No one person knows the man inside the man,
Wherein there lies such agony untold.
Bold he was on outward glance, the sideways glance
That other persons would surreptitiously sneak
While walking past, perchance they’d peek, to
Know more of the man, but bold the man remained.

Bold, through shining face and professions of
Contentment and gratitude, satisfaction, and happiness –
A fortitude unmet in many men.
A smile came unrestrained,
A laugh in spontaneity,
Though smiles and laughs and a talkative charm
Would see the man through all encounters.

At least the encounters with those other people,
The one’s whose sideways curiosity, afforded
Them a glance, and too, the ones whose curiosity
Became an interest (they ventured forth to enquire
As to the man’s well-being – caring, it would seem).

Counselling them to worry not, he would quell their
Curiosity and satisfy his needs. He’d invite them all to tea.
The taking of a cup of tea, to satisfy his social needs,
Also did seem satisfactory to his guests.

In their quest for conversation much trivia was explored.
No exchange of real anything took place.
After taking tea together, parting was mere formality.
Their minds were mutually at ease.

Alas, mere fortune’s outward gleamings
Cannot show the inner feelings,
The man inside the man whom no one knows.
The taking of the tea, with cold company
Keeps the man cold, and colder inside.

Those inner feelings remain untold,
Though outward appearances were bold
Those unheard agonies remain,
Corroding the mind when lonely, bitter
Contemplation was inescapable.

When the tea was gone, the guests were gone,
There were no appearances to keep up.
The sideways glance was not taken,
Blinds were closed, doors were locked;
Contemplation was inescapable.
Such is the agony of discontent.
Such is his agony.

Leftover

There’s just a little reality left over from my dream,
A little leftover reality, that leaves me quite perturbed.
I’d not know what to do with it in this nightmare rat race,
I’d never know what to do with it in this forlorn place.

Thorn

For some time I’d thought about the most
Indefatigable of personalities,
But had not come to any terms with
Anything in any contemplation of the same.

I thought, perhaps, I’d change my name.
Would that have made the day a little brighter?
Would my heart have been made a little lighter?

No, I left my name the same,
‘Twouldn’t make a difference.

They say a rose is still a rose by any other name,
But no-one mentioned anything about the thorns.
A thorn is a thorn is a thorn,
A sharp pointed outgrowth that lurks beneath the rose
(I think it’s found away into my side).
It’s still a thorn, by any other name.

Never Known

Never really having known,
Is not to have never really loved.

Never having love expressed
Is not to have never really loved.

Never having communicated,
Is not to have never really loved.

Never reaching old age,
Is not to have never really lived,
Nor to have ever really loved.

Dream

Caught,
Inescapably dreaming in some other half-deserted mind,
There were only flowers for graves.
Flowers for weddings and flowers
For the sick were almost gone now.
There were no flowers. Plants had fallen to the
Same whims and lusts that had themselves fallen.
As parasitic vines that kill their hosts and then must
Die themselves, these whims and lusts had
Killed their hosts, but I dare not say those desires had died.

There was a window, bright and clear,
Bearing the hoarfrost of another morn.
Another evening’s leftovers, in a leftover world
Where little is left behind.

(This little girl’s doll had no new dresses,
No hair, no doll’s house.)

The air, rank and cold: I’d smelled that air before,
In some other dream I chose to forget.
Sometimes the chosen path is not the same path followed.
Then I remembered, all too vividly,
What was missing.

Missing: not to be seen through frosted windows,
Not to be seen in streets or meadows.
The churches lay dormant, schools empty.

Like some far historic monument to a dream
Yet to come, buildings, too tall, stood in silent and somber repose;
Bridges traversed gaps that were not to be crossed,
Vehicles that should never have moved on earth
Whistled in the stark wind that blew threw them.

In barren streets there could be none found,
None in the sun that gives it,
None in the air that makes it.

(This little girl’s doll had none either)

There weren’t any flowers, either.

The doll stood in mute mockery of
What once was: little girls,
Little babies,
What could have been people.

Hush

Hush . . .
Turn your back on the world.
Plant your back on the sand,
Listen to the waves and look up.

Listen to your heart and look up.
Listen to the sky and look up.

What you find may surprise you.
You may surprise your Self.

Trust

I bequeath to you a trust,
Not in God, not in dollars,
Not in people, not in poets,
Not priests or politicians,
Not in life nor death;

In no words, no truths,
No dreams or thoughts,
No elixers, no armies,
No race or wars.
Not in nothing, not in
Something, not in you,
Not in me.

Just a trust,

In trust.

Disturbed

I hear the faint sound of drops that are falling somewhere else
Droplets pounding and crashing and smashing
Quietly to the ground beyond these walls.
Yet alone I sit within these walls.
I know there is life beyond the walls,
But I dare not shout out to it,
Dare not disturb faint dripping sounds,
Smashing to the ground.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

There is a universe out there,
But it is foreign to my senses.
I consider it foregn to myself.

Do I dare disturb a foreigner?

I’ve my own universe with which I must deal.
I’ve my own life to lead,
My own detachment, my own walls.
I call it a life.

Do I dare disturb a life?

Every day I arise to disturb a life.
I disturb the life, yet the life is mine.
That life is no less a foreigner
Than I am to myself.

How well do I know myself?

I am a foreigner, and daily I disturb myself.
The foreign life is disturbed,
Yet is no less a part of the universe
Than the universe itself.

The universe is disturbed
By droplets, falling to the ground;
I am disturbed, knowing they are somewhere else
And thinking they are foreign.

The disturbance comes not from
Their existence, or from any existence,
But from the thought of that existence
I call a life.

I need remove the thought,
And the universe will be at ease.

I will not be disturbed.

Peaceful, Loving Man (Reggae Song)

I saw the colours,
But no anger was aroused.
I felt the peaceful hope,
Of a peaceful, loving man.

I saw the lion’s head,
But no fear was aroused.
I felt all the courage,
Of a couragous man.

I saw the black man,
But no hatred was aroused.
I felt all the love,
Of a peaceful, loving man.

I saw the dread,
But no envy was aroused.
I gave all my loving
To a peaceful, loving man.

I heard the music,
All my love was aroused.
I gave all my loving
To a peaceful, loving man.

I heard Jah’s word
All my life had been aroused.
In his name I gave it,
To Bob Marley and his band.

Simple Agonies

I used to think J. Alfred was a sorry case:
the poor mortal man in search of something meaningful.
I used to think the meaningful important,
but now coffee spoons seem almost appropriate.

Yes, I remember rooms where people came and went,
and looked on in malice, trying to impress
in their masked agony of discontent.

Were they like me, or were they I?
Better still, (or worse yet)
was I like them?

My own agony of discontent was my own.
But my agony was different, I know it was.
I had only to look at their faces to feel their
malice (and for their sake, look impressed),
to know their discontent was not as mine.

Those rooms seem so long ago and yet,
I’m in one now.
The windows show a world that I look out into,
but am not a part of, or at least
don’t seem to be.

I don’t seem to be free.

There is my agony, my discontent.
Though I may sit in this room and lament,
it’d not be for any gain
or satisfaction.
It’s just a humble method of distraction,
to take away my mind from simple agonies,
though for some time I’ve known
(I’ve not fooled myself),
it is an agony all its own.

Simple agonies, a simple malice.
Who am I trying to impress?
There’s no one else inside my room but me,
and I’m not free.
Though I may come and go, as people do,
for now I’ll stay.

But out the window I see such a nice day.

I’d probably get a sunburn, or catch a cold,
So it’s O.K.