A Life Spent A life spent lo A Life SpentA Life Spent A life spent lo by ~ravenstromdans
A life spent lost in roles, trapped in characters;
swordsman, mage, victim, hero, villain,
hiding in guises stripped from the imaginations
of other people who've lived fuller lives,
learning too late that life isn't hidden
between the pages of a novel.
A life spent chasing an illusion, a fiction
while bound by the cold confines of reality;
caught up in the pursuit of a woman with
with eyes of a myth, the body of a legend
and the mind of a goddess, realizing too late
such a human being can never exist.
A life spent flitting from one thing to the next,
wandering hither and yon searching for passion,
for that moment of inspiration that might produce
fiery sort of drive, to provide some direction,
failing to find the one bright spark
that might ignite the flame.
A life spent...time's up.
Morning and EveningI have sung out these verses with life's blood and breath,Morning and Evening by ~ravenstromdans
ignorant to whether the words are for you, to you or at you;
each memory a husk pregnant with shadows,
A signpost of the past, devoid of sensation.
A Thought of Morning.
The wages of the sword are pain,
these choices made that direct
the diversely winding course of life.
The true tragedy of of failure
is not the decisions that lead
down a dark and treacherous course,
but instead the knowledge
that the one source of salvation
could never be trusted to provide it.
A Thought in the Evening.
Blue BirthIn the evening, there was something new in the sky.Blue Birth by ~ravenstromdans
It was hugely egg-shaped, dwarfing the moon with a startling aquamarine pearlescence. That glow had spread across the night-side of the earth, alternately fascinating and disconcerting the human population.
Johnson Blake watched the sky distrustfully from the porch of his small cabin, a largely neglected bottle of beer clenched in his gnarled paw. The sweat on his face and the condensation on the bottle a glittering with a turquoise sheen. Strangely, the touch of the light made his skin crawl with goose-flesh, his muscles involuntarily twitching in an unconscious effort to shy away. Was this common or was it his personal reaction alone, he couldn't say. All Johnson knew for certain was he didn't like that great blue, whorled egg sitting in his sky.
An engine was sputtering up the path to his cabin. Glancing down, Johnson noted the approach of a small blue Datsun. His son Tad had promised to visit with his long-su
Flesh Of Ice and FireThe poetry in my soul has ever been in free verse.Flesh Of Ice and Fire by ~ravenstromdans
Composed of mortal flesh, blood and bone,
But infused with unfeeling permanence:
A conflict of elemental contrasts define
What little sense can be made of my portrait.
The dancing hunger of fire;
There is no meter to the heat in my eyes,
No rhythm to the flames I speak
Impossibly rent forth from a figure
Composed entirely of rime.
There is no liquid flow to these veins,
only implacable glacial progression;
the beat of a permafrost heart
stands frozen, marking time.
I've been watching "As Time Goes By" on YouTube for most of the day, sort of full-belly wallowing in poorly aligned sense of nostalgia. For those who may not know, the show is a British romantic sit-com staring Dame Judy Dench and Geoffrey Palmer as a romantic couple, separated in the midst of their youthful love affair back in the '50s who unexpectedly find each other again in the early 90′s and end up rekindling their lost love. Many aspects of the show are now pretty well dated, but the human interactions are still largely apt.
What I expect fascinates me about the show is how it manages to encompass my past, present and future, my sadness, my hope and my fear.
Ever since I first started getting back into the series, when I rediscovered PBS Brit-com nights, I've developed a sort of kinship with Geoffrey Palmer's Lionel Hardcastle. He's dour, snarky and ill-equipt to suffer fools, even ones he actually needs to get along with (i.e. his publisher, the much younger, vaguely misogynistic and presumably "hip" Alistair Deacon). Although this re-connection would have begun when I was only in my late 20′s, I'd already developed much of his intrinsic annoyance with humanity and I suspect some of his bluntly honest wit has wormed its way into my disposition.
Perhaps I find it so easy to put myself into Lionel's position has less to do with his attitude, however, than the circumstances of under which he reconnects with his former love, Judi Dench's Jean Pargetter. Lionel's history, after losing touch with Jean when he left for Korea, seems one less intentionally chosen, rather determined by passive acceptance of whatever lot life threw at him, at least until he stumbles across Jean again. Their initial stages of rekindling their paused romance is often fraught with regrets, a long litany of "What if's" and "If only's", something I'm all too familiar with these days. Over time, he got busy with the business of living in the now, only looking back to reminisce, rather than to pine for yesterday and what might have been.
This is a trick I've not yet mastered.
Somehow, Jean and Lionel's love affair both inspires me and terrifies me. If I am to find love again, I don't want to have to wait until I'm in my fifties to do it. I already feel extraordinarily old and it doesn't much help that all the women who turn my head now start at an age where I'm actually old enough to be their father and go up from there…but generally not nearly to my own age. Lionel had a brief spat of this in the very beginning of the series when Jean's daughter Judy took a shine to him before Jean and Lionel reconnected officially, the primary differences being that 1) Judy was a definitely interested party and 2) while Lionel was intrigued and flattered, the most direct interest from Judy came after he ascertained who her mother was and he found himself inclined to rebuff her advances. To date, none of the women I've had an interest in have given any indication of reciprocation.
Which, all told, is probably all for the better since I wouldn't know what to do if any had.
There is an insidious sort of hope intrinsic in the show that makes it hard to just dismiss. What with Lionel and Jean, Lionel's father Rocky newlywed to wife Madge, Judy and Alistair and even Jean's personal secretery and her copper boyfriend Harry, the sheer amount of mildly dysfunctional romanticism set to understated comedy rampant in the show inspires a certain amount of optimism in the viewer, even for some as stubbornly pessimistic as I am. I don't know what it's going to take for me to reconcile the life I rode hard into a wall and left a smoldering wreck with the kind of life I'd like to be living, but "As Time Goes By" provides just enough inspiration to convince me to press on. there are no guarantees that "it gets better", no matter what anyone says…
But likewise, that doesn't mean it can't.