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Since I was a kid
I have been exposed and interested
in every decade of the 20th Century,
and I have always been fascinated
by the phenomenon of things created in different decades
that were a staple and an example of their time
that come back into fashion, and the touch of the influence
and the art of them continues to inform the present
in many different and brilliant ways.
I feel like a collage of styles,
likes, lessons, morals, and trends;
I love the fact that I am not stuck or constrained
in any particular way of dressing, thinking about,
or seeing the world, and I never have-
I have always loved individuality and originality,
uniqueness and specialness,
and the things about life and people that never
detract and always enhance.
There is a reason why things repeat;
there is a reason why ideas, designs, and concepts
come back into peoples consciousness time after time;
there is a reason why a good thing never dies;
there is a reason why hearts, minds, and souls meet.
The music of the 1980s,
the ideas of the 1970s,
the style of the 1960s,
the art of the 1950s,
are loved every day and are still all around us
and they can be heard, thought, seen, and enjoyed,
in any and every one of the worlds cities,
and knowing that everything that used to be considered
every-day and ‘run of the mill’ is now truly special,
treasured, and cherished, by people who were
not even born when they were new, unheard, and unseen,
gives them a quintessential, classic, vintage feel,
and ambiance, that some things of the modern age
will not have when they too become replaced
by something that resembles a change of ways,
or a refreshed screen.
I love the look, the feel, the sound, the crackle, of vinyl;
I love seeing and being inside a “classic car”;
I love something that doesn’t ever lose it’s charm,
because it was made to be a one-off,
but has transcended, endured, and lasted,
and will enrich peoples lives forever
and make them smile.
I love as story, a person, that is, and who is,
so special and unique, but also ubiquitous-
but not because they were forced on other to be
who and what they are now considered to be from their genesis,
but because no one took them for granted,
and love them because they will always be as singular as a star.
Seeing an iconic invention and expression of a time gone by
that still exists in some way, is like being in a tunnel
and hearing the distinctive voice of someone in an echo;
seeing the source of a revolution,
and also going back and learning about something of importance’s
origin, is always the best thing in the world-
and that is why I love to rediscover things,
and make a part of my life and me many of the things
that people call and consider nostalgic and retro.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with memories.
When you walk into a room
and the emotions, feelings, and love, for a moment in time
reform in your mind from every corner, like a scent on a breeze.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with music.
When the walls and the windows of your home
echo, reverberate, and bring to life the music of your mind and your heart
in time with every clock and accentuating every tick.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with light.
When the golden energy waves of the suns ocean
flood your home from every window and door;
or when a full-moon hovers above us
and welcomes in the change from day into night.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When every step that we take up stairs, over floorboards,
into the recesses of our home, reminds us that it is alive,
moving, and talking to us all the time-
when even in an empty house we can feel an energy all around us,
as if stemming from an unseen dimension that exist to entwine.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When you are in it.
When a house becomes your home,
and means more to you than a place that you choose to inhabit.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When you stand in the living room of your home
and you say out-loud, but to no one in particular,
that this is the place you want to return to every night,
and perhaps may one day want to share with a spouse-
then you know, then you feel,
that this is not, that this has never been, that this will never be,
an empty house.
Home
When I was a boy, and all throughout my teenage years,
I was an artist, an athlete, an adventurer,
who knew nothing about the world
other than to never be held back by my fears.
I used to run, cycle, explore, for hours at a time
through my homes countryside open-air-
racing down lanes and over fields,
as the winds of my childhood blew through my curly blond hair.
I remember a summer when my friends and I decided to build a time machine-
I told my friends that it would be easy:
“Doc Brown made one out of a car”,
and I described how easy that had been-
so we outfitted a go-cart with a modified sweet-box, some wires,
a watch, and a calculator- all to my exacting specifications;
and then my friends and I all took turns on our “time machine”,
each time travelling to a myriad of historic and futuristic destinations.
As an adult I have had this recurring thought and daydream for many years
of going back to my “blond hair days”,
sitting down on a bench with my younger self,
and simply talking to myself, and telling myself a story:
a tale of tears and sadness, but also one of energy, inspiration,
love, imagination, and cherished glory.
I would tell myself how one day the world is going to change,
but that everything is going to be alright;
and that magic is real, but it doesn’t always present itself
in colours of black and white.
I would tell myself to remember these times in my life,
because these are the days that I will return to often,
and which strengthen my worlds bonds.
What a time I had, what days they were,
when I was blond!
A strange wave of feelings, emotions, inspirations, and faces,
that for years have resided in my memory,
have now come back to the front
and are once again inspiring me.
In my mind I am being taken back in time
to the muse of my first poem;
in my memory I am reliving the love, the passion,
the birth of the brand new world,
that was created and inspired by them.
It is as if I were saying goodbye
to magical muse who gifted me my first rhyme;
but until now I have never felt that way,
and I would never want to imagine such a time.
I don’t know where this feeling of loss has come from,
I don’t know why it is currently inhabiting me-
I still love my first muse,
I am more inspired than ever before,
and I still get a rush like no other
from my love of writing poetry.
Perhaps it is simply nostalgia,
my painful longing to do-over the mistakes of my past,
or maybe I am trying to put things behind me
and accept my life at last.
I believe that a single word can be as poetic and as epic
as any of the greatest poems ever written.
I believe that a one word poem can inspire anyone and everyone,
but to my knowledge it has yet to have been done.
The most beautiful one word poem I have ever heard
is also the name of my first muse-
this name is so special and inspiring to me
I use it sparingly and its beauty I never abuse.
I beg that this will not be the last time
that I am inspired by perfection,
I journey back through time again and again
in order to stop my memory of her from becoming a reflection.
As always, just the thought of my first muse
is enough to calm the waters of my mind-
just like the legend of old, my halcyon, my muse,
will forever remain serene and supreme-
an oasis of timeless inspiration,
whose memory I will never leave behind.
There is no other time of the year as energizing as right now,
there is no other season like Summer to take your breath away,
engulf you, and make you go wow!
There is no other time of your childhood
that you look back on more and reminisce,
there is no other feeling as comparable as that of Summer’s kiss.
The wind is sparing, the air is close-
the pavements are simmering with so much heat
you could almost make toast!
The streets are like greenhouses,
capturing and funneling the days heat between every building-
almost turning ponds into baths, and fountains into hot-springs.
No matter the heat,
no temperature can dwell the glee of the young!
The joyful cries of children playing in the street
is like the song of the sun, a rhyme for all-time,
that can only be heard from the lips of the innocents tongue.
The smells in the air are always exquisite-
from the aroma of a barbecue, to the scent of a floral perfume;
the taste of food is heightened-
from the strawberries that we eat,
to the ice cream that we consume.
Tennis is on TV, the music festivals are in full-swing
and attract and unite thousands en masse-
everyone wants to be part of the enthusiasm of the here and now,
because they know that it will be gone in a flash.
No British summer would ever be the same
if, along with the gorgeous sunshine,
we didn’t get a shower or two of the great British rain;
but after a long and sticky day
sometimes there can be nothing else more welcome,
and the distinctive smell in the air that follows
always invigorates and stops you from feeling glum.
Summertime is a glorious spell
that enchants me every year without fail, I have to confess-
never do I long for any other days
than for the warm and beautiful embraces of Summers magical caress.
To whom it may concern,
I hope this poem finds you happy, hopeful, and well,
as do I hope the world is treating you kindly, and is allowing you to excel.
The times in which we live in are always fraught with uncertainty,
no matter the direction we choose to walk
we will inevitably reach the shore to an unknown and trying sea;
but beyond the sea there always lies an island of familiarity,
an oasis of interest,
a home, a place, a person, to call your own- where, or with whom,
you can be yourself, and be at rest.
It is always being said that the world is becoming smaller
and that the mysteries of life are becoming less shrouded;
I, however, believe the opposite to be true
and that the story of all and everything is far from being read.
To whom it may concern,
I have always preferred to give, rather than to receive;
I have always sought someone, or something, to work towards,
attain, and believe.
I have been through numerous times of trial,
and of questioning my own worth;
however, with these tests of worthiness,
there always follows a reaffirmation, and an inspiration rebirth.
No one is perfect, I count myself as a shining example of that fact;
however, I do believe that everyone has a responsibility for their words,
their choices, and for how they act.
I believe that everyone who can should give to the world their energy,
their inspiration, their imagination, their “all”-
because alone we are small,
while together we all flourish and stand-tall.
The 1960s was an amazing decade, era, and time;
a period when the best of humanity inspired, pioneered, and began to shine.
Even though I did not live through the exciting, inspiring, sometimes frightening, 1960s,
it does not preclude me from feeling the optimism and the energy by way of reprise-
whether it be in art, fashion, music, nostalgia, or on TV in the phenomenal ‘Mad Men’;
young and old are re-embracing the 1960s, and I count myself among them.
The 1960s was a decade that redefined every aspect of human expectation and culture,
a golden-age when the world lifted up their eyes and dreamed of a bright and optimistic future.
The 1960s, however, was also a time of great anxiety, pain, and tragedy;
when, as dreams were being dreamed, events and emotions reached their perigee;
when wars were fought, men, women, and children, lost their lives;
and when new opinions were formed that brought about the downfall of old divides.
The 1960s is of interest to me because I have always dreamed of being there in 1969;
being there, or just watching live on TV, at the moment when humanity crossed a line;
being there when perhaps the most famous and important words ever spoken were defined:
“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Every time I hear Neil Armstrong’s radio transmission my imagination immediately takes flight-
I imagine what my dad must have felt when he watched the moon landing in black and white;
I imagine being of the half a billion people who watched, became invested, and were overcome,
by the most momentous event in human history; the question of: what now? and what is yet to come?
If I had to pick a decade to be born in- apart from the 1580s-
it would have to be in this decade, this era, this time, the one and the only 1960s.
The 1960s was, and still is, a decade that informed and touched the lives of all of humanity;
a time when everyone on Earth was met with moments of joy, reinvention, and tranquility.
The 1960s was, and still is, a decade of style, substance, energy, and elation;
a decade of highs, and low’s; a decade of adventure, and curiosity; a decade of liberation.
The 1960s is a gift to us all who live, love, and breathe, the debt that cannot be repaid.
Oh, what it must have been like to live in this decade!
Memory, nostalgia- that special feeling of yesteryear;
our hopes, our dreams- that which we hold on to like a souvenir-
never to be replaced, never to be extinguished:
the constant of everything for which we have ever wished.
Eden, Utopia- a perfect place of eternal bliss-
that place you go to with a friend when you reminisce-
one of the most powerful draws that lies just over the horizon,
a promise that we can be whatever we can possibly imagine.
A foothold of faith; a leap for love-
that first glimpse of the one you adore and are in awe of-
not only a memory, but an Eden in it’s own right;
like a forever beckoning beacon of emotion and light
that resonates infinitely and is an uninterrupted delight,
which, even after first sight, makes your heart race and take flight-
the rush, the essence, and the allure of love at first sight.
“Roses in December” is the gift that memory bestows-
to be able to go back in time, and deliver like a single red rose:
the scent, the palette, the poignancy of life that our senses merely hint to-
an infinite, unrelenting, penetrating, perfect, beautiful view-
that forever and always stays with you,
and will carry on even after our last adieu.
“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
— J.M. Barrie
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 