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Soul cleaning
A solitary activity
Locked away
Chipping away the ecretions
Of years of neglect
Polishing carefully to a
Shine through to newness.

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For  Martin Luther King Day:

Freedom
a precious gift
not to be squandered on flippery and baubles
taken in hand and to heart
led gently into the world.

To give peace meaningfully
not a mere handshake
but a firm support that leaves standing.

To respect the earth
we tread on lightly
giving life to grow in light.

To know love
is unconditional.

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1.

Droplets suspended
Aqueous curtains veil the hills
Billow in the wind.

2.

Distant rumble stirs
Discomfort waits in the air
The onslaught is close.

3.

Now run to escape
From doorway to locked safety
Limit exposure.

4.

Bullets hit the ground
Bouncing back up on impact
Dust resists entry.

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It has been over a year since I last contributed to the Monday Poetry Train. I have written this piece on the theme of rejoining the train. It includes some memories of India Rail journies that came as I wrote it. Please do add on your own “thought carriages” in the comments.

Hitching up to the train again;
a gypsy carriage, bright flowers adorn the sides
a dog sits on the back porch, watching the world fly by
inside, a quiet old man contemplates the word.

Hitching up to the train again;
putting time aside each day
to write, to rite, to right the wrong,
no wrong time to write.

Hitching up to the train again;
to see where it will go
into what new lands of imagination
will this journey take us?

Hitching up to the train again;
2nd class sleeper, crammed to overflowing
a man sells massages for 10 rupees
skinny white guy gets pummelled to everyones’ amusement.

Hitching up to the train again;
heat penetrates the carriage from every side
stiffling all conversation and activity
the oven is on the outside.

Hitching up to the train again;
1st class sleeper
family ignores the foreign presence
girl begs for money at the window, left over meal highlights her day.

Come on and hitch up to the train again!
Lets go along for the ride
Leave the comfort of this go-nowhere-fast life
And see what is around the corner.

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Jesus Joseph John finished work for the day
and wandered back home in his usual way;
He searched for some answer,
trying to understand,
why his life was flowing
through his fingers like sand.

Jesus Joseph John sat in the bar
drinking his beer and hadn’t got far;
Watching  the news
on the big screen TV,
sitting in his corner,
huddled reclusively.

Jesus Joseph John rose with a heave,
no-one there noticed him leave;
He staggered down the road
all on his own,
A fist hit his gut
and he fell with a moan.

Jesus Joseph John got up in a daze
and sung to himself, his mind in a haze;
The kids hanging out
followed him right down the street,
dancing and chanting
and tripping his feet.

Jesus Joseph John fell in the drain
threw up his lunch, his head full of pain;
A woman stopped by,
and came to his aid:
wiping his brow and
to home he was bade.

Jesus Joseph John staggered on up the road
and gradually in his tiredness slowed;
He collapsed in a doorway
and fell there asleep,
in his dreams he was shaken
which troubled him deep.

In the growing dawn light
He awoke to the day;
A new chance to see
If he could find his own way.

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The track came to an end by the beach and turned into a sandy path through the dune grasses. I carried on across the dunes. The bay, not so far from the city, felt lonely and isolated. The sea crashed in on the rocks. No sign of human habitation was present.

The track dipped down to the rocky shore and crossed a small sandy stream. The waves washed gently into the mouth of the stream, pushing against the current.  I started to cross the stream. My feet stuck in the soft bottom. I couldn’t move. The waves came further up the stream, the tide gradually rising. I was stuck fast as the water grew higher and higher.

Photo by Jamie Lawrie

The waves were getting higher and I was sinking deeper. The water was soon up to my neck, with waves about to crash over my head. A wave caught me on the face, warm and wet, licking me from mouth to nose, smelling on stale breath.

Jessie stood, paws on the side of the bed, trying to wake me. I rolled over to try to sleep again, but she pushed at my back, whimpering. Reluctantly, I got up and pulled on my sweats and trainers and took her out for her morning walk.

The dim dawn light hardly penetrated the autumn fog, shrouding the hills. We wanted down the path through the trees, not seeing more than three or four feet in front of us. The branches hung ghost-like in the misty air. Damp drops clung to the ends and dripped on our heads. The birds were slowly waking up, their songs muffled in the misty morning.

Suddenly, it ran across the track. Furry, white, brilliant and shining with iridescence. Jessie took chase, pulling the lead from my hand. I called, “Stop, Jessie! Come back!” But it was no use, she was off, disappearing through the undergrowth. A flash of light, an electric crackling in the air and Jessie yelped in pain. Moments later she limped back, a dark ring singed around her neck.

I sit now at my desk. The vet found nothing wrong with Jessie, other than singed fur. I am trying to work out where to find the money for the bill. The throbbing in the back of my head is getting worse. Strange lights play around the edge of my vision. The world has suddenly gone quiet.

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He shuffled in. Smelling on cheap liquor. A dirty, ragged coat and worn out shoes. He searched through is pockets, one by one. Pulling out bits and pieces, gradually finding a coin or two. The pile of coins slowly built up on the counter, until there was just enough for a ticket.

The attendant had almost thrown him out as soon as he came in. He reeked to high heaven. It would take a lot of air freshener to get rid of the stench. But, what the heck, he had the money, so let him have his ticket.

Saturday night, and the balls rolled down the tube, one by one. Mrs Mac sat in her comfy chair and wrote down the numbers one by one. She picked up her handbag to look for her ticket, but she couldn’t find it. She searched all through her bag, pulling everything out. Still, it was nowhere to be seen. She searched her pockets. She checked the clothes she had been wearing the day she went into town. She looked all through the car. Nowhere could she find that ticket.

The old tramp died that night. It was too cold in the hollow at the back of the pack, under the trees, with only a newspaper blanket. His body laid on the cold steel table of the morgue. His clothes had been checked quickly and then burned.

The headlines that morning read that the jackpot had been won; and in Mrs Mac’s own town too. Mrs Mac turned her house upside down looking for that ticket. Her grandchildren retraced her steps to town, looking everywhere for where it might have fallen. By Monday, no one had claimed the prize. The search went on for Mrs Mac’s ticket.

The priest read a short liturgy for the old tramp. He had no known family and was buried at the back of the old cemetery.

No one ever claimed the jackpot. They are still looking for Mrs Mac’s ticket.

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Say “Yes!” to the rain, to the pain,

that drives through your bones and soaks you again;

Say “Yes!” to the troubled and stray

who bother your soul and haunt your day;

Say “Yes!” to the strange and the queer

who lead you down roads you don’t normally steer;

Say “Yes!’ to the things you love to hate

to the shit piled high up to your gate;

Don’t turn away and ignore the strife;

Say “Yes!’ to life.

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She came to the beach to escape her unhappiness,
Wind, sun, surf crashed over her washing the stains from her hands,
The gulls mourned the passing of the clouds over the sun,
The rain closed in across the ocean.

Darkness loomed in her heart,
Love came not to what she couldn’t find
In her lonely isolation her darkness had followed her.

She turned up the beach to run and shout:
“Go away!, Leave me be!”

“Be what?” it asked, “You are who you are.
You cannot change what you have done.
No place will be happy for you
until you know who you are now and here in this place.”

“Go away!” she shouted,
“I cannot” it said, “I am you and you shall not
leave me until you love me.”

She fell into the sand and wept.

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The river writes her name in the land
Claiming her course across the plains;
Uncooperative and temperamental
Opposing all efforts to conform.

“We tried shoring up the banks with
some old cars a few
years ago — didn’t work too well,

We’ve had two 50-year floods this
year alone, you know … “

The river tears the rotting metal from her banks
Resisting constraint and throwing jagged
waste to sandy shore where feet bleed out;
She spills where she meets resistance
Recreating her name from mountain to sea.

© 2009, David Earle.