Steel against the storm

Standing at the starting line, but this is not the start, This journey began long ago, in mind and sinew, blood and heart. The steps I took, the plans I made, they’ve led me to this point. Muscles tight, eyes are wide as tension starts to bite The internal shiver, my gut clenching. Dedication led me here, And I’m suddenly aware of the battle ahead, Anticipation, Fear. A crisp wind stings my face, snaps my mind back into focus, I see the course, I know each turn, each twist as they begin to open. I dig down deep inside myself for the strength I know I hold, And prepare to go the distance on roads that never lead to home The incessant beat of heavy feet like hammer blows on stone, As we start the trails, inside my mind I know I’m on my own. A chorus rises all around, in voice a thousand strong, And all the time, a single voice inside whispers, Keep the beat, and carry on. Keep the pace, and carry on. Overwhelmed with fear, feeling small, it’s all too far, too much. Then the meek voice rises up to say “now it’s time to push”. People all around me, I’m not racing them, but me, They’ll carry me along with them, like driftwood to the sea. I’m not fighting against the road any more, I’m fighting my own mind. The monotony and thoughts unleashed Conspire to make me blind. But I’ve been here before, I’ve conquered before, I’m running on top of the world. I’ll lose myself, I’ll find myself as the way ahead unfurls. The cold bites, emotions snapping at my heels. The passion and the will to win is all that I can feel. The only voice I hear now is steady, true and strong, As it becomes a friend to rely upon, Keep the pace and carry on. Keep the beat and carry on. As the storm breaks on the mountain and the trees begin to bend, Determination tells me I’ll still be there at the end. The pounding on the winding trails, the stirring of the sea. And I can break the mountain But the mountain won’t break me. Feed the forge inside, Pain and glory. Pushing mind and body to the limit as I write the chapters of my own story. Iron will, I’m the steel against the storm. The thoughts of crossing that hallowed line are all that keep me warm. Every fibre of my body, every muscle glowing sore, And the voice, long ceased it’s whispering, now becomes a roar. Through gritted teeth I focus on the end of this ordeal, Though I’ve never felt so much alive through all it’s made me feel. Despair, dejection, now elation, Excitement makes me soar. And the finish line is not the end. I’ve achieved, now I thirst for more. Keep on pushing, carry on.

Milanese morning

Sometimes it surprised him just how quickly time passed and he would frequently catch himself remembering a face, a feeling or a situation with far too much clarity considering the time that had gone by.

He would also question why he continued to come back here to this city, Milan.

Certainly it was a beautiful city, of this there was no question. It had all the aesthetic qualities which in anyone's eyes would render it inviting, as tourists the world over would attest to but it always left him with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach because it reminded him of what he no longer had. The city had never felt like it was his. It had never opened itself up to him and showed him its inner beauty and secrets, as so many places do, in order to hook visitors, capture their hearts and keep them coming back to feel that special affinity. 

In the intervening 30-odd years, he'd been back many times but his feelings about the place had never changed, his passion for it hadn't grown, and the city's heart hadn't softened towards him at all.

His reason for returning was the same as it had always been. It was the same reason he had tried to settle here all those years before; the girl with the name which always reminded him of the city, as if the two entities were eternally entwined. Indeed, they were for him. He could never think of one without the other. 

He could still remember her features as she was then, far too well. Her sallow skin, the indent on her lip caused by her endearing habit of pressing her teeth into it whenever she listened intently. He still knew where every wrinkle lay on her face and how it felt to stroke her hair as it tumbled down to her shoulders.

He had to turn his thoughts away from her momentarily as they started to gather pace and detail and drag him back down into the empty pit that started in his stomach and seemed to take over his mind.

To bring him back to the present, he examined the city around him and its myriad features; the Castello Sforzesco, Sempione park, La Scala opera house, Piazza del Duomo, La Galleria and the multitude of Palazzos and villas which seemed to frame hand painted scenes of cafés populated by cultured and beautiful people. 

It seemed the years had had no effect on the city or its inhabitants, time hadn't touched their faces or the streets they lived in or the walls they lived behind. He was acutely aware of the effect the intervening years had had on him, even more so because of the lack of change around him and the ease of familiarity this brought him.

He was a young man when he had first walked these familiar streets. A young man full of fire and passion, on a quest for adventure, for learning. What he found was a love that would last a lifetime.

By now he was thinking about a girl who when he last saw her, was a full 30 years younger than he was now. This thought left him feeling uneasy, almost guilty, so much so, he wasn't sure whether it was this guilt or the feeling of futility that left him with the stronger reason to try to forget her and finally give up on this wasted quest. 

But giving up was something he just couldn't do. Just as staying away from this city was something he couldn't do. Despite his feelings about the place, it drew him back again and again. It took him a few years and a few journeys to realise that it was all just his way of staying close to her, keeping the memory of their time together alive in some macabre way. It was for the same reason that he still spoke Italian, still studied it, still practiced it. He didn't need to but it almost felt to him that if he used her language, he could revisit the conversations they once had. In his mind he also ran through conversations that were never had. 

"Mi porta un altro caffè per favore", he said to the waiter with effortless fluidity.

It was crazy and he knew it. He hadn't taken leave of his senses, he knew this wasn't a healthy way to live. He couldn't justify thinking like this but neither could he resolve the conflict within him which was as stark and as eternal as the conflict between night and day.

Time and again he'd resolved to leave this tragic, doomed story behind but it was like telling the clouds not to travel carelessly on the winds, dampening everyone's parades as they go. 

Maybe there was a dark satisfaction to be had by him in revisiting this place or that time, a sore to be continually picked at and never fully healing.

The morning bustled on around him as he sat, as unchanging as his countenance or his pattern of thought. 

The smells of coffee, traffic fumes and perfume danced around him, combining to form a sweet, heady but ultimately unpalatable mix, which formed a perfect counterpoint to the cacophony of customers and waiters shouting orders, the cars and Vespas vying for their own scraps of the hot tarmac and the over-bloated, well to do ladies and their seemingly undernourished and useless model dogs. 

The usual train of thoughts started to weigh him down again. 

Enough! That was it! He was tired of watching the people busily populating their day around him while his life, as ever, seemed on hold.

This was the time to make the change. This was the time to say goodbye to Milan.

He called for the bill and quickly paid it while angrily uttering what would be his last "Grazie".

He stood, closed his eyes and breathed in the Italian sunshine, telling himself to get used to living without it. But "living", that was the keyword here. He wanted to live again. This was how it was going to happen. It had to happen. Steely resolve would help rid him of his old comfortable routine.

He opened his eyes, determined to see just the sunshine and not the grey clouds his mind filled in as an accompaniment.

Just then he saw her and his resolve smashed all over the painfully clean paving slabs of the terrace cafe. 

He saw her face, as she was over 30 years ago. She hadn't changed. How was this possible? 

Was this one of the Milanese ghosts that accompany the tourists, lovers and merchants along the well kept streets of this culture capital?

There was her sallow skin, her hair in the style she always wore it. 

He was in the process of looking for the indentation on her lip when he noticed it, but not on her, it was evident on the older, elegant lady sitting at her table.

He observed how she caressed the hand of the well dressed man with the grey hair, sitting across from her. It was done with an ease and familiarity which only occurs with time. At a guess, at least 25 years, he thought.

When he saw the warmth in the lady's smile as she talked to the girl, he finally knew, and admitted that the right decision had been made all those years ago.

He stood watching, entranced as the lady noticed him, moved her lips away from the tiny cup of dark coffee, caught his eye and remained as open-mouthedly astonished as he was. 

He gathered his thoughts together just enough to give her a weak yet sincere smile that said " I'm happy to see you, it's over now".

She returned the smile as sincerely as his and the world held still for that moment, a fleeting moment, but enough for all those never-had conversations to finally be had.

Then the world spun again. The cacophony resumed. 

And they never looked at each other again.

The harmony he found in Milan that morning was something he admired and prized. How could he do anything but walk away?

But he had gotten his prize.

It was all there in that momentary smile, all he ever needed to know and to make her understand.

It was done...

...At some point on the plane journey home he even laughed a little to himself. 

It was done! And in a way he'd never have imagined...

...He walked in the door of his home on a rainy evening and as he turned to lock it behind him, he heard footsteps up the corridor.

"Hello Milana", he said to the girl.

"Hi dad", she answered.

The spirit of an August night

The freedom to choose, to run, to fly

With a smile on your face as you go.

As your friends gather round you it all becomes clear that your life is in the faces you know.

Go see a new dawn on a warm foreign shore and escape from the race and the fight,

And remember this time when you're in your decline with the spirit of this August night. 

The assurance of youth lays on your skin like a shimmering shield of conviction 

Awash with the innocence, rich for experience, fearless and lusting for action 

Let the spark be your guidance, your lover , your teacher.

Find your strength in the slow hours of doubt

And remember the ways, looking back through the haze

Your spirit soared in the hot August night 

Enjoy your time in the arena while the crowd flows around you,

soon it'll be your time to spectate

The spotlight has faded, the bows have been taken

Your time now to walk through the gate

And when you fade from the crowd, your story forgotten and the role that you played in the fight 

You at least made your stand, left your print in the sand

In the arena that hot August night

I remember the springtime, the tentative learning, protected and guided in light

The balmy summer then came in a rush. The heat that I'd felt was my right.

No safety net to catch me as I head for the fall...

The Autumn with colours still bright

Amid flecks of the grey, in the cold light of day 

My spirit still dreams of that hot August night 

The memory remains

Sunlight streams down, permeated with laughter.

The inebriating scent of flowers hangs in the air.

The dark brown aroma of coffee finds it's voice in the timbre of the accents as they merge and dissipate into the wider cacophony, 

all held in check by the rhythmic strumming of a Spanish guitar.

Flashed smiles, playful glances.

Shadows delighting at their time in the sun, refusing to sit still,

they revel in the freedom to dance,

Far from dark rooms and warm stale air.

The white walls of the proud pristine houses are reflected in the joyous fluttering of the sails in the bay,

attached to the myriad vessels which bring the lucky ones here, for who would ever want to leave? 

A songbird on every corner and a tune on every breath,

A story on every face and always a hand to shake.

As the shadows lengthen and the daytime colours fade,

The evening shimmers with a life all it's own, 

A portrait of soft, playful dusk

Framed by trees and fireflies.

The sweet flavour of rum mixes with the warm night air 

complementing the perfumes on the warm skin of the unintentionally provocative beauties,

decorated in splendour,

nimble and vigorous like painted birds.

But they belong in no cage, they mean to soar

As my heart soars in this paradise, peppered with earthly charm.

Then sweetness fades as a voice from a past life calls me back,

The essence of the oasis to sit in memory, blocked by tangible walls and sharp words.

I'm the caged stray, I can perceive the wonder but can never belong,

I can never dance in such a scene of beauty, I have no role to play on this stage.

Back to the concrete backdrop with the players and plot I know so well.

A place to find forever 

But forever didn't last for long.

The allure remains....

Song of freedom

Sing a song of freedom, for all not just for some,
sing a song for the days that've gone and the ones that are yet to come
Slave to the rhythm, slave to the rule of a thousand richer clowns.
So throw away your marching drum and dance to a better sound.

The world is turning round and round
and harder times are what we've found.
The higher powers are crashing to the ground.

Sing a little louder to the ones that just won't hear,
and in their wisdom fail to see the changes that are near.
Take the time to see the signs and the failures of the rules,
the drummer's drum still beating on, the dance of a thousand fools

Can't go on, holding on,
the promise of the past has been and gone.

The more we try, the more they lie
and fool us with their words.
The more we plead, the less they seem
to care for those they hurt.
The more we mend, the more they tend 
to harvest their own greed.
No more to bend, no more depend
on fools for what we need.

So see the world is changing, take the time to understand,
build your bridges out of stone and not of shifting sand.

Release

Climbing through the sunshine,
I need to feel the night like wine upon my lips.
Racing through the daytime,
with the endless stream of pawns on a paper chase.

Reaching for the freedom,
that the scent of night can breathe into my soul.
And the darkness that lies warm and kind
like a kiss upon my face.

Changes come so quickly,
and the rat race ends when the darkness takes the game.
I'll search for beauty,
and catch my breath for the wonders that I find.

So many reasons 
why the evening wind brings changes to this town,
We find reprieve in this change of mood
And leave the endless games behind


Striving just to reach the prize
Is the formula for all our lives.

Dirty hands

Dirty hands and dirty faces, it’ll cost us dear to wash the traces

Of work from our hands, of mud from our shoes,

We pay to work, we work to lose.

In union we stand against the charge of the tide, it’ll run to a trickle if we don’t abide

By the power that comes down from too high to see,

In the green land where only our rivers run free.

 

So close down the pools now they’re too dear to fill, and build some more prisons to break down the will

Of the ones who refuse to swallow what they’re told

Or buy back their dignity, stolen and sold

How can we swallow? Our mouths are too dry, to chew on the ash that remains of the lie,

The ash in our mouths, the promises broke, the flow of our words, stifled and choked.

 

The goodness and bountiful flows by as we stand, along it’s paved golden banks, right to the hand

Of our brother, our jailer, the root of our pain,

We must stand against you, we are Abel, you are Cain.

Droplets of water won’t quench the fire, growing stronger and spreading by a nation’s ire

Under the yoke of a chosen oppressor, our choice

It’s time to find solace in finding our voice.

 

This is the last straw that broke our indifference,

As the last wall presses our backs with imminence.

This is the last drop that made the cup overflow

For blood is cheaper than water by now…