Man, Woman or Man?

Man, what and who is Man?. 

Is Man a Woman or is Man a Man, striving through life to achieve what Man can.

Man is a sharing, caring species, with the ability to love for life, however sometimes chooses to be deceitful, on the edge of a knife even to the destruction of husband or wife.

Does man know him or herself, deep and affectionate, sworn devotion to the core, courageously held to defend the others  honour for forever more then turned by a fleeting glint of an eye, becoming wickedly, wild, sexy, yet gone, for sure. 

Man enters the darkness, for darkness is intriguing, interesting, an unknown to the adventurer, bewildering as space, searching for what?, who?. Go at a steady pace, for in the darkness one can become lost forever from the human race. 

Man scared to utter a word for getting it wrong so says nothing to stay silent and strong, yet alone without success, Think what man thinks or say what man says, seems to be to bold an adventure to be on, so stay silent and strong, live alone, for very long.

Shallow beats the heart of man, looking cool in a white Sudan or hard at work in his or her  white van, earning a wage to pay the mortgage, electric, water, what a hard slogger, maybe has ten pounds left for a bottle of prosseco or a cheap bottle of vodka.

So what is a man?, striving through life to achieve what man can, a slave to the rich or a traitor to the poor?, or boasting of their earthly wealth that others see as a bore. Maybe the man we speak of is not in a groove just another person on the move, not fitting in the popular scene, in the dark, never ever seen.  

What is Man without Man or Woman as Man, Man needs Man or Woman as Man for achievement as one to do what ever Man can.

Where are friends

Where are the friends which once sat at your table, eating in all their splendour that they could enable. Smiling at the jokes or the tales of fable, true friendship from the foundation up to the gable.

Where are the friends who spoke so truly, always around, worrying you so gruelly, then came the time you required their love, the guidance once offered they denied so cruelly.

Where are the friends offering advice, a mutual rescinded required device, given to them in their saddened need, once forgotten to return the good deed.

Where are the friends now you are old, always there to keep you on your toes, fighting for you against callous foes, in an imagination that never existed, duplicitous busybodies, bitterly twisted.

Where are your friends, now your alone, waiting so silently, listening for the phone, watching television the company it brings, X Factors on,  an angel on it sings.

Where are the friends caring at night, left in solitude at home, you give up the fight, lovers sadly departed a while ago, rocked your world to and thro’, then no more, all of a sudden it’s your turn to go, finish of life, all done and alone.

Clissold Park

I lay there one night, memories Came rushing back as a book of photographs, the scene laid out,Clissold Park, the day we played Tennis. Crazy Golf, the Park Keeper shouted get off the grass, we would stay all day, until it was dark.

The Fallow Deer, gracefull fawn, pretty, was a wonderful time to grow up in this city. Rabbits in the run, seemingly having fun, then peak at the birds in their cage, some boys stole my ball, I became quite enraged.

Played for the first time, Football in the scouts team, 1st Stokenewington, proudly keen, the ball came out of the sky with my head held high, completely knocked out, could have lost an eye, never played again, I resent, with a sigh.

On the hills, where once a train ran, next to the pond where there were fishermen, tried catching once or twice, clever little fish, spat out my worms and maggots, even spat out corned beef with spice.

I learned late to swing on the swings, when I did, I felt quite bold, then the caretaker lady said get off the swing, your much too old. People danced to the classical music, we began to hum, take the micky, copycat and laugh, forced to haste, then quickly run, we secretly enjoyed the music from the auditorium.

Mum would buy an ice cream from Sir Thomas Abney house, beautiful old building, I once chased a mouse. Into the paddling pool we used to splash, we had such fun, never needed cash. Ducks lined the river nesting on the side and sometimes lay in their sweet little house.

I grew up, moved away, lived everywhere in the uk, left London far behind, sensitive boy frightened from the inner city violent high, so up I got and ran away, see my sisters they’re okay, yet Clissold Park, still has a sway, perhaps I can go back there, one of these days.

Is depression dark?

Entering the tunnel of love, I ask myself ‘is depression dark?’, along with the sounds from cold, running watered glass, shattering my ears with a rush, my heart dying with a tightly wound crush!.

All at once, the winding tunnel wrenches blackness to daylight, the Kalashnikov sound of water flow, releasing into a ripple, joining what can only be described as wide mouths of screaming children on high rides, laughing, enjoyment to the full.

Birds in cages squawking revolutionarily speech to ice cream slurping brats, women crying bitter sorrow to each other, ‘men!, bastards!’, every one, big, young, old, impetuous and small, masculinity at the bar flexing muscles, standing tall, caring by not caring at all, beer swilling and a slippery fall.

Queueing traffic in the summer heat, all the time in the world to rest aching feet while looking at others in cars, also queuing to escape litter strewn streets of their holiday, puke ridden pools with sunburnt skin, white flesh displayed thin, tired from a long hard restful day.

Wonderful smiling faces surround me, “thanks for a lovely day”, they say, the very next day, ‘that’s okay’ I reply, thinking ‘I do wish I felt the same’ watching them cheerfully depart, still I feel a crushed winding of my heart, the day thunders away, I hear the sound of the river in my mind awash, lightening strikes into the night, another darkness, another fight, again I ask myself looking at the stars, is depression dark?.

Depression is a lonely journey

I awaken, its dark, I feel an ache in my heart, it’s a dread, a fear of death, a dry throat with tainted breath, blood seeps across my tongue, youth is wasted on the young, the wonder of health, a perspective view, fresh young skin with a skull tattoo.
A heart attack, a panic attack, I’m not sure which, continuing days with an unscratchable itch, life is worthless, no change made, sometimes I feel I have the mange, in a rut stuck, useless person with a pain in the butt, ridiculously ill from a fattened gut.
Once, a person full of joy, reckless, young a carefree boy, a whole being, exalted with fun, feeling the truth of what it is to be young, despair is ending, days ever ending,  O joy enter my heart, a darkened destructive way to finish a good start, what has become....
Realise after so many years, life has been hard with tears, five jobs at sixteen, fight really hard to be a somebody, to be nobody is even harder, leaving a job I loved, pleasing a cow in a china shop, it seems misery will never stop, depression is a lonely journey, now I’ve fallen off.

Baby by the river - Richard

I read a story, it caused me to weep, found in newspaper on the side of the street, a few hours old near a rat infested canal, found by a kindly soul with the miracle of how.

Mother unable to care, you were given no name then dumped you by there,  father jailed for being a member of the Krays, doing time without any praise, mother probably unable to cope left you without survival hope.

Social care with hardly any,  a child without love but love for many, your luck then changed adopted by a family with lots of love to give now at last you had a reason to live

How sad even more just to remind you of an equal score, your adopted father beat you black and blue, violent and egotistical broke your bones too, now you’ve grown, your Destiny is your own a book  of a life tainted by strife.

I thought I was unlucky, sadness from the falls your story tells me that I had hardly any at all, Richard Gallear, The forgotten child, lived to tell the tale from a miracle child to tell the tale of a man who should’ve been wild but with life brings a change to the direction of the wind, maybe change the mind of a fiend. 

May a glint of light shine through all of our darkness- God Bless. 

The Belvedere auditorium

On a cold, damp, colourful Autumn day , I arrived at the crossroads where gasps of a blustery gale were clashing into a vortex, swirling everything trapped within an invisible theatre, I sat within my vehicle frozen in amazement, stopping to glance as if in a trance transfixing my glaze, most would not have seen, instead noticing the wonderful building of All Saints well presented and quaintly built with brown and white ornate stone or the little elderly couple shuffling along, wrapped up with elegance and scarves holding hands, drenched in historical affection, not the mere sight of leaves creating a scene of pure beauty, dancing colourfully, setting the scene of the most glamorous ballet to bestow an audience, a large black Crow sitting comfortably on the pleasant wall, picking at a chip acquired from the foyer, so called the road where many quaint yet tasty food items can be bought at a reasonable price of mere diligence and patience, then the scene erupted into a finale’, swept away from existence by a trail of moving vehicles in transition to all of the most amazing places that anyone could imagine, it was then’, I could hear the trumpets and brass section wakening me from my trance at the end of the dance, horns of plenty from behind reminding me the show had finished and it was my time to depart the Belvedere auditorium.