Prose: A very short story.

Incredible ordinary

Sun came up and pulls the blankets from my bed, another incredible ordinary day. Ordinary plain simple uncomplicated and ordinary. I take a coffee as we all do, my senses bathing in that wake up shower of neuronic Stimulation. Incredible this simple done, delicious ordinary.

We all fan out across the lives we lead, doing the ordinary. Me this, you that, they the other. No questions asked it’s just plain ordinary stuff, which I find incredible . An ordinary lunch, mabey later an ordinary coffee, choose your flavors please they are incredible.

Day over, another ordinary day, another incredible ordinary day done. 

POETRY: My Berlin Phone

Poem: My Berlin Phone

Berlins night, neons bright glow and flash.

Reflections splashed on my S Bahn window.

Surrealistically almost a computer game.

Plain we are jammed,

in eery quiet, rings, plings, buzzes and beeps.

Train rocks lightly,

Rolls, we just hold our phones.

Alexanderplatz is warm and dark. 

Crowds shuffle each of us in a hussel .

Most heading home, tourists clutching cases .

The rest plugged into the net.

Tipping, tapping, swiping, writing.

Clicking, snapping, sending, booting.

It’s viral, 

It’s infectiously contaminated communication.

Legally,

I’m shooting endorphins.

As my post gets a like, 

Friends hit comment,

Yet another follows my Insta. account.

Instinctively I pluck my fucking phone.

Again, was it three minutes or give it five. 

Ago.

I know it’s crazy, 

Its addiction to this screen.

We all are addicted to our known.

Afflicted by the grown dependentcy on the phone.

Activate to see who’s seen.

Who’s new not been to my page.

My new pics, posted fresh just now. 

My microcosmic world, of who and how.

Check it, route it, write and mute it.

U Bahn Bernauer Straße, Aussteigen bitte!

Pling or was it a ring?

Home.

Liam October 18 

Poetry: Be a Genius

Poem: Be a Genius 

Belief is powerful

Belief is strong

Go move a mountain,

Part the sea in a storm.

Believe in You

Believe in Me

Believe in who you aught to Be.

Share, care, show, flow…..grow!

The Picasso, I paint.

Bach’s prelude I initiate.

Einstein’s relativity I calculate .

Or Mr. Mandela instead…

Of a mouse, caught in mediocrity.

Shout out Who you are!

Blaze, rage like a shooting star.

Erupt,  be Vesuvius of your feeling found.

Genius, mine yours ours profound .

A mouse need not 

Like a lion roar or

A fish in heights a tree explore.

Yet in its bowl, 

With a mighty leap, 

Flee for the freedom which was asleep.

A mouse in the lion,

find its courage anew.

Define yourself…be you.

I find I

You find you 

Me find me

We find we

Let this day, and with it too.

Discover who I am anew….

Liam 2018

Poetry: Who is Whom?

Poem: Who?

I am not 

What you think 

I am

You are not

What you think

You are

You are 

What you think 

I am not

I am not

What I think

I am either 

You are

I am too

But who then are we? 😊

Liam Sept 2018

Poem: What is Love?

Loves joy is the wild laughter we together found.

Loves magic is the glue holds together when unbound.

Loves being is the silent power within all life.

Loves integrity is the truth which holds beyond the strife.

Loves presence is the quiet whisper  when alone.

Loves secret is the truth we share to build a home.

Loves home is the heartbeat which creates the ground.

Loves ground a fertile place these seeds are found.

Loves seeds we share throughout the day.

With everyone in every way.

Liam. October 2018

Poetry: What is Love?

Poetry: A Death

Poem: a Death

Should death us part.

For but a fragment of time.

Let still this fragment shine.

A shard, nothing but a shattered piece of 

Me remains to see,

Reflect a life gone by.

I might cry, not understand the why.

The meaning of no good-by…

Yet the light of good shines on,

Shines strong, shines long…

Enough to wake me from this pain.

Gone lame my mind

Help to find 

The day anew,

To share & to review

What we still have to share

What we still have to bare.

What we still have to do.

Liam 2016

On Writing Poetry

On Writing Poetry.

Writing poetry is like chewing bubble gum. You rip the packaging off an idea and it’s initially all sweet and tough.
Then I chew into it, my thoughts warm up making the core idea soften. I move & mould it constantly around in my mind. Like the squeeze and squish of gum in your mouth, it oozes flavor inspiring more action.

Words are pretty plastic if you chew on them long enough too.

Now it’s not so much a thinking thing, it’s more mastication. Trying out the different flavors words make with one another.
Like alliteration, onomatopoeia, some times even disambiguation finds its authenticity in a poem. Meditation in the mouth of my mind enabling an idea to be rewrapped in the colorful packaging of words.

A moment of inspiration as I focus on blowing the bubble.
The pointe like a pink bubble inflates on my mental lips .
Intension, Momentum , inclusion, exhalation, expansion and finally expulsion….yes!

POP

A happy smile it’s been done again.
A poem plastered across my page, splats of ink sometimes smeared and illegible but it’s done, the bubble blown and I can get back to doing my life.

Liam

Poem: Up Octave Life

UP OCTAVE LIFE

This today is a melody,

To whistle and sing.

The music I hear like laughter it rings.

In the morning when waking,

To sparkle my eye.

Reach over and touch you,

With wonder and why.

With happy and smile

With music and song.

It’s the new days beginning

To share to belong .

To together

To this moment

To here now at one

Let’s up octave our living.

Let’s lift up our song.

Let’s fill it with sharing

Let’s do right not the wrong.

The music flows in the beat of my heart.

Melody harmony rhythm they start

Accompany song as it soars to the sky

For all to hear

For all to try

Join in this chorus

Live the life

Love the deed

Plant the seed

Share the smile

Give and help

Hold a hand

Be aware the day is here and now.

Tomorrow for some sad will be gone.

Forever.

Liam October 18

Blog 9 Part 1 Varanasi

Blog 9: Varanasi Part 1

When translated from ancient Sanskrit, Varanasi could also be called the City of Light. It is here on the banks of the great Ganga River that Budda rolled out his first teaching, The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Dharma, there by initiating a new religion called Buddhism.

Author Mark Twain wrote in 1897 of Varanasi, “Varanasi is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.”

My western style of clothing had by this time on my journey, melted away, being replaced by brightly colored balloon trousers . Held at the waist by a cord and tied at the ankles, my shirts all two of them, were white light embroidered cotton . Around my neck hung a beaded leather pouch containing my passport and travelers checks. Other than this, I owned nothing of value. My hair had grown into an awesome Afro of curls and for the first time a recognizable beard augmented my visage.

It was culture that I came for in this holy place. In Bombay I had heard about the great festival of classical Indian music and dance and I was here to experience it first hand.

Ravi Shankar became quite famous around the time of the Beatles and he was a star player amongst many others.

Varanasi has been this cultural centre of Northern India for a thousand years and is closely associated with the Ganges.

Hindus believe that death in the city will bring salvation, making it a major centre for a death pilgrimage. The city is also known worldwide for its many ghats, embankments made in steps from stone slabs along the river bank where pilgrims perform the ritual ablutions of washing , cleansing and cleaning themselves in the sluggish flowing waters. These ghats are also where Hindus cremate their dead.

The whole amazing spectrum of life till death , being played out along the banks of this great and Holy river, I now had become part of it too.

Accommodation was simple, the rooms were spartanically furnished. A bed, a small table, a light and as everywhere a squat toilet. The food was abundant, delicious, vegetarian and diverse. Never a day went by without a new treat to my already inspired palate.

Breakfast could be chilly badgies, a fresh chilly dipped in chickpea batter and deep fried, washed down with the ever ready chai available almost on every corner.

The chai wallas, as they were called were the captains of huge copper cauldrons which simmered continually over a small coal burner. The regular addition of milk, cardamom , cinnamon, Black pepper, Darjeeling tea, honey and water results in a heavenly nectar to be enjoyed at any time of the day or night.

With that it’s “ Namaste 🙏“, I’m off to bed .

Continued Part 2.