I'm there for you Even when I'm ignored When you hit out at the world I sometimes get in the way Because I appear to be strong I sometimes am not watered Like the other flowers in your garden But I'm there for you Observing Protecting Advising Defending Encouraging Worrying Until I feel empty From standing in these shadows That rarely get the sun I live for the laughter The words of hope Spoken by you or others The light The common sense that wisdom brings To all But is seldom noticed Or heard I am there Waiting Longing Bleeding Hurting Renewing Carrying the weight Of every decision made in my name That scarred me Humbled me Blessed me And saved me I am there for you Every step of the way To lift you up from every fall To shoulder every tear To make sense of every confusion To call your name When it's been forgotten by others I have been there So I can be here For you (c) Frank Howson 2017
I saw a crazy man in the heart of the city cursing the people he passed, cursing the buildings, cursing someone long gone, cursing God for this Purgatory.
People reacted in different ways. Some froze and willed themselves to be invisible, some scurried away in the opposite direction, some watched in that detached zombie way people stand transfixed at car crash sites, fascinated by the sight of real disaster and yet non-reacting as though watching a movie play out.
So what does it take to make someone just crack one day? One huge life tragedy too much, or a series of small ones too close together that defy our idea of logic and fairness? Perhaps if we raise our voices above the rumbling wearing down drone sound of the busy city traffic, God will hear us?
Why does our Maker withdraw his grace and allow us to free fall through darkness and scorn so far from home? Or are we meant to always be alone in search of ourselves in others, a perilous journey not for the fainthearted. Or the dreamers.
Maybe the crazy man in the street had been chosen to heed his inner calling to join the wild throng and it is therefore in the madness that lies the ultimate truth?
Was Don Quixote mad because he chose to see the world as it should be? Or were the people who gathered to ridicule and laugh at his expense the mad ones?
John Lennon, during his time, was called mad by many, especially the press and the conservative establishment. But his brutal death at the hands of, ironically, a mad man has now elevated him to the status of martyr and messiah. Today, his human flaws have been sanitised to fit what is acceptable in the gospel of his life. The nobody mad man who shot him for a shot at immortality got a life sentence, while the famous mad man got death. And then in death, rose again.
When you look closely at it, most of our true heroes in history were called mad during their lifetimes because they attempted to do something different. To shine a light into the darkness that most of us are afraid to acknowledge. To take us where we would never have dared go if not for them. To make us think and, more importantly, to make us feel. In achieving this, a great many of them paid with their lives so that we may live.
So next time you see a mad man or woman in the street, spare a few seconds to ponder the forces that shaped them. And perhaps in those seconds we may awaken the humanity in ourselves.
(c) Frank Howson 2017
It’s always midnight in my heart
Only the alleys have known my joy
For sometimes I have experienced a bliss that is so exquisite it can’t be verbalised to anyone
Not even to the few who would care
So I have walked it away
In the dark
Along empty city side streets We bloom on cue then disappear from view Such is life It’s a pity Oscar Hammerstein didn’t write the script for our lives
He would’ve written it just right It would’ve had its highs and lows, some humour, all the boring bits cut in Philadelphia And ending on a note of hope
Instead, here we are
What’s it all about, Alfie?
The Winner Takes It All?
A Change Is Gonna Come?
Were they just 45s from our youth?
Is this the little boy I carried? Some disappointments and betrayals can never fully be washed away We live in a world where just about everything we’ve been told for the past 50 years has been a lie and the opposite, in most cases, is true The shadow brokers are keeping the public confused by a daily avalanche of complexities, creating a terminal dose of anxiety and fear All designed to make us give up, surrendering our power and responsibilities To flee to the safety of watching mindless TV to a laugh track of mostly dead people Or turn up the doof doof music and tune out Those brave souls that come forth and tell us the truth get ridiculed by The card carrying experts who translate the news for us Because we are no longer capable of thinking for ourselves Here’s some breaking news – There is, in fact, no news anymore Just opinion pieces If the smear campaign doesn’t murder the brave truth-tellers Then the lone crazy gunman will be wheeled in again to create another convenient myth
New leaders are thrown up on a platform of change
But usually it’s just a case of
Same car, different driver
Evil does indeed exist
And those who have sold their souls
Worship at the alter of a false God –
But all it buys them is emptiness
And if there is an eternity
What a hell it would be to spend it in the state of regret
Arrogance comes before a fall
And the weather report suggests a hard rain
(C) Frank Howson 2017
My birth was a bit messy from recollection and ever since I have been flaying around like a man drowning in gasoline. People have come and gone in my life, some leaving an impression, others facial scars, but still, I wouldn’t change it even if I could shoot them.
Life is funny isn’t it?
Sometimes you win and sometimes the cards are stacked against you. Still, it keeps us occupied doesn’t it? I mean, otherwise we may turn into animals and attack each other thinking there was no purpose to it all. But the good news is, there is. I can say this with all certainty now as only a few weeks ago I was stirring my pot of porridge when I saw God’s face on the surface. He said unto me, “Listen, go forth and tell all the fucking morons that I have spent a fortune on this human experiment and have nothing to show for it. Other than one lovely Jewish boy and he doesn’t count because he is related on his mother’s side. All I ask is that you scumbags make a little effort and be nice to each other. It’s not brain surgery y’know? Oh, and your porridge is ready.”
I have since taken to the streets spreading the good news that God is alive and still loves us. And that we need to be kind to each other. In return I have been beaten, spat upon, cursed, betrayed by friends, had my sex tapes made public by Billy Bush, been blacklisted by Hollywood, been lectured by Robert DeNiro on morality, and treated by the media worse than Donald Trump. It could’ve been less kind, though. I could’ve been treated like Joan of Arc and roasted like a chicken as a public entertainment. Thank God I wasn’t a woman.
These days I keep to myself and have stopped eating porridge lest I get any more messages from you know who. I mean, I myself, even, don’t know why God chose me to be the bearer of his good news although he does have a history of choosing flawed messengers. Life is complicated enough without all that.
Father, forgive us we know not what we do.
(c) Frank Howson 2017
The poet took a machete and cut his way through the field of golden daffodils coughing up blood from too many cigarettes, cheap whiskey and women gone bad. His field of dreams had been burned by looters years before and the only place he felt comfortable with now was a field hoed by blood, tears and guts. He had learnt the hard way that this was the only place a poet could write the truth. That the ugliness outside will always drive you inward.
He was well aware that there was no escape clause in his contract and no safety net for those who braved the high wire. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, they just weren’t on speaking terms since the Almighty had conspired to take Ruby from him in such a messy way.
He thought it was fitting that his best prose was written on toilet paper. He no longer craved awards or acknowledgements because he’d worn his heart out in the wanting when he was hungry and young, during that long drought before the rains came. Now, the only public he had was himself and the voices inside his head. Some belonged to long gone friends who, in his mind, would give him a slight smile and a nod when he wrote something that was real.
This was his domain now. Building monuments in the sand and watching the tide wash them away, lost to everyone but those it really mattered to.
Then he’d wander home to rest in the field of devastation to dream of beauty. After all, that was his job.
(C) Frank Howson 2017
Oh what a life we had when we thought nothing of it. It was fun and sunny and we always got by. There was food to buy and things to do and by dinner time all that mattered was the scent of something delicious cooking. We watched movies and looked for the relevance in our lives. Some made us laugh, others made us cry. Sometimes we didn’t know why. Perhaps they were premonitions of things to come known only by our hearts.
It felt like home to me and I hadn’t had a home in such a long time. I was proud of our quaint apartment and comforted by the books and music that glued our lives together. Now all gone.
I worked hard to get money to keep the wheels moving but in the end you resented that I did. So everything stopped. Including me. Our small world became overcast with your moods and I couldn’t breathe without some light.
You complained that my friends didn’t speak to you enough, so I had to lose them. You couldn’t get any work so you resented mine. Every act of kindness I offered you was rejected because in your words you didn’t wish to feel beholden to me. Then you complained that I hadn’t offered. Please forgive me my confusion as to what to do in such a circumstance.
I had been at peace before you decided to crash into my life, appearing at my door every night around dinner time, with your troubled tales of how a troubadour had treated you badly – had not encouraged you – had not listened to you – had not supported you – had not helped you. I listened every night for hours and melted and let you into my heart.
But as time went by you contradicted your stories about the selfish troubadour and elevated him to a mythical status above me. But where was he when you were hungry? Where was he when you were cold? Where was he when you needed laughter? Where was he when you were offered kindness?
Now it seems, in your mind, I have become the troubled troubadour of bygone days.
You forced me out into the night by your verbal cruelty and ruined my Christmas.
I have wandered since, here and there, thinking too deep and caring too much, in an effort to harden my heart for self-preservation.
Please send no more Valentines my way, dear Lord, I have paid too many times and my heart is too weary to try again.
(C) Frank Howson 2017
And so it goes Once again I gave my all Which wasn't enough When I was happy I was too happy When I cried There weren't enough tears To please everybody When I broke It was so quiet No one heard I died that night That night you ruined my Christmas Alone in my room Well, what was left of me But still I went on Not wanting to let anyone down I was expected at so many events And people are so easily offended So here we are Going through the motions Of an impersonation Of a man in control Of nothing There were no obituaries Only slaps on the back Some a little too hard And hollow For a sensitive soul Some hadn't been felt like this Since the murder of unsuspecting Julius But they got the wrong man I didn't set out to conquer Rome Or live for praise Only to make my mother proud And a safe place Where I could do my work In peace And not be envied Or pitied Or slandered Or made to stand trial Sometimes I think of the frightened boy I was And lost And shed a tear When someone notices I say I have something in my eye I lie And they believe me I am a fugitive of your heart Misjudged Miscast Misplaced Washed ashore Writing stories That turn out to be premonitions For those who have tired of happy endings About men on the run From a society that too readily believes The worst in us Cursed with too good a memory It is impossible to forget Every scar Every betrayal My face lined with lessons learned The hard way And there's nothing you can take to change that As Elvis found out Looking back Perhaps my only lasting friend has been the night And that glimpse of heaven That moment just before dawn When the world is so silent You can hear God's breath If you listen close enough That long night When I forget to sleep Because I'm addicted to the clarity Of each rushing thought That won't come again And my job is to capture as many As possible Before they are gone Like the women Stampeding over the edge And free falling Into the darkness of the abyss Joining my dreams of a happy home And all those beautiful things I didn't say to the right one Who withered from waiting too long And has now gone to Florida To teach people how to act So they can at least get things right in their art And be convincing enough to pass as a human being Without an alarm I awaken to find All victories shallow All risks ill-timed My laughter too loud to be acceptable My critics misinformed and better suited to The sports page Where the results are more easily ascertained My women merely visions That fade too soon Building residue in my heart That heart that is too strong to break Even by experts But weeps For missing persons Beneath the burden of searching for resolutions It may never find Not even at 3am I too gambled for our savior's clothes Winning only his crown of thorns And the identity Of a man who travels by the light of the moon Some say he is based on a true story (c) 2017 Frank Howson