Times change… lives change…
Things change within the blink of an eye
when we’re not looking…
Seasons change… styles change…
opinions interchange…
the zeitgeist of the moment
changes it’s face with the snap of a finger…
The cream of the new crop rises to the top,
while the cherry of yesterday falls to bottom
and below the public consciousness…
The “In” can be “Out” from one week to the next…
One minute, everybody is talking
about this amazing new phenomenon –
and the next that same thing
can be considered out of date…
Time can be seen by some people
as both a gift and a predator…
You can do so much with time,
but sometimes time can feel like an ocean wave
that we are constantly trying to out-run…
Time goes by too fast, if you ask me…
Things change too much nowadays –
I’m not sure if anybody else agrees?
Maybe it’s my age? Maybe its because I’m sentimental?
Maybe my head is stuck in the past too much?
I’m not sure – but in this modern day and age
of the shortest attention-span known to man,
I think it is even more essential than ever
to be a detective of further knowledge
and see past the momentary flashes of the present
and embrace different periods and opinions
that were once considered the zeitgeist of their time.
old
My Poem “The Old Mark”
There is a man looking at me
before my eyes…
there is a man looking at me
who I do not recognize…
there is a man looking at me
who has my memories…
there is a man looking back at me
as I look at them who has been
growing within me for years…
there is a man who has lived
every day with me, and I realize
now that we are eye to eye who they are…
there is a man who is as close
as can be to me
who used to be nothing more
than a shadowy figure on the horizon…
there is a man who looks like a man,
but who also seems so alien to me
that for all I know
he could have come from Mars…
there is a man who was once young
and unscarred by life, by people, and by himself,
but who is who I see now in X-ray
and for all his faults…
I see myself as I once was, and as I am now –
one and the same, a man of light and a man of dark…
I see the young dreamer,
and the old Mark.
My Poem ‘Mobile Poetry’
My pen has died,
its ink has run out –
but I really want to write,
but I don’t know what
I want to write about?
I am old-fashioned in some ways,
but in other ways I am very up-to-date…
I am sentimental about “the old days”,
but I also believe that you have to act
on something when you feel it
before it is too late.
Most of the time I imagine
and I daydream while I am on the move…
I write everywhere I go:
on planes, on trains, on buses,
in the middle of a bustling cafe,
or in the silent solitude of my bedroom…
what I write about I never plan in great detail,
usually I try to let the moment talk to me
and inspire me before I decide…
when I write I draw everything and everyone towards me,
I open my eyes as wide as they will go,
and I write and I create art
without having to try too hard.
Using all the tools that you have
at any given time is the key…
writing from the heart is the blood
that flows through every poet’s poetry…
writing and creating does not always have to be
strictly with a pen, a pencil, a paintbrush,
or even with the keyboard of a computer –
I once created a piece of art
on a sandy beach on the island of Jersey…
of course I will write with a pen again –
but this poem is one of the few that I have written
from beginning to end solely on a mobile-phone,
and I will always remember it as being a wonderful example
of my gift to be able to create art
and write when the need arises
to write to some “mobile poetry”.
My Poem ‘Balloons’
Where we have been
and where we are going
are tied together
by the threads of our lives;
while we are enjoying a good story
we never want it to come to an end;
darkness and light ties night to day
and day to night;
sometimes when we know
we are approaching the end of a great book
we will put it down and bookmark our place
so that we can pick up one day where we left off;
however, just as every writer
must finish writing their story,
every reader must follow a tale
to its conclusion,
and when they reach the last word of the last page
promise to return to the same story again and again –
the same, but different –
like periodically catching up with an old friend.
We all sometimes look at our own reflection
and do not immediately like the face that we see –
though someone else may look at the same face
and see the face of unparalleled infinite beauty;
we all should remember that a mirror
can only show us a distorted image of how we appear,
and the only true way of knowing
who the world sees when they look at us
is to go to the one person who knows us best
to describe us and tell us who they see
and what about us they most revere.
We all have reasons for what we do;
certain things and special people
have an indefinable gravity about them;
we all love people in our lives
in ways that we show every day,
but we sometimes feel a need to prove;
we all leave many clues;
I, myself, could never deny
an unbreakable connection –
once made, never severed –
because, just like the bound pages in a book,
bound people are linked forever
because that is what was always meant to happen.
Some people rise and fall by the resonance of a voice;
some hearts beat in perfect-time with other hearts,
and even when they are far-apart from one-another
they constantly sing “see you soon”;
falling in love is uncontrollable
and it is a fundamental instinct without choice;
all stories have chapters and twists,
beginnings and endings,
and some have a pace and a depth to them
that is as vast as space;
and though its true meaning and message
may not be as blatant as a telephone ringing,
the best thing about any story
under any cover is one that you can hold,
walk with, and even tie to something,
and is that which you should never let go of –
because once a story rises too high out of reach
it will become someone else’s,
and slowly drift away like the wind
carrying away a balloon of your own making.
My Poem ‘The Gift of Ideas’
Ideas are like a tower;
thoughts have a structure;
dreams are like a castle of clouds;
wishes are like a beach
of long-forgotten shells;
memories are like photographs
that have faded over time;
old photo-albums
are like old songs
that remind you of people
and places from your life.
Eyes open; flowers blossom;
light shines; heart-rates rise;
life grows; the dark is exposed;
the clouds part;
a miracle becomes real
as the music starts –
and like the composer of an orchestra,
you put together the pieces of picture:
sometimes the music is loud,
sometimes the instruments are distinctive,
sometimes the players are both known
and unknown –
perhaps just one face in a crowd;
sometimes, most of the time,
what comes seemingly from the most random
reasons and places
are the most impressive,
even to the dreamer of the dream –
because they are so wonderfully inventive.
Things are not always obvious;
the seemingly unconnected
may have more in common with one-another
than they appear;
just like people,
some things sometimes speak
with a similar-sounding voice;
sometimes even a thing of extreme beauty
can bring someone to tears.
Ideas can be like a lost puppy
that you find walking the streets
without an owner;
ideas about people and things
sometimes change and can be
like the highs, the lows,
and the speeds of a roller-coaster
that go in every direction
before finally coming to a rest;
ideas can be like reconnecting
with a long-lost sister or brother;
ideas are one of life’s
most amazing and incredible gifts.
My Poem ‘Doors’
Some are old;
some are new;
some are bold;
some are blue;
some are transparent;
some are made out of wood;
some are used to prevent;
some are essential
to keeping out the waters of a flood;
some are grand;
some are small;
some are opened with the push of a hand;
some are closed with a pull.
Some say more about the occupant of a house
than any other piece of home decor;
some you can only unlock with a specific key or a code;
some hide riches behind them;
some will never be opened wide again,
because what is on the other side
doesn’t need to be shown;
some are numbered,
and where they lead to can be easily known and read;
some are meant to be walked through and explored,
because you never know what you might find
when you open and walk through a particular door.
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