I was talking to a colleague the other day and she intimated that my most recent blogs were perhaps a tad morose…it’s a reasonable point to make but I believe that writing in a sense reflects the mood of the writer. If I am candid, which I usually am, and often to my own detriment and at my own expense, I’d say that sometimes the well of creativity just dries up and it is either mood-writing or nothing. It isn’t always possible to be bright eyed and bushy tailed, no more than it is possible to be a bundle of laughs all day every day. In sum, my writing unashamedly reflects my mood.

I was talking with a different colleague yesterday afternoon and we were kicking back a little and reflecting on the vagaries of life, randomly teetering in and out of being both stoical and philosophical about the hands that life and  Fortuna  occasionally deal us collectively and severally. We segued into a conversation about angels or that ‘someone to watch over you.’ I am not so sure that I subscribe to the notion of a guardian angel but then on the other hand I occasionally feel like I actually do have someone watching over me; I am as contradictory as life itself it would appear.

So all this got me thinking about the subject of this week’s blog and I started to write and suddenly the aforementioned well of creativity dried up. I found the subject, which was the essence of the preceding paragraph just too painful and too emotive to deal with. Undeterred I thought some more and got thinking about a poem that I wrote while living in Liverpool a few years ago. It was in the ‘genre of the morose’ a little dark but the light that shines throughout is the approximation of my own little angel. I hope that you enjoy!

Unsure

He stood, withdrawn from the

Madding crowd,

Not far, but still he padded

Out the edges of,

A weird existence,

As if to seal his fate,

For way too long he’d

Hovered,

A character yes, but never

Principal to an unfolding mess

His very frame bent and battered

From the plaudits of affection

That he absorbed as stress.

The hinterland in which now

He dwelt

He knew was just a staging post,

And yet he knew not which

Road he would choose to follow,

Just certain that yet again

He’d hit the road

Unsure, a little worried,

Nervous, yes, but

No longer content to wander,

From the sideline,

He knew that if he waited

Maybe, just maybe, one more day

That something would occur.

That maybe would illuminate his way,

Keep the faith, he heard

Her distant voice,

It’s there, it’s there, she called

In a gentle whisper,

Invisible still to him but

Deep within he knew

That it would come,

That it would peep its head

From the emptiness

That had settled on his being,

Seeing, seeing it, if only,

Again he huddled in the shadows.

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