Transcendence

Too often, held back
By a sense of trepidation,
As if worried to offend
That speaking one's mind is somehow misbegotten, rude
So you hold it all inside

And the moment passes, as all such moments do
And you're left with that linger of doubt

What if you could have, in that second
Transcended that stumbling point, given air
To thoughts you considered better left unsaid?
Free from raging fires, of damnation
Would the truth set you free?
Or would the gulf, that cold No Man's Land,
Cause an open wound between you and me?

How to avoid living

Sometimes I wonder, why do I even bother?

I try to smile but you always bring me down

I want to share my good news with you
But all you want is to share with me your blues

Oh, why?

Take a step back
See from my eyes
Hear your voice with my ears
Ask yourself why

Why now, after all we've been through
It's like you want to slip out from the back door
The world is tough, tough enough, yeah that's true
But you can only chase the sun so long before
The sun chases you

Oh, why?

Listen to your reasons
Excuses thick and fast
Empty chalices, broken promises
How long will this next turn last?

You say you're after perfection,
Yet you cease all that you start
You'd rather a million false starts
So as not to upset the apple cart

With your head in the clouds, and the dreams alive
Playing out in the theatre inside your mind
You can preach all you want about what happened before
But for now, let it be known, you've stopped living.

Five Minutes - 2

It happened in the blink of an eye. The ball was passed from one set of hands to another, to another and yet another. At length, the ball was snapped to the tall blonde boy named Nathan Johnson.

            Nathan gripped the ball tightly in his hands, eyes flicking to his left—the direction the ball came from—and to his right, seeking and finding a further set of hands to which he could unload the ball. However, unlike the rest of the team, who played football like it was a game of hot potato, Nathan held onto the ball. The time wasn’t right to pass. Not yet. Not with the touchline only about fifteen metres ahead.

            This was the closest the team had come to scoring a try; and they were behind seven to nil. If Nathan scored this try—if he even helped to score this try—then there’d be some semblance of pride to take home with him that afternoon.

            He paced forward a few steps, eyes frantic, moving left and right. So far, the line moved up alongside and behind him. So far so good. And at this early stage, the opposition line had only encroached a few feet closer, all of the boys nominating a player on the opposition to “tag.” Nathan scanned the line, trying to make out just who it was who’d nominate that they’ve got “ball,” which meant that their responsibility was to watch the player with the ball and move with them.

            As of yet, nobody had called “ball.” But everyone had named their “tag.” At first, this situation didn’t bother Nathan. Maybe, because he was the new kid, they thought he’d just siphon off his pass and just play hot potato like the rest of his mismatched team. They were the odds and sods, the rejects in the primary school caste; mainly town kids, who you could spot because they wore black school shoes instead of work boots and their shirts were ironed. Their opposition were all country kids. All of whom wore clod hoppers and were built like brick walls. So far this lunchtime, they’d dominated the play, using their size, as opposed to their skill, to outplay the disorganised town rabble. It seemed to Nathan, the newcomer, that this was the way it was always played out. It must be a bit of a tradition out here in the sticks, hundreds of miles from anywhere; and millions of miles from home.

            Well, fuck it, Nathan told himself. There is no way I’m going to accept being a loser. He knew that there was only one way to prove himself. And while he was standing, able to run, with the ball in his hand, he’d not quit. He didn’t want these farmer boys to think he was less than what they were. Just because he was wearing leather school shoes and his shirt was neatly pressed, that didn’t mean he was rich and snobby. They might have trampled on the souls of his team-mates, bullied and pushed them around; that didn’t mean that they intimidated Nathan. There were bigger kids from where he came from; and there will always be bigger kids. It didn’t mean that you had to back down just because you were smaller.

            Nathan licked his lips, jogging slowly forward. The opposition line was still hanging back, giving him room in which to move. Their eyes watched closely, and though he couldn’t see their collective gaze, he could feel it. They were reluctant to approach, not knowing whether or not this city kid had any skills. Each time Nathan had found himself in possession of the ball, he was allowed to run with it; at least for a little while. And each time he did, he was watched carefully by twelve sets of eyes. Scrutinised, studied; tracked.

            The touchline loomed only about ten metres ahead. The opposition line had begun running off the touchline; but they’d only jogged forward a few metres themselves. Looking furtively left and right over his shoulders, Nathan could see that some of his team-mates had kept up with him. More than half had slowed down to a walk, hands on hips, or clutched over their heads to draw breath that they’d hardly wasted on playing.

            The only kid who seemed as interested in playing as Nathan did was jogging alongside him to his right. There was a thin red headed beanstalk between them, who looked as if he’d snap if he were shoved too hard. Each time the ball flew his way, he’d either drop it after fumbling like a buffoon, or toss it away as if it were alight and scorching his hands off. This other kid, though, held his ground; even now in the latter stages of the game, where spirits were low and tempers paper thin.

            There was only one kid that Nathan really had to worry about, though. That was that bully, Tyson. He’d made himself known to everyone in the early stages of the game, palming kids off with his huge hands, and pushing others onto the ground even when they’d relinquished control of the ball. He was at the back of the line now, eyes glued to Nathan’s movements, his face held in the scowl Nathan had seen on pictures of Neanderthals in the World Book Encyclopaedia.

            It came was no surprise to Nathan when Tyson suddenly shouted, “Ball!” and jogged his way back into the front line. He’d only just returned to the game after sneaking off to smoke a cigarette, and only played when his team were defending—mainly because he was as uncoordinated as a newborn lamb, and as fast on his feet as a tortoise. Nathan doubted that Tyson wanted to play touch football. The game Tyson wanted to play was what was known by another name in the city: “Kill the Dill with the Pill.” And right now, Nathan had the Pill; that meant he was a moving target.

            That meant he was ripe for the picking.

Cages

I don't know about you,
But I feel these whims are distractions from
That which you don't want to face
Perhaps wrong doings in a distant past,
Poor choices, with dire consequences
That you've now chalked up as disgrace

Bird-like you flutter from this to that
Unsure if you'll break free from the cage
Of perpetual discontentment with your life
If you're trapped, you're the only one who sees it
As you beat dementedly at invisible bars
Shed tears, and bleed, inflicted with this strife

Perhaps you only have to sit back and take
A new look at that which seems to demonise;
Stop chewing your lips and wringing your hands
This disappointment is but transient,
A now conjured perhaps from a bitter past
That has chased you across foreign lands

Step back, but most of all breathe...
Unchain yourself from the shackles self imposed
You have nothing left to lose
Instead of piling resentment upon resentment
Hiding behind walls you have reinforced with doubt
And sifting through air to discover clues

There is no mystery
There is no darkness other than that you make
Each step into enlightenment
Is one less step you have to take
But remember that like time, you must go forward
There is no turning back
Why hide inside your cage, a fluttering prisoner
When you should come forth and attack?

Time

A moment in time caught and frozen

Laughter, paused, head thrown back, eyes half closed

The light reflecting from your eyes

This memory of a better time

When we were free and the world was ours

Where we thought time would stand still for us

Today, I found that photo

Hidden in an old envelope in a box in the spare room

Yellow at the edges, a crease in the top corner

Wedged amongst old knick knacks that were once important

Tucked out of sight and out of mind

Lost to thought, and to time, which moved on around us

The memory reclaimed, I could count the minutes and seconds

Since we went our own way

And self importantly, shrugged off anything resembling joint responsibility

It was all recrimination, the perfect cannon fodder for the suits we hired

To fight with their precious laws, our respective sides

The day when time stood still, to our eternal shame

It seems the only people happy with the falling out

Is my mother in law and the lawyers who grin

As dollar signs flash in place of their pinprick pupils

And the possessions that once were ours are now yours

But I know you're not happy, just as I am not happy

Time slipped through our fingers, slippery fish, greasy eel

Once we talked about settling our differences

But those days are long gone

It is not a sunset of oranges and reds on a far horizon

Or the signatures on the dotted line that mark this life from that

But rather, the lines on your face, the gauntness of your cheeks

The ravages of time that raced to its logical conclusion

Now, in this empty room, I merely shuffle from one room to the next

My threadbare slippers no comfort in the halls of my memories

Which slip from my grasp to shatter like a vase on the wooden floors

All I have is a photo taken from better times

And the papers that mark where our paths divided

All I do now is count the seconds until the end, where time's prisoner no more will I be

Five Minutes - 1

1

Just that morning he had arrived at school—the new boy—with a clean, freshly ironed shirt, leather shoes and a tie fastened round his neck, in total contrast to a lot of the other boys, who sported stained shirts and work boots. Right from the beginning this new kid was different; and things weren’t going to get much better.

            The news that the Johnson kid was coming to school on that particular day spread through the student body quicker than a brush fire through dry grass. So thoroughly was it known that the front yard of the school quickly became filled with one hundred and two eager faces waiting and watching, wanting an early glimpse of the new kid, to take a measure of him.

            Their arrival was no different to the arrival of hundreds of other kids. The family car—a well loved and albeit, well-used Ford station wagon—pulled alongside the kerb, idled for what seemed an eternity before finally spluttering to a halt the way cars do in the middle of winter. The front doors opened and you could almost swear that the wider the doors were thrown open, the more pronounced the collective sigh was among the horde watching.

            And suddenly, there he was. Nathan Johnson, stepping onto the footpath, bag over his shoulder. He stared at his new school without any emotion showing on his face. To this day it was unknown what his first impressions were, whether it was or wasn’t what he expected, whether he felt lost, annoyed, or even flattered by the presence of almost the entire school. He merely turned around to face his mother, who slung her handbag over her shoulder and moved over to the other side of the car.

            Nathan led the procession with his mother in tow; just looking at her confirmed to all that the stories going around town were true. She was rather ordinary to look at in a pair of jeans and a shirt, her face fixed in a rigid smile unlike the face of her son. She walked with a precise, measured step, as did Nathan; both had long legs and arms that made them look both fragile and strong at the same time, the fragility being illusionary, a misconception due to their height. Mrs. Johnson’s eyes showed nervousness as they darted left and right inside their sockets, scanning the crowd that had gathered to watch her son’s entrance. They relaxed immeasurably when the principal, Mr. Frump, appeared at the top step of the front office, looking a little too neat in shirt and tie, dress he wore only on special occasions. He guided them inside his office with a wave of his hand, bringing the grand event to an end.

            David Gray chewed his lip and shook his head.

            “That’s it?” someone said, breaking the silence that had held them so completely over the two or so minutes that it had taken for the Johnson’s to arrive and disappear.

            “Who did you expect, you dolt?” A terse reply. “The fucking president?” It was only Tyson Maloney who would say something so barbaric. “You should’ve seen all ya faces as Boy Wonder strolled up the path like a fuckin’ little king.” He snorted derisively, before storming away with his “gang” in tow.

            David watched the small group of boys leave, crowding around Tyson who stood out because of his sheer size. Every school had a school bully, and Tyson was theirs. Like so many bullies, he was larger than most of the kids in school, only because he was two years older than the second oldest kid in school. And like so many other bullies in so many other schools, Tyson was not “brain” material. In fact, you were doing him an injustice to call him stupid. The teachers disliked him, and having made him repeat twice, decided that even if he fails year six again, next year he was going to high school.

            David could imagine the intense relief both staff and students would feel with Tyson out of their midst. The playground would be much quieter, and Frump would have so many afternoons free instead of having to watch over Tyson at afternoon detention.

            But that was next year. Right now, Tyson reigned supreme and made no effort to hide the fact. He was fourteen years old, and that meant that everyone else owed him respect. Those who didn’t respect him, he dealt with severely. It wasn’t hard to imagine exactly what was going through his mind as he vanished around the back with his loyal band of misfits, who hung around him like snapping hyenas. There was Vincent Dollabella for instance; a jelly-spined coward if ever there was one. Why Tyson accepted him was one of those infinitesimal mysteries of the world. Maybe it was that oily charm of his, or just his oily hair. Either way, Vinnie (as he liked to be known) could almost have been Tyson’s second man had it not been for Damien Treloar. He was everything Vinnie wasn’t; strong and good looking, except for the way his left eyelid twitched occasionally. It was a well accepted fact that Damien would inherit Tyson’s mantle as school bully when Tyson was promoted (along with Vinnie) to high school, though try as he could, Damien would not have the same power that Tyson possessed.

            There would only be one thought predominant in Tyson’s mind that morning. Nathan Johnson, and more importantly, what to do with him. It was plainly obvious that a new student worried him, particularly one in the sixth grade, one that just might threaten Tyson’s balance of power. Was Nathan Johnson one of them, or wasn’t he?

            There were really only two groups he could belong to: those Tyson beat up on, and those he didn’t. David was one of the kids Tyson managed to leave alone, for reasons he knew not. His main target seemed to be the kids whose fathers were well off financially, for these kids were often just as spineless as Vinnie Dollabella, as if all the money their fathers’ hoard robbed them of their strength. It was these kids who paid for Tyson’s lunch when he was strapped for cash—which was nearly every day because any pocket money he earned was spent on cigarettes. Another reason why David wasn’t a target for his provocation was that when he needed the money, he simply wasn’t around. Living just around the corner from the school meant that he was one of the few privileged students to have a lunch pass.

            Lunch, however, was the last thing on his mind at the moment, for equipped with the full knowledge of Tyson’s past, David felt sure something was going to happen. So too did David’s friends, who sat with him in a small group, looking around with smiles on their faces. They all lived out of town, like a great majority of kids in Rand, on farms where they helped their Dads doing farm stuff, like driving tractors and exciting shit like that. In fact, David was probably the only one in sixth grade who couldn’t drive a tractor, or worse yet—couldn’t ride a motorbike. Working on the farm explained why most of them were built like tanks and wore work boots all of the time and felt like they were being strangled when forced to wear a tie. It was also partly the reason why all of them would be going to Boarding School next year. The other reason was to do with money, which most of the farmers seemed to have in abundance, even in bad years.

            So, the question began. What was to happen to Nathan on his first day at school? If his pristine uniform was the first benchmark of separation, then the second was to occur only minutes after entering the classroom for the first time. No sooner had he seated himself, opened his book, dug out his pen from a brand new pencil case, was he required by the teacher to stand up and give an impromptu speech to the class. It would seem that from this moment on, in this cold and frosty auspicious July morning, that Nathan Johnson’s day would be marked with humiliation on top of humiliation.

            Cowed on by the class, with Tyson at the very back adding his two cents worth, Nathan had no option but to rise slowly to his feet and walk to the front of the classroom. Again, he walked with that dignified action, each foot precisely placed on the ground, giving off a slight squeak as his new leather shoes began to wear in. His uniform was brand new, every crease fresh from the manufacturer, giving him an over neat appearance that would have destroyed him at that very moment were it not for the way his tie now dangled loosely from his neck. He pawed at the hanging piece of material earnestly, a smattering of colour rising to his cheeks that may have first been construed as embarrassment. Nathan was not exactly the sort that girls would throw themselves at. He was ruggedly handsome, with a strong face, blonde hair that was razor straight and a short nose. His only vice was his eyes, those cold icy eyes that stared with the intensity of laser beams. He raked the class of seventeen with those impeccable eyes. He was assessing the class as much as they were him to the extent that the excited cheers intent on embarrassing Nathan soon wound around to embarrass the person from whom they came. When he spoke, it was in a clear, even voice. He was a natural public speaker, something which most of the other kids found arduous at the best of times. Once he overcome the rigidity of his audience, he delivered a fine speech full of wit and dripping with so much honey that he could have almost won them all over. Almost.

            Nobody had counted on lunchtime lasting those extra five minutes. Least of all Nathan Johnson. Nor would those involved realise the significance of those extra five minutes; for three people, it would mark a turning point in their lives.

The moment when...

Some day the clocks will stop their counting

Everything will pause

Holding that last moment, a pent up breath

A night, perpetually dark

In this, we can make no sense, but everything becomes clear

As insubstantial, and soulless

We rise above our pain, unfurl our wings

And our mortal shell

Sinks into a hole in the ground