Chasing Sunshine

The little brown hare

Knew no care,

Living in a burrow

At the edge of a lush meadow,

Hopping along by the day

And resting in the shadow

Of the setting sun;

Until one day

When he almost became prey,

And although he escaped

But narrowly,

The little brown hare

Was never the same again;

For he started hiding in the shadows

Of the tall trees

Even as the sun shone,

And he kept aloof

From the other bunnies,

Spending his days alone;

The scar was invisible

Yet very real,

Just as the fear

That consumed him.

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Have you ever felt

So out of breath,

That even the deepest heave

Fails to bring relief ?

No facial orifice

Seems big enough

To let in,

That lifesaver –

A lungful of air.

Maybe it is

A season of grief,

Or several of anger,

That severes the conduit

Leaving you breathless;

And so you sigh

In desperation,

Long and deep,

Well into the darkness

Of the heartless night,

Longing for reprieve;

But, no matter how hard you try,

You find

That it is lacking,

Just as the tears

That never flow to wet your face,

So, finally you resign to fate,

And you let the ache

In your burdened chest

Settle in.

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The bag of jewels

Was full, at first;

Rubies, diamonds

Emeralds and pearls.

The little girl

Held it close to her chest,

She considered herself

Infinitely blessed.

Nobody knows

When the hole

Appeared

Or how,

But it must have,

For, one precious jewel

At a time,

Disappeared.

When they asked her,

The little girl had no answer;

“Maybe they were stolen”,

She said,

But that was just a figment

Of her head,

They said;

It had been hers

To keep safe

And she had failed,

And that was all that mattered.

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How nice it feels,

To have the breeze

Kiss your face,

When you cross

The finishing line,

And win the race;

The champagne,

Medal and accolades,

That come in succession,

Add to your jubiliation.

It is a moment in time

That will forever after,

Be etched on your mind,

That moment sweet,

When you tasted victory.

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Put it away for long enough

While you go about your day,

And you’ll forget you ever held it,

That it ever had a sway

Over you,

Your joys, or your blues.

That is precisely

Why you must choose,

What to put aside –

Whether doing the laundry,

Hoeing, cleaning, or cooking,

Cycling, typing, idling or bookkeeping;

Ultimately,

The things you send,

To the far end

Of your waking day,

And sometimes beyond,

Can bring you moments of joy,

Comfort, grief or respite,

The trick lies

As always,

In making the right choice.

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I thought I could reconcile

With things that happen

In the realm of unpleasant

Both in the past, and the present,

If I could ascertain

The truth behind events;

And so I commenced

A journey

To discover veracity,

And what I have found

Along the way,

Is that relativity

Not just in science abounds

But also, in something

As fundamental

As the truths we espouse;

The truth in which I believe,

May be quite contrary

To someone else’s,

And no matter how convinced

We each are,

Our worlds will collide

Forever and after,

Because of the divide

Between our truths.

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The remnants of a heavy shower

Lie scattered on the roads,

An assortment of twigs,

Droves of soggy leaves,

In summary,

All manner of litter - 

And in its midst,

A soaking wet boat, made of paper,

Coming almost undone,

Yet intact enough,

To let it be known

That it once was, a cherished boat;

Perchance set asail

With wishes on its tail

To guide it along,

But wishes, we know,

Can’t control the flow

Of the gushing waters

On the road,

Nor indeed, of the rush of emotions,

That hold

A helpless heart captive.

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You’re marked for a hunt

And hunted down,

Each time you’re maimed

A little more

Than the time before;

You compensate though,

In ways that only your body knows,

But your hunters can see

For the limp, it shows.

And finally,

You are struck down,

Except, it’s not a fatal arrow

But it’s just enough,

To bring you down

On your knees,

In a mire, so deep

All you can do, is sink in,

‘Cept, you don’t want to wallow;

But there’s no one,

To help you

Get back on your feet,

So you fall back in,

Mud on your face,

Rinse and repeat,

Again and again,

Till it’s part of your being

Long after you’re out.

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When words are not enough

To tell a tale,

When they fail

To convey,

Just how tough

The going has been,

The story teller

Falls silent;

Her lips sealed,

Her quill

Lies still

On the tabletop,

And the candle

Is snuffed out,

While she lies there

In the darkness,

Her breath shallow,

Her heart thudding its way out

Of the wallow

That it slid into,

When the words disappeared

To be replaced by tears.

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Some days you want to dance

To the music on the radio,

(Well not quite, isn’t it the phone now?)

You find yourself humming along

And then you realize,

That something’s different –

You think,

“This must be

What happy

Feels like”.

You are pleasantly surprised,

You turn it around slowly

In your heart,

Gently,

As if it were

An ephemeral

Soap bubble –

This joyous moment.

And sure enough,

It bursts,

Taking with it

The music,

And the beat;

You are left instead

With the dry harshness

Of the words that killed it.

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