Where on the wind …

 

Where on the wind does

our mind fly, with

wings outspread into

what night sky?

 

Is it to pictures of love

and fleshy desire

that we soar off to

in those dark hours?

 

Or to other concerns

of spiritual bent, are

the questions we ask

of Godly ascent?

 

In the wake of those

moments are we best

served to be baking

thoughtful progress

or mindless dessert?

 

Is it true that we

percieve under night’s

dark shade all of that

thought or seen in the

light of our day?

  

For if that is held true

and we see in our dreams

all the troubles of man,

all inglorious schemes,

then maybe in night

is our time to reflect,

on the side of ourselves

we fight to neglect.

  

For a fight it is with our

darkling selves, with monsters

of life all aligned on our mind’s

shelves, they jump to the fore,

they march line on line,

infecting our sleep, crippling

our mind.

  

So edge into sleep wisely, with

clear conscience kept, for if not

then wet pillows mean

you surely have wept.

  

Glenn D. Clarke / 2009

 

 

Infill

 

Where do we fit,

between the lines,

into the spaces.

Is it only the gaps,

those fine fissures

in life that we

share with all?

 

Is it that we are

just so much putty

for the glazer;

there to hold the fabric

strong?

 

Or is it that we

are the glue,

that which binds us

tightly to one another,

are we the dust,

or the stars?

 

I know not.

 

If we be dust,

and only a minor

irritant, then what

have we gained,

but if we be stars …

if we be stars

then our light should

be as bright

as the heavens.

 

We know not.

 

For now infill

is the word,

the one word that

describes us best,

unsure of our

place in the whole,

battered by our existence.

 

We are still

a work in

progress, a bit

of clay for the moulding,

with brilliance

in our eyes.

 

 

By: Glenn D. Clarke

September / 2009

No not quietly

 

Your memory is a monster; you forget – it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, and hides things from you – and summons them to your recall with a will of it’s own. You think you have a memory; but it has you.   John Irving; From “A Prayer For Owen Meany”

 

 

 

 

 

My family was sitting at dinner in the apartment my grandparents rented in a seniors’ building in Leaside (a borough of Toronto). They had to give up their house a few years before because my grandfather started “having difficulties”. As we sat over the roast and veggies that my grandmother had cooked so beautifully, my grandfather stood, excused himself from the table, and walked into the washroom. Seconds later, he stormed out, his suspenders hanging down his legs. He went directly to my grandmother and exclaimed, “Alice, how is a body to achieve any privacy in there,” pointing at the washroom, “with all of those damned people in the tub?”

 

My grandmother, being a woman of discretion and great love for my grandfather, gently led him to the couch, sat him down and asked him what he had seen.  “All those damned people!”, he repeated, rhyming off the names of the crowd in the bathtub; all had been dead for years, some for decades.

 

I was sixteen years old at the time, and had no idea what was going on. I knew he had become forgetful, but could still tell some amazing tales. The sadness lay in seeing this proud, wonderful man I loved like life itself reduced to a fretting, confused, pitiable old man — this broke my heart.

This was the first time I met the monster.

 

Waiting silently, waiting for the moment in conversation when I believe I have the word, phrase, idea – the perfect reply … that’s when I feel the greasy fingers wrest the thought away from my grasp, my mind … “oh God, is it happening to me, could this be what I have to look forward to?”

 

I have spent much of my life in search of the answers to questions, read scores of books, listened to a library of music, and watched countless films. I have traveled many places on this wondrous Earth, and have stored reels of mental film footage. My mind has been my best friend,I could count on it always, that is until I turned fifty.

 

I can’t honestly say that I spend all of my waking hours worrying about the fact of my genetics, but I would be a liar to not admit that it crosses my mind on occasion, especially when I’m having what we today call a “middle-aged brain fart”. We all tend to worry about losing that which we hold as our dearest possession – our memories.

 

So I write to keep my mind sharp, to keep this marvellous friend from turning to a pile of sludge. I also write … because I can, which thrills me no end, for this ability, this desire to share the written word has only recently come back to me after a very long absence. I used to write reams of stories (for my own pleasure, or for school assignments), but hit a point many years ago where I felt I had nothing to say, and so fell into a state of silence. This could well have had something to do with the incident with my grandfather – a shock of this magnitude can cause any number of responses in a young mind not the least being a feeling of disillusionment given the intensity of emotions involved when seeing a person you care for being torn apart one synapse at a time. In thinking back on it at now is it any wonder at all that I chose to go silent in a literary sense, it may have been me thinking in my way, to not give any quarter to the unspeakable monster – Dementia, or as it was called then: senility, there was so little known of the actuality, the loss in brain mass that occurs, the buildup of plaque on the synapses, all leading to an eventual and total breakdown in the connectedness of a person with reality.

 

I believe now, at the ripe old age of fiftyseven, that I again have things to say. I believe that the ability to share the written word is sacred; sacred as in it should be considered a privilege to have the ability to write, and therefore not something to be taken lightly. I guess this is the crux of it; I have a deep concern that I will lose the ability to write – so I write on.

 

I write to keep my mind constantly in touch with the word, and the world, with friends around this great sphere called Earth, to keep sharing my love in a way that is easy for all to understand, so I know in my own way I am screaming, “ I will not go gently into that dark night …”.

 

In remembrance of the one man I truly cherished in life, I cannot … will not rollover and give in, there are far to many more memories to gather, a “grandchild” of my own in January, my Lexie, who is my best friend as well as the love of my life, we haven’t scratched the surface yet of things yet-to-do.

 

So the monster that is my memory will simply have to wait, there is just to much more I wish to achieve, store in my mind, and share with my friends and loves.

 

So do not wait on me, monster … you shall have a long and arduous task to take me sooner as opposed to later … much later.

 

Glenn D. Clarke/August 2009

It was love

 

She was white

and bright …

and it was

love, and

when later I

found her

red heart

I knew we

were meant

to be.

 

Everything pointed

to the truth

of this union;

this would involve

work, and a level

of commitment

I’d never known.

 

She was a

rare beauty,

she was sleek

and fit

like an athlete,

pristinely beautiful.

 

She was born

in England

in 1962,

and of noble birth,

yet I could

see myself

caressing every

inch of her,

and urged on.

 

Yes, it was

love, and she

would claim a

part of my

heart, and it would

be etched with

her name …

Austin Healey 3000 Mk. III.

 

Glenn D. Clarke/ 09

A child well loved …

 

A child well loved

is a treat to behold,

the light in the eyes

is an image of the

story; its life unfolding.

You see in calmness a view

of the future, it’s a tell-tale

picture of the prevailing winds

that will lead them on a course

to kindness and a gentle spirit.

 

A well loved child is proof

that we can nurture into

existence warmth, compassion

and caring for the benefit

of our future.

 

Children such as these will

go on to share their love

of all things, they will be the

living example of the goodness

in mankind.

 

A well loved child is the

embodiment of all this love

passed down generation

after generation, and each

one will set the standard that

all of us should aim for, so

that the best of mankind is achieved.

 

Glenn D. Clarke / 09

As milk poured by the Gods

 

As if the Gods had read

our thirst, and from their bounty

poured forth milk for their

children long before our being.

As if our need for fullfillment

were as necessary as air

or dreams or streams of

thought.

We see this glorious night,

and have thought of forever,

and for every moment lost

in the magnitude do we pray

that life will not end and that

glory such as this will never

fade, for this would surely

be too much to bear.

 

Glenn D. Clarke /09

With a woman you love

 

She is a mystery,

a conundrum, never

easy to understand

though we try … we try.

 

She walks with all

the grace of a

cat, then looks at you,  

with crossed eyes she

sticks out her tongue

and you are … undone.

 

And we become undone

by a woman

we love more often

than not, we find

constantly new aspects,

shades of her; some

bewilder and confuse,

others are just … her

amazing self.

 

When looking, you will

see a different her

twenty times a day,

but not to worry

for it confuses her too;

you see, women don’t

always understand their

moods either, sometimes

what they read in us

is their own insecurity …

and that’s alright, for

they accept ours.

 

 With a woman

you love you never know

what you’ll find when you or

she gets home; could be the lover

you’ve always known or the Queen

Of Hearts looking for a head …

but one thing is for sure - it’s interesting.

 

The love of a woman is

complex and multi-dimensional,

it is intense in emotion,

and draining, it is for all

intents and purposes the

the hardest a man will

ever work to claim a heart

but …

 

With a woman you love

every step forward is a

climb to an Eden, every

corner turned finds you

facing forever … with purpose,

every moment in love

makes a better man than

the one initially created,

yes, every ounce of her

leads to a greater you.

 

So in everything you

do for the woman you love,

always remember, the

results are greater than the task,

and the outcome is …

a man she will love … forever.

 

Glenn D. Clarke / 09

 

 

 

 

Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand

And heaven in a wildflower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour.

William Blake 1757-1827 : ‘Auguries of Innocence’ (c. 1803)

 

Children do have this whimsical, wondrous view of the world through their eyes, and it is so infectious; adults can fall prey to it so easily if we but allow ourselves to.

J.M.Barry wrote the immortal  “Peter Pan”, and more than the story of the “forever boy” Peter. This brilliant and much loved fantasy is all about the vision that fills childrens eyes, the totality of a world of “Neverland” rife with indians and pirates and a crocodile is chasing Capt. Hook for the other hand,because he enjoyed the first so much, and Peter the boy who can fly, but must never lose his shadow. The ability for an adult to write such magic for children, “to see a world in a grain of sand” is a marvelous gift, one that will entreat children’s imagination for as long as it exists.

I absolutely adore listening to childen when they go into creation mode, they can concoct the most wondrous worlds, the most amazing images, and the fantasy they weave can boggle the mind.

As adults, we would be well served to never lose this stream of delight in all things magical, but alas the reality of our lives says that we must face our day-to-day as mature men and women and put aside our child … for those days are gone.

And yet, when we manage to find the one we love, and the idea of starting a family comes into play we have the chance for magic yet again, we get to see the world through our childrens eyes and remember.

People that I have talked with about what it was like to have their own children, always seem to remark on how wondrous it is to get a “second chance at childhood”, I have seen great big hulking men turn into dreamy-eyed kids when they get to play with their children … and that is magic.

 In watching children play, the world in which they play in is always somewhat make-believe, and in understanding that children only play at what brings them joy, is this not a state in which we as adults seem to envy them? I believe it is, but only because we tend to remember this time in our lives, when all things were possible … even flying.

So, the next time you get to watch your or someone else’s kids playing, do yourself a big favour – get lost in the moment and try really hard to remember those days of your past … smile and be joyous, for there is still innocence in what we remember and happiness in the moment.

Blessings on you all.

 

The Light That Burns

I feel foolish now,

and people talk about

how you left me

being cold, and merciless

but I don’t care,

for I wasn’t unaware

of your need for space,

I just wish it had included me.

 

But I keep this light burning

incase you ever decide

that I am home,

for that is all I ever

wanted to be, and

I wait … but not sure for

how much longer.

 

Now don’t get me wrong

love, the arms would

still hold you as before,

the heart still beats for more

of  you, the tears I cry

are still real for you …

but the pain of not having

you is so wrenching on

my soul … I just don’t

know … six years, four months,

three days and fourteen hours,

is that long?

The light that burns

is also my heart.

 

Glenn D. Clarke /09

Let me …

 

Let me take you

to the water,

let me hold you

in moonlight,

and dance you

on the shores edge

till darkness meets

first light.

I want to hold you

so closely, and feel

your body fold,

I want this joy

to be forever,

and the love

to become old.

Let me take you

to the water,

feel the waves

crash to the shore,

and let us

meld our souls together,

till the moments

are no more.

I have loved you

… seems forever,

yet my heart still

craves more,

so let me take you

to the water,

let me lose

myself in you.

Glenn D. Clarke /09