Let me paint you a picture

Let me paint you a picture
By my very own hand
It's not much of a picture;
It's not much of a hand

Let me sing you a song
At the top of my voice
You can't sing along
I won't give you the choice

Let me cook you a meal
From scratch, if you will
But have low expectations
And don't eat your fill

Let me tell you a story
That I'll dream up for you
You won't believe what I say
But it still could be true

Ten thousand tears

Inspired by tears, and William Booth's "I'll fight"


Penny was a weeper
Penny would cry
She didn't need a reason
And noone asked why
A sympathetic crier
For all of her days
She felt so embarrassed
She felt so ashamed

She'd cry in a movie
She'd cry in a book
A sentimental moment
Was all that it took
She wasted her tears
On romance and boys
Cost ten thousand tears
For ten minutes joy

Then Penny learnt sadness
And Penny learnt pain
She saw those who worked
With so little gain
She saw those who strived
But still couldn't eat
With tears in her eyes
She took to the street

  Let our tears stand for something
  Let us cry for the lost
  Let us weep for the lonely
  Nomatter the cost
  While still there is hatred
  While still there is pain
  The tears will keep falling
  Again and again

It's the story of ages
For ten thousand years
For ten minutes joy
Costs ten thousand tears
The world might be better
Though it cries too much
With a few more tears
And a lot more love

  And still we will cry
  While they live on the street
  And still we will cry
  While young children weep
  And still we will cry
  While people are sold
  And still we will cry
  While hearts they are cold

Let us be not embarrassed
Let us be not ashamed
For openly weeping
At somebody's pain
Though they tell you again
That boys do not cry
That girls shouldn't either
Let them stop and ask why

Oh you who are hurting
Understand why I cry
Your pain it does sting me
Though I barely know why
I'll cry for you
Though you do just the same
There must be some worth
To these tears on my face

I shall weep more for those
For whom no tear is shed
Whose pain is deep hidden
In the darkness of bed
And I ask of you
Don't avoid my eyes
And I ask of you
When's the last time you cried?

Here comes winter

And so we stop and we sigh
And say "Here comes winter"
And rejoice in tiny green shoots of grass
Because summer is lovely
And though we will miss it
We're still slightly happy that it doesn't last

So bring out the jumpers, the beanies and scarves!
Warm winter jackets and stockings and socks,
Turn on the heating and bring out the blankets,
Inside is nicer when outside is frost.

Let the rain fall down
'Cause our gardens need it
And we're not quite sorry for the end of the dust
But let winter be wary
For though we do greet it
We won't put up with it for longer than we must

Walk with me in private

Disclaimer: Inspired by Belle and Sebastian's Piazza, New York Catcher

Walk with me in private and tell me of secrets small
The tiny little things that make us blush and laugh and scorn
Come with me my love and let us walk along the way
The territory is well known but not since yesterday
Let's check that nothing has changed

Oh the sun is shining bright like on a thousand summer's days
The road leads to the shop since 1958
My hair is somewhat longer than I've ever worn before
And your smile is somehow brighter than any other morning

I'm not asking for something new I just want another day
To add to my memories of all those yesterdays
Just another day of the dear old same old thing
Another song to sing along oh come and let us sing
About the movie that we saw although we never really watched
The day our path was crossed by a fox
The shoes you bought for 20 bucks that were worth rather more
The cake I baked that looked so sweet but fell upon the floor

Oh sing with me the same old song
And live with me another day
And let all of our days before us be the same

The neighbour's fire is smoking and the leaves are on the path
I worry if this day is gonna last
The letter box is empty but my inbox is full
I wonder if I'm acting like a fool
The car is rather dirty I should take it for a clean
I hope that what you say is what you mean
My heart is feeling far too full to last for very long
I pray that you'll remember this old song
And sing it to me one day when I'm gone

Poison

The poison is bitter

And it's a good thing too

Else we might drink ourselves to death

Yet still we seem

To manage to

Poison ourselves with sweetness

Oh don't let the cup touch your lips

Because you cannot put it down

And nomatter how small you sip

In a tidal wave you'll drown

Protagonist

Let me tell you a secret. A writer writes for one of three reasons: because he cannot live, because he would not live, or because sometimes writing is living. It might then be proposed that, in certain cases, the world might be a poorer place if life had provided more, or less, fully and the imagination was no longer obliged to compensate. A writer, therefore, could be pitied either way, for he writes because he does not know something or he writes because he does. Great depth of emotion can prompt a flurry of writing, but so can its absence. As for myself, I'm not sure which state is the more enviable.

Having considered the plight of the writer, I now ask you to turn your attention to the ain character. To a protagonist, it matters very little whether his tale remains confined to a notebook, viewed by few or published with great success. Any rewrites, as far as he is concerned, obliterate all but faint echoes of previous versions, echoes which are or at least should be ultimately erased or rendered invisible. Unlike the writer, the protagonist is, conventionally, guaranteed to live to some extent. And also unlike the writer (or a good one at least), he has only one tale to tell: he knows no variation and can handle no renovation, as long as he is bound by print. He knows only one tale, he lives only one tale, he tells only one tale: his own.

And so, dear Reader, like any good main character, I tell you the only story I know. Do not hold me responsible for its faults nor for its strengths. As dearly as I would love to hear your own story, I am bound by the very words you read to tell you mine. For it is the only one I know.

All the signs

When all the signs are pointing south

Is there anything else that you can do

But hold your nose and cover your mouth

And dive dive dive dive

When all the signs are point north

Is there anything else that you can do

But sight the maps and chart a course

And sail sail sail sail

When all the signs are pointing east

Is there anything else that you can do

But draw your sword and slay the beast

And fight fight fight fight

When all the signs are pointing west

Is there anything else that you can do

But dress yourself up in your very best

And smile smile smile smile

When all the signs are pointing one way

Is there anything else that you can do

But take a moment just to pray

Then step two three four

Step two three four

Step two three four

Step two three four

Step.

My circular / tangential theory of time

Time is circular. That doesn’t mean that everything is always repeating itself, although that’s often the case. Rather, it's a combination of tangents and curves that represents our past, present and future.

If time was represented as a circle, at any given point in time what you saw as the future would be a point directly in front of you: a tangent. You are heading towards this point although you will never attain it, because as you follow the circle, you are constantly changing direction, little by little. That doesn’t make that future any less yours: you are still heading towards it and your path would be far different if you were heading towards a different one. But forces affect you and nudge you so you continue on the curve a little ways, adjusting the tangent you are heading towards. You may head towards this one a little longer, moving in a straight line for a while, and then something taps you in another direction; you adjust your sights, refocus your target, and continue. In this way time and life is simply a series of tangents and circles.

Connected to this is my belief that some of the harshest, most gut-wrenching moments come when that tangent, that vision of the future, is torn away from us, and we spin like a broken compass, with no sense of north. That’s what happens when someone dies: all the things you had actively or passively imagined for the future – birthdays, parties, arguments, conversations, tea, cookies, gifts – get torn away with them, no longer a possible future. That’s what happens when you get fired, or you don’t get into the course at uni you want, or you suffer a career-altering injury: all your plans for the future, all your security, has to be re-assessed, and re-instated with another goal in mind.

Life is never as you imagined it. Where you are now is rarely where you imagined yourself to be 10 years ago, or at least at our age that’s the case. But would you have got here if you hadn’t been looking at that point off to the side, on a tangent 10 years ago? Remember a minute change in angle greatly affects the tangent, the further you follow it from the present point.

Seriously

When my world turns upside down in a fit of pique,

And various nonsense is all that I speak,

When my words are flippant and my world is too,

I look to the child and remember the truth:

There is more to me than empty words,

Than cute maxims and fake proverbs,

There are those who rely on me;

And then I can take myself seriously.

Simple Prayer

As I speak let me listen
As I see let me do
As I walk may I continue
According to you

As I hear let me obey
As I read may I learn
As I work may I continue
To give what I earn

As I receive may I give
As I spend may I save
As I search may I follow
Your one true way

As I forgive I am forgiven
As I bless I am blessed
As I love I am beloved
The dearest and best

The Rose Grower

Bethany looked after the woman who bustled away, her mouth slightly open and the last morsel of her muffin poised between her mouth and the plate that had just been swept away, momentarily forgotten. She collected herself and turned to her table companion.

'You know, I know I should like Mrs. Galloway; she does so many good things, she's always busy helping people; see even now she's collecting plates when Jenny's supposed to be doing it; but she somehow irritates me.' She gestured to the slightly stooped woman and her ever-growing stack of dirty plates.

Marcus nodded knowledgeably.

'Ah, so she's a rose-grower then.'

Bethany frowned slightly, resisting asking what he meant by that until she had had a good think about it. Marcus smiled.

'There are rose-growers everywhere,' he explained expansively. 'They grow the most beautiful roses; they spend every waking hour tending their precious roses, roses which bring delight to the world: on Valentine's Day, on birthdays and anniversaries, to lovers, to lost loves, to new loves, to say sorry, or to say welcome, or to say congratulations or thankyou. A rose-grower's family takes pride in their roses; a rose-grower's neighbours boast of their view. But the rose-grower is so busy growing roses that she never stops…'

Bethany's face lit up as she realised where Marcus was going with his analogy and joined in the final words, 'to smell the roses.'

She smiled and looked back to Mrs Galloway.

'Yes, she does good things but takes no delight in it.'

Marcus made a sound of agreement. 'And she probably thinks it is best that way, and that doing good things for pleasure is purely selfish.'

Art

Well, me dear
Let me just take your hand
We'll have a conversation
That we won't understand
We'll linger a while
Before we depart
It's all unproductive
But it's still quite an art

Begone

Oh begone all things that would distract

From the task which lies before me now

Begone all hunger, for the promised snack

Would be gone before it is devoured

Begone all thirst, for I need not drink

In order to grant me room to think

Begone all sights! Begone all thoughts!

Which would have me shift from my firm course.

Begone the day! Begone the night!

Begone this very poem I write.