Father’s Day

He woke up bleary eyed,

wiping dreams off

stunted eyelashes

Craving volatile alkaloids

in Ascension, leaving the

less worthy behind 

in dark tarry pools,

much like

Dreams of dinosaurs 

trapped in mud

Work calls early, and amidst 

flashes of blue comes 

Another father on this

Special day, set aside 

for spikes in sales 

of greeting cards and 

shaving foam

That horse oft flogged 

was flagging, but we tried 

our best available magic,

donned in Royal Blue,

Concocting potions, powders,

poultices, and balm for the brain

But this horse had bolted

And despite mechanised

arms pounding a pound 

of mindless flesh 

with unrestrained brutality,

we failed, 

Our Collective Fatherhood watched

one of its own

drift up - perhaps

a better alkaloid 

in Ascension, leaving

dark muddy ones behind

A lonely cloud wandered home

battered, but not like 

that horse we flogged

endlessly, now lying

panting and broken 

in a ditch between two bellows

meant for air and laughter,

filled to the brim with blood

The door opened to a promise

of giggles and impish grins

Monsters strictly banished to

the outside, where they 

wait for another day 

while an unworthy father 

is swamped in hugs

and painstakingly poorly drawn

glittered cards brimming with

Promises of Love to keep me

sane in my loneliness as

I fight unresolved guilt

and justify my existence

for yet another day,

when Fathers matter less 

whether Dead 

or Alive

Halfway to brimful

Life is half empty 

Half way there

Half left to dreams unfulfilled 

Half too scared to dream

Life is half empty 

Hopes trading places 

With fears shuffling 

for space in ever narrowing minds

Life is half empty 

Waiting in vain for secure

Bank statements tallying up

Positive integers for a change 

But then one day there is laughter

Sloshing around in my half emptiness

The smiles of friends

And warm hugs encircling body fat

Sagging bodies chasing bouncing kids

There is space in my half emptiness

For love and healing hurt and the 

Brightness of young eyes all around

I am glad of my half emptiness 

This space to fill with 

All of you I hold dear

On this day 

mundane as any other 

Made special by these generous

Generic humans 

Filling my half empty life 

3.7.17

Firefly

With bated breath

I wait 

hoping not to hear 

strange footsteps

In the night

As time trickles through

Desperate hands

cupped in vain

My mind wanders aimlessly

down alleyways

Where Darkness fears to tread

"Why have you forsaken me?"

I ask the Sandman

When a gentle finger alights -

On my shoulder

Lending deliverance

And I sleep in the soft glow

Of a little firefly

An impossible task

Saw this online

https://youtu.be/4dA7WnsWk04
So beautiful that I had to try
An unworthy translation
In the early morning light
Unsolicited and perhaps illegal
Just to see if language really is
A barrier to beauty and love

So here with apologies to the author
Mr Rafeeq Ahamed
Who I have never met
Is my vain attempt to capture
The magnificence of his words

Dedicated as ever to
That constant companion


When Death arrives

When Death arrives I wish you
To be here by my side

To run my gnarled fingers - stiff
from scooping embers -
Through the comfort of your hair

To let my final breath share the
Gentle air that you exhale

To soak my world weary eyes
In the soft radiance of your face

To fill my worn out ears with
The sweet seal of your whispers

To spread the green salve of your
memory as thoughts melt
Off my fevered brow

To move my lips in silent prayer
As they hold dear old footprints
Of your kiss

To rest my burning feet as they
Dream footfalls of your love

That would suffice
My love

For this lucky one
To resurrect

A blade of grass
Cutting through all that
Dark earth that holds me dear

Humility

As I sipped sweet tea under the high ceiling of his old Art Deco style house I hinted at my work in measured tones of understated self indulgence.

"University of Cambridge" he mused, "very good" he said, before moving on to a parable originally attributed to Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa:

A salt doll journeyed for thousands of miles and stopped at the edge of the sea. It was fascinated by this moving liquid mass, so full of life and mystery and promise, so unlike anything it had seen before.

"What are you?" asked the salt doll. 

"Come in and see" replied the sea with a smile. 

So the salt doll waded in, thinking to itself: "I will dive to the depths of this new, wonderful thing so that I can fathom its dark insides and tell all my friends when I go back home" 

Before long, as it dissolved to nothing and yet became everything in the sea, with its last conscious thought the doll exclaimed in wonder:

"Now I know what I am!"

Slowly I realised that this gentle host of mine was teaching me the first lesson in research ...

Humility 

Grace for the generic human

Cold February 

Iz kamakawiwo'ole singing somewhere over the rainbow on YouTube

She in a pink jumper and leopard spotted woolly socks slow dances with Tiny Trouble wearing of all things a sky blue cape and purple jammies, face lit up in a grin missing two front teeth 

As the big man croons with unexpected gentleness ...

I watch them swaying gently in the middle of our living room like slender kelp saplings in warm ocean currents when -

suddenly -

- the other one shoots across my line of vision carrying a gianormous beige teddy bear on his head as if nothing could be more mundane

Perfect Sunday Afternoon 

Fleshbag affinity

Entity Tracker one (ET1): time point update imminent

Entity Tracker two (ET2): proceed as per protocol

ET1: 

Sampling at random from upper hemisphere, sectors 4-7, lower tertile of ambient temperature range.

Subjects fleshbag 1 and fleshbag 2.

Positioned long axis parallel to terrain supported by inorganic indigenous artefact.

Fleshbag 1 is moving terminal calcium capsule on pedicle. Energy dissipation rate above baseline threshold. Fleshbag 2 continues within range of resting median.

Internal oscillator of fleshbag 1 following previously observed ramp and burst protocol in gradual increments. The correlation of internal oscillator activity with intentional movement of terminal calcium capsule persists as documented in other samples.

Fleshbag 1 appears to transfer appendages to encircle fleshbag 2. This movement appears to be purposeful suggesting autonomous processing.

Mild fluctuations in basal energy dissipation of fleshbag 2 noted. However this remains within baseline range.

ET2: Thank you ET1. Please proceed to interpretative algorithms 

ET1: Despite repeated trial and test runs the algorithm still returns an occasional high probability of autonomous processing with sentient potential.

ET2: I have to over rule that conclusion for lack of sufficient data. This has to be sampling error. Previous larger data sets have reliably demonstrated and replicated the observation that these fleshbags are not capable of higher order sentience as noted in other sectors of these outer minor spatial structures.

They appear to have receptors for immediate environmental interpretation within their calcium capsules but the archaic reports from small initial samples suggesting the feature of fleshbag affinity have now been categorically proven to be sampling error. 

Most previous ETs who have approached this with a surface wide sampling protocol have concluded that the predominant feature of these autonomous fleshbags is peer aversion. Recurrent observations support the robust conclusion that peer aversion leads to irreversible termination of internal energy dissipation of large sample sets with cessation of internal oscillator activity and in some cases cavitation of terminal calcium capsules.

ET1: I recognise the weight of the data against my observation. However I still maintain that fleshbag affinity remains a possibility as observed in finite sample sizes.

I know you think this is sampling error but there has to be a minor trend at the very least.

ET2: That statement maybe accepted as fact but only with a high probability of error. However these observations from small data sets cannot override the surface wide sampling studies performed without a priori assumptions.

These clearly show no such trend for fleshbag affinity. Overall these minor organic entities are self limiting in species advancement primarily due to the lack of peer affinity that is reliably demonstrated in all higher order sentient beings.

.………

As I lay in bed this Sunday morning with her sleeping face gently resting on my shoulder, I could not shake off that odd feeling that someone was watching us.

Immigranniversary

On our way back to the car after her piano lessons ...

'You don't like the cold do you daddy?'

'Not really'

30th November 

We walked for an hour to that dingy pub with sawdust on the floor - where above the dull thumping of repetitive percussion fellow immigrants discussed irritable bowel syndrome and axial loading in scaphoid fractures - apparently that's what the NHS wants us for 

On our way back through crunchy frost and that sly black ice - our frozen noses longing for runny days - we talked about the red sauce and the green chilli that comes with Kebabish chicken, three boys who didn't know how to be men, leave alone doctors.

That year, while November grudgingly handed over 9/11 to September, while our collective consciousness became hard wired against swarthy young men with stubbles, we walked on in the snow in ill equipped shoes and heavy jackets. Somehow the cold didn't feel that bad then.

'Daddy, open the car, I'm freezing'

'Of course sweet - sorry I was miles away'

'Silly daddy'

Flipping photons

Achan used to have projection slides - before PowerPoint made it so common place and foolproof.

They had to be made on chart paper, painstakingly proofread and photographed - graphs and all - then developed, clipped and mounted into little hinged cardboard frames, glued in place, numbered and stacked in boxes or slotted into plastic pockets in foldaway sheets.

Before every talk he would practice at home when it was my job to man the little humming battle-green projector - in its mysterious sky blue bag with UNICEF on its side - to drag that cartridge to the left or right whenever he said "next slide please" and also get the right slide in place just in time for his next instruction, with the dot in the top right corner such that when projected,  the magic in that little lens and mirror would flip the photons in the air on their way to the light green wall of our hospital quarters with the exposed wiring and last year's calendar nail holes - the calendar was removed to make space for the image which invariably led to the nail falling out leaving a pit on the wall - and those photons leapfrogged, I am sure with a "whee" and a "woohoo" over the dust motes in the dusk to land right side up on the wall like an army of little spidermen or trapeze artists.

As Achan's talk droned on in the background I was transported into a land where the projector was a little robot camel and we were in a dust storm but this was in outer space and the projector cartridge was my cannon reloading - left first, then right - man all stations as the sirens blare and lock and load - wait for it - fire little robot camel,

 fire

    at 

      will. 

Humanity depends on you.

"Next slide please" said Achan and I was back in my living room as if a secret Google Earth teleporter zoomed in to drop me off from the war in outer space and zoomed out again before he could see anything was amiss.

As I prepare yet another talk in the spare bedroom and two fearless little monkeys climb over me shouting out war cries at the top of their lungs I am reminded of those Sunday evenings when I was part of someone else's hopes and fears - someone I have outgrown in size but never will in stature.

All that matters in the end ...

 ... when my work is done

and my world has slowly folded

in on itself leaving everything

and nothing behind

All that matters in the end ...

when they have flown the nest

and found their own colours

for the sea and a warmer south

All that matters in the end ...

when memories are all but

brief glimpses of a once familiar

landscape caught

in a flash of lightning

All that matters in the end ...

When your hand may not be in mine

When your hand may not be in mine

is that my mind still holds

a single spot of lucid thought

A smile shining from a past

well past

All the rest may be a blur

all my irreverent antics

irrelevant,

but I would still have

 ... all that matters in the end

Freefall

 I think a lot of life is about finding one's own happy medium.

This changes not only from person to person (inter-individual variability to give it a pompous sheen) but also within a person depending on time and place (intra-individual variation).

I read somewhere that if you look at cell turn over in our body, every few years all our cells are replaced and we are a completely different organism. I find this scientifically unsound but nonetheless I think it may well be true for our soul (unscientific as it is to believe in one). It accumulates growth rings and fossilised layers so that one can see what has happened to it over time, but it probably also changes shape and size such that it is unrecognisable from the outside when you stop for a random pitstop on your life's rat race and pick it up for a look, curiously running your battle hardened fingertips over the strangely familiar and yet often alien contours of this thing that resides in you and yet is not you or perhaps is all of you that matters.

And when you do this you feel it's weight - that overused expression which remains a useful descriptor  - the unbearable lightness of being - and this weighs down on you until you figure out what to do with it. Very often what hurts us deeply is something that is hardly visible - that smile which did not form, those fingers that refused to lace in yours with the right measure of temperature and pressure, a whisper in your ear that you waited for in vain - inconsequential really when looked at in the cold light of celestial electromagnetic emissions, but nonetheless still the proverbial last straw that cruelly alighted on the poor beast's spine, breaking it, forcing it to a new plane of existence and down a new unfamiliar dark hole to fall into, drawing yet another growth ring in to the misshapen little lump.

And then one day you decide to slide down the dark hole, scared and yet exhilarated by the sheer unpredictability of your fall from grace - surely this is how that original prodigal son felt as he was cast down from heaven, as he fell at unearthly (and unheavenly I guess) pace seeing the depths of his new dark home rush up in front of him, a part of him might have felt sad and uncared for and unwanted, but surely there was a grain of happiness in him as he looked forward to freedom, however dark and tainted it may be, the terminal velocity buzzing in his ears welcomed him with the whisper he yearned for so long, implored him to find great heights in those new dark depths and he opened his arms accepting the darkness, unknown and scary and reprehensible on first glance and yet strangely filled with that most devious of words - innocently sugar coated on the outside but dipped, soaked in that most enticing of ideas - potential.  For that is what could be, what will be, even what should be - different from the here and the now and so this makes sense as he falls.

For others it is a senseless departure from grace and love and stability and sense, and yet to you it is all of it of course, but also something more - potential, change, chance and who knows, even salvation, for who is to decide that blindness is dark and salvation is light, for it may well be the other way round, who can see through a blind man's eye and how does he separate whiteness from blackness? For these are mere words, hollow, imposed on him by those who will never understand, so he falls happily, freely, wholeheartedly knowing that the world standing by the sideline judging him is wrong in its smug majority...

... on this cooling ball of fire to which we cling selfishly like sticky ugly limpets washed in waves of darkness from all around us, tell me who decides which way is up, tell me who is falling and who is not, for I say to you as you think I fall - Lucifer is ascending and he loves it.

Inconsolable

When you reach out 

from darkness and know

Whose fingers lace in yours 

No questions asked about 

where you lead them

When you pour out

the black ink in your soul

And watch it spread on

Pristine white

Not caring how 

it blots out the light

When you think not

To pull your punches 

Or blunt the glinting edge

of your words that draw

Angel blood with a whisper

When you see 

the Ugly in you

In the mirror only One can

hold up without 

turning to stone 

in the glare of

your medusa head

When you fly home

With wounded wings

dripping lifeblood

and try to heal

Selfishly feeding on 

Another soul, not knowing 

or caring how much

is to spare

And in the end

when you calm down

Having stifled sobs 

into her pink pyjama top with

The hugging grey teddies

You do feel better 

and it hurts a little less

But never can you forget

The echoing sorrow of the

Wide eyed little boy

Inconsolable 

In the hollow corridor as

Your lifeless words 

tumble out

Already turning to dust

Meaningless

Much like your efforts 

To save his father