The Survivor

And sometimes the feelings are more than words
The time that you thought was yours
Stretches and ebbs and flows
Until there is no shape or form, and your
Head and heart are feeling so full and
You feel as though you are drowning in
The black velvet of not understanding.
Sometimes it is like that, and other times
You know that there is no point in continuing
And no point in trying to fight on and
Take that next step, you want to sink
Into a grey and beige void of nothing,
Where you cannot hear or see or feel
Anything at all, where you exist in nothing.
And then sometimes you reach out and
Try to touch, you want to connect but
There are iron bands on your arms and
However hard you try you cannot make
Your fingers brush with another.
And those times there is only ever music,
And other times there is also music.
Never forget, there is music.

(c) 2ndwitch, 03/12/16

In blue light.

The clock is ticking, slow and steady, beating out
A rhythm to breathe to, in, out, in out, and time
Is held, aspic-set, in suspension of progress, with
No hope of regress.

The fire spits, and crackles, now louder, now softer
With sparks showering the glowing coals from time
To time, and a gentle dying back until there is only
A dulling orange glow.

Outside, the owly moon casts her mystic glow down
Onto the silver loch, shading out the colours of the
Day, and bringing autumn to winter's heel, a promise
Of frost soon to come.

And inside, the memories of times ago are rising, waking
With the midnight hour, and jostling into view, the mixed
Voices of the past clamouring to live again, in one vast
And riotous dream.

And this is now, that was then, but what was then
Also is now, and there is no moving on, and there is
No moving back, no leaving the past behind despite
The creeping new day.

© 2ndwitch, 11/11/15

(These words were inspired by a badly lit gig, with the performer presenting an almost photographically negative image to the audience, with the blue from a string of fairy lights casting shadows across an ageing face.)

We're oblivion.

A reaching arm, slow and hesitant,
Touches nothing, and withdraws again.
A hand, softly sweeps errant hair
Back to one side, and then falls back.
One tear, fought against, but failed
Slides down the cheek, and dries.
There is no tomorrow, there is no
Today, and only yesterday, and
All the sorrows there within remains.
And all the sorrows there, faded to monochrome
And softing in grey, drape gentle
Cover to the grieving soul, always
Pretending comfort, whilst holding
Back the warmth of colour, and
The possible promise of hope
In the morning sunlight's pool of gold.
Secrets untold.
Secrets untold.
There is no hope, no looking forwards
Once your life has been set back.
Loss, longing, and never knowing.
And so many lies.

© 2ndwitch, 16/06/15

My thanks to several songwriters for thoughts and feelings that have combined to give life to the above, including Iain Thomson, Martyn Joseph, Dougie MacLean, Jim King; and to Ivan Drever for the melody that sits beneath the words.

On the first day of March.

Sighing song, on the wandering wind
That plays with each step on the waterside walk.
Taunting tune, haunting and ethereal,
Reflected in the clouds that shroud the hills,
And veil in mist the vagrant view.
Raindrops that run, inexorably, down
The walker's neck, and settle soggily somewhere
Below the chin.
The whispering waves, washing
The shore, and sending shivering shimmers
Of water to caress the roots of the trembling trees.
Yesterday was winter, soon spring appears,
And the mad March winds will buffet
And toss the lingering dead leaves, and the
Drooped and dying grass into a
Frenzied swirl of the distant promise
Of summer.
But for now
It is winter with nature and me.

© 2ndwitch, 01/03/15

(Some time back, I found a version of the Robert Tannahill poem 'The Braes O'Gleniffer', I must have had the copy for ages, but had never 'listened' before - it is the last track on one of Ivan Drever's albums. He is a good singer, a superb guitarist - and he has nailed this song totally. I was walking along the shore of the loch, north from Firkin Point today, and the words of it came to mind for some reason, and so the last line of my poem is kinda stolen from RT and ID. I would love to know more - like where the tune is from (ID being a composer of note it could well be his) but feel it would be impertinent to ask! Or sycophantic - and I hate sycophants!)

Thoughts of September.

When one door closes, another closes at the same time.
The one behind slams shut, and bars the traveller from returning
Whence they came.
The door ahead, so tantalisingly ajar as he approached
Is now bolted, and no amount of shaking and banging
Can persuade it to open again.
The door to the left is locked, solid and unmoving,
Whilst the one to the right has not been opened
In my lifetime, it is painted shut, and set like stone.
When one door closes, the traveller needs find
Another door.
But there is no other door.

The land of birth sets strong the tendrils of blood
And anchors them within the ribs of the growing man.
Stand proud and claim your heritage, my friend,
Until that day when you realise that all you think
That you inherited is so much dust and hot air,
The dream a mirage that can never be for real.
And then you turn your back on that never land,
And look to another future, look for a horizon
That heralds a new dawn, and a new day.

In new land, the fight continues, the daily battle
With prejudice and hatred never ceases.
When the native man opines that he does not
Hate you, but . . .
And beyond that but is a myriad of hating thoughts.
When the native man speaks a tongue you cannot
Understand, and laughs in your face if you ask
Him to explain.

And so the traveller find himself back in that
Dead-end hall, with four doors all shut against him,
And no clue as to where to go now.

© 2ndwitch, 23/02/15

For Becky.

When life is closing in, and choking the very life
Out of you, when the panic is strangling you
And every breath is a battle in an endless war,
Then remember, remember this,
You are loved, and there are many
And many who walk this road beside you.
When the night is pressing down on the happiness
You have treasured, and kept hidden inside,
That is when you must remember,
Remember this - you are truly loved,
And your time on earth is precious,
And each smile, each word, each shared tear
Is a jewel in the crown that you wear.
When the day seems so long that you
May never see its end, that is when
You must remember, remember this,
You are here, and the reason you are here
Is that you are here.
No-one else can take your place on this earth
And no-one ever will.
And so you keep on keeping on.

© 2ndwitch, 17/02/15

Not that yesterday ...

Ice inching snow slipping
And a wind that whistles
Round the hanging leaves.
Grey and brown against stark white
And black in the shadows.
A whirring and winging
Of birds, gathered greedily
On the feeders.
A soft song of sadness
From the trees
As they wave at the
Snow-leaded skies,
Hoping for a glimpse of
Summer's sun.
As the afternoon passes,
The echoes of days gone
Linger in the watcher's ear,
And give answer to the
Simple question,
Yes,
Yes, you are getting older.

© 2ndwitch, 16/01/14

Thank you for . . .

In the tone of the voice sits the warmth of the smile,
And the notes that dance on the bow are laughing;
Even when the song is sad, the warmth spreads
Like sinking into a scented bubble bath, and the
Velvet tones caress the senses, and soothe the soul.

In the whispered love-words of those dextrous fingers
And the tautness of the strings, there sings a glory
Of intimate erotica; the song the guitar sings is
For your ears only, all else are voyeurs, and should
Not be listening, nor drowning in sound.

The soft and sensuous marriage of horse hair and
Metal, vibrating in time, creating cadence,
Soaring, eagle-like, over the mundane and everyday
Troubles; here, in stark relief is the condensed
Experience of all human kind.

© 2ndwitch, 14/01/14

Time

Small things, a passing word, a smile, the way the sun
Catches on the raindrop'd leaf, small things
Are all it takes to bring the vagrant memory
To mind, and slowly, perhaps, some part of one
Of those memories creeps out from between
Closed eyelids, and slides quietly down
The weathered and aged skin, and pauses,
Suspended between the inward void and the
Infinite outside world, before being swept away
By an impatient hand.
And embarrassed, friends stand by, and
Utter bland and hopeless words, designed to
Comfort or suppress, which is not clear,
But always the words that are meaningless
Chatter and fight, the cacophony hiding the
Soft whisper of treasured remembrance.
That, my friend, is the truth of the rain that
Stands on the snowdrop.

© 2ndwitch, 26/11/14

salt

a drumroll of raindrops beating to the tune of the wind;
the cries of the children left upon the shore;
the stars that gaze down with disinterest
on man, who stands upon the pier and watches;
the heather that bends, and bows beneath the
onslaught of the gale; the burn that bursts its banks;
the white-washed house that cowers, low,
before the storm, and bars its doors in defiance;
the boats that toss and swing, dancing to the
devil's tune; the harbour with waves washing over
the wall; the lone light that stands proud
and calls the passing hours to no-one there;
the tapping of the halyard that tugs on the
tattered flag; the creak of the swinging sign
on the fisherman's inn; the shower of stars
as the flare is fired and the silent death hymn
that mocks as the ocean is challenged by
those few brave souls.

© 2ndwitch, 22/10/14

(I cannot sensibly say what the inspiration for this poem is, there are many, many reasons for it being written - but it can be accompanied by a tune, the origins of which are so well explained in this video - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lltO52TBvSw; or you could try this song which is about the same subject - http://ivandrever.bandcamp.com/track/brave-souls)