THE MEANING OF LIFE

He came with love in his heart for every living thing. His innocence had been untouched and his light force shone so bright that crowds gathered to see him but, more importantly, to feel his warmth. By gazing upon him they were somehow changed. “Was this the Messiah?” they mumbled to each other in hushed tones lest they be deemed blasphemous by some. For some can find darkness in every hope, every wish, every prayer.

And when this man spoke it brought some to their knees, others to tears. It was as if the calmness in his voice could heal every hurt and fear that had weighed them down and they were now somehow lighter.

The taking away of such anguish even brought back sight to the blind. As if all they had needed was to believe in something and were being granted the ability to see the world anew. Men who had walked too many lonely dead end loveless roads and were now crippled, found that they could walk again. And after those first awkward unsure steps they inched closer and closer to him growing more confident and accepted with each one until they were in his arms, and the safety and strength  of unconditional love made them sob for the joy of each precious moment. Time that they had, until now, misinterpreted and cursed for their burdens, and wasted, was now rediscovered and rejoiced over. All things were possible again.

In his face they saw no judgement, no impatience, no pity, only love. And his love became contagious among the people and they sang his praises.

He had not come to destroy the Romans, or hand out weapons, or preach hate. He was here to give meaning to our lives. What was the meaning of life? Love. For love opens the door to joy. And its light extinguishes all shadows.

But there were those, the shadow people, who were angered by us learning the meaning of existence and saw that this teaching could undermine their power over us. For they ruled by fear and threats, both of which were rendered insignificant when the masses walked proudly in the sun again unchained from their own mental limitations.

So they arrested this man, this dangerous man, beat him, whipped him, ridiculed him and his suffering, and sentenced him to an agonising death for the crime of telling us to love and forgive each other.

And in his final conscious moments he forgave those who had plotted his death, and the ignorant who had killed him. To this day it remains the greatest triumph of the human spirit.

Perhaps he was drawing evil into the light so that the world could recognise its face?

 
(C) Frank Howson 2019

Painting by Frank Howson (c) 2019

Advertisements

THE ACTRESS RESIDES

She could’ve been a star but she sold too short. She gave easy access to the bottom feeders and the psycho time wasters. People whom she thought had a name. Trouble is, their names only opened doors for themselves. Philanthropic enterprises were not on their radar. Only the unveiling of what everyone else had already seen and widely circulated reports about. She grew to get off on the feeling of being humiliated in such a way, and so, it continued all the way down.

Soon she was the name on everyone’s lips and didn’t care that a snigger followed it and then a derogatory remark. After all, she was famous, wasn’t she? Well in some circles it was true.

She began expanding herself into diminishing returns and thinking she was making ground. Love, or what she could make of it, became opportunistic and as reasonably priced as the discounted dress she could manipulate some romantic fool to purchase for her. It was a good life as long as you didn’t look up and see that you were actually going backwards.

She could fake sympathy but not loyalty. She was continually shocked that people thought she’d betrayed them, but the truth is it never crossed her mind. She also had difficulty playing characters as she was already playing herself, and it was difficult wearing two masks at the same time.

She thought Empathy was a boring village somewhere in France. A place she had no interest in visiting. Why? What was in it for her?

Each day she checked her face for any signs of age, that dark angel that waited in the wings to signal her demise and herald the harvest season for the new crop of pretty young things.

She feared that her destiny was to play the cynical boozy floozies a la Gloria Grahame. She began weeping at sunsets.

Life was cruel when you thought about it so she ceased thinking about anything other than herself. In her mind she was already a legend and had convinced herself the whole world was waiting to see her next move. In reality they had no idea who she was.

To further take her mind off things she’d fall in love with crude men who played supporting roles and would abuse her. But she always kept a longtime, long suffering romantic male friend to run back to and hide the shame in his arms that she’d been exposed to the spotlight of her circle.

As the years of the same rolled by and her ability to be noticed when she entered a room diminished she became more and more erratic and her tantrums grew larger and more devoid of any valid logic, causing bemused onlookers to suggest, in whispered tones, that she needed to be in an institution for the insane and creatively gifted.

But instead she chose to be stripped naked by big rough men in the back seats of second hand cars. They would calm her by whispering beautiful lies in her ear that she was safe and still beautiful. Each one of them murdering her a little more.

To those who truly cared about her, or more accurately, the person they thought she could be based on the evidence of zip, it became too painful to watch her downfall.

So, they looked away.

The story went on but this is where it ends.

 

 

(C) Frank Howson 2019

THE STREETS OF SHAME

One day we’ll be safe
Haunted no more
When the oceans tide
Turns away from the shore
And the bars on our windows
Have been torn away
We’ll wake to find
A brave new day
You’ll say you love me
And I’ll say the same
And we’ll never walk again
These streets of shame
Take me far away
Where no one’s to blame
And we won’t have to walk
These streets of shame

 

(C) Frank Howson. 2019

I DIED AT 3 AM

I woke up this morning
To find I’m dead
I switched on the TV
And some nice things were said
But one of the papers
Got some details wrong
They said I was Fred
And was born in Geelong
They printed a photo
The one where I blinked
And said Bin Laden and I
Were somehow linked
It’s a funny world
When you think about it
It’s either Champagne and oysters
But mostly shit
I met a lot of c–ts
Who taught me not to care
I’ll die if I reach heaven
And find them there

 

(c) Frank Howson 2019

I HURT YOU TOO

I’m so sorry
For who I was
There were reasons
Not just because
It’s convenient
To blame my youth
It takes a lifetime
To accept the truth

I was drowning
Myself inside
That secret place
We choose to hide
And like a broken child
I threw my hurt at you
You hurt me once
I hurt you two
Yes, I hurt you too

We can’t go back
And mend the breaks
We forget the good times
But not mistakes
It’s the price I pay
For losing you
The ties the bind us
Any fool can undo

I was drowning
Myself inside
That secret place
We choose to hide
And like a lost child
I threw my hurt at you
You hurt me once
I hurt you two
Yes, I hurt you too

There was a time
When I was almost home
But then I opened my mouth
To find I’m all alone
I feel I’m in a prison
For my father’s sins
A place you can’t get out
Once you’re in

I am drowning
Myself inside
That secret place
We choose to hide
And like a broken child
I threw my hurt at you
You hurt me once
I hurt you two
Yes, I hurt you too

 

(c) Frank Howson 2019

THE DARK AGES

Sitting in the dark ages
Of this room
As words and faces circle me
From other times
When the sun did shine
And my power could light a block
Everywhere my eyes fall in my room
They fall upon trinkets, books, photographs, ornaments and other such mementos of that other life
Every one of them priceless
To me
The first gift I ever bought my mother out of my own pocket money
The first book I ever read
Gifts from past loves
The handful of the only letters my father ever wrote
Addressed to his prodigal son
Filled with spelling and grammatical mistakes but his humour and heart in each word
And I wouldn’t sell them for millions
Of course, once I die
Most of this stuff will just be gathered up and thrown in the local tip
People won’t realise, or care, what each item meant to me
And the story behind them
My personal Rosebuds
I have kept so many of these treasures
That it’s getting difficult to move
And I know they are weighing me down to this earth
But what can I do?
Throw them out?
It would certainly lighten my load
But at the same time add more weight to my heart than what they added to Phar Lap’s saddle bags
So here I am
Stuck in the dark ages
The shadowy silence
Of another night
Spent with well-meaning ghosts
That mean me no harm
And in my last breath before falling into sleep I thank them for their attendance
And for caring
As much as I do

(C) Frank Howson 2019

SURVIVAL OF THE SICKEST

“What is mine is mine and what is yours is mine too.” That attitude has pretty much brought the world to its knees. So much childish behaviour from so many allegedly brilliant human beings through the ages. But very few of us ever grow up, really, we just just become bigger children and dress more in keeping with what is expected of adults so we can get a pay cheque.

Marriages are broken because “You looked at that woman longer than you looked at me.” Friendships are destroyed because “I thought you were my friend but you stole from me. And I gave you so much!” Countries go to war because “We have bigger weapons than yours and we need someone to bow down to us so we feel important.” We see beauty in the landscape of the world and feel that something superior to us must’ve created it so we get envious and cut down the trees, pave the ground, damn the rivers, use the oceans as a rubbish dump, and build skyscrapers that are monuments to our own ego. “Look what we can do!”

But then again, calling all that childish is an insult to most children. It is, in fact, the very worst of us. At any age. Reducing the spirituality of things that there are no answers for to something we can dissect and misunderstand. Men worship at the stagnant pool of their own reflection while women get sexually excited by bank accounts and are seduced into a lifelong prison of their own making. We always aim so low. The bottom feeders. Men and women have lost their identity and their way. The first casualty was romance. Today we don’t have time for that. Let alone getting to know someone. We just want an app that tells us what street corner  you’re on and if you have 30 minutes to spare. Sex is no longer intimate. Not like a kiss used to be. Nudity is no longer revealing. Not like a conversation is. And real life is play acting the persona you think will go over best to achieve what you crave. But then the more you get the less it means until you realise it’s all been for nothing. You have nothing. You are nothing. Your relationships are nothing. Your forecast is nothing for there is nothing you can take from this life that you’ve given so little to.

God, that genius in the sky, has given us free will in which to entrap ourselves.

“It’s not fair!…it’s not fair!” We scream as we run hatless through deserted streets trying to find eyes that will look upon us with some pity for the self-inflicted mess we have found ourselves in. But we are alone. As we have always really been. And that realisation kills more than all the troops Caesar commanded.

There was a man from humble beginnings, some say a broken home, who came forward and told us he had the answer. Which, in a nutshell, was this – All we had to do was love each other, and do the right thing, and we would be filled with such an inner joy we’d think we were in heaven.

We killed him. He was obviously a lunatic. And dangerous to our view of the world and each other. Besides, his concept had nothing to  do with anything. There was no money in it. And money is the only way we can put a value on something.

After that, every few decades threw up another messianic lunatic that told us “all we need is love.” But no. All we needed, it seemed, was to kill these misguided lunatics and then we felt safe again.

Now we have evolved and have TV shows like “Survivor” that teach us, and the younger generation, that if you pretend to be someone you’re not, and lie, and plot, and betray the people you’ve hoodwinked into thinking you’re their friend, you emerge as the winner. The producers will bestow riches upon you and for 15 minutes you will be a star.

This of course confirms that the world has entered the end game and at night, if you have any spirit left, you may hear the faraway faint cries of thousands of broken, despairing messiahs who died in vain thinking they could make a difference.

I believe that the creatures of the earth have lodged a petition with the United Nations documenting their outrage at being labeled “animals” and that the title rightfully belongs to us.

Who among us could argue with that?

(C) Frank Howson