Category: poetry

Strangle Bukowski – poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Will someone please strangle Bukowski

A disgraceful man

not worthy of the name Charles

He farts his syllables

belches his words

vomits his phrases

– his sentences smell

like festering fish

As for his verse

it’s worse.

When did Mewkowski last rhyme?

When did he not spew  out his truth

as if it was personal?

If caustic Charlie didn’t drink sour milk

sucked from his Mother Nature

the inhuman race

would have no warlike bastards

inciting us all to spill blood

from eructive orifices.

Pastiching

the barely sane Bukowski

keeps my bad breath moving mindfully

in and out

in and out

through gaps between teeth

filled originally by a dumb dentist

married to his drill

addicted to screwing

holes he amalgamed.

Father, father

who will rid me of this

treacherous gurgitator

sent from that inner being

Steve Jobs

tried to connect with

on his ashram

in smelly feet.

See,

pastiche is the sincerest form of flattery

Will someone please strangle Bukowski?

Poetry is good for something?

disclaimer

I’m a poet.

I buy poetry books.
read poems (out loud).
run a daily poetry show
live streamed on Periscope
(The Walt Whitman Show).

And

“Does poetry still matter?“

(CNN)Quick: Name a famous living poet.

Somebody. Anybody. No, not Maya Angelou. She died last year.

Unless you’re a literary scholar or a subscriber to The New Yorker, it’s not easy. That’s because poetry, once a preeminent form of entertainment, has long since receded to the far, dusty corners of popular culture…

And

In 2003, Newsweek cried

Poetry Is Dead. Does Anybody Really Care?

“… Ultimately, though, there’s no one to blame. Poetry is designed for an era when people valued the written word and had the time and inclination to possess it in its highest form…”

I care

so 

in December 2015, I did ethnomethodological research among an international, cross-cultural, mixed-gender, inter-generational group

Screen Shot 2015-12-06 at 21.25.01

https://katch.me/embed/v/f91e97bd-6af2-3d5d-8138-96fbec40d5cc?sync=1

Voices of the dead

human connection, honesty
I like to write poetry that speaks encouragement over others.
introspection
it’s like sunshine and rain.
for the poet or for the reader?
I like poetry… straightforward easy storytelling
expression of internal world
same effect as music, when it’s done well
I write poetry for my own peace of mind and self expression

reveals human connection

our connections through our secrets, fears

indescribable, sometimes, but you know it’s good…
‘Step of the body toward the sea falls the land to break’
poetry is an acquired taste?
it’s nice when you can relate to it in your own life
connection to another person’s internal world
for me it’s just for enjoyment.
I don’t analyse too much
I just let it happen
and
take what’s there in the moment
‘Poetry distills life like fermentation distills spirits’
‘Poetry wakes things within that are hidden under the surface’
Music and poetry are the same
unless the poem is a song
then it hits me inside
‘Poetry is an excuse to use forgotten words’
like a forever blossoming of the soul
ever opening and revealing
wrapping words around
emotions, perceptions, and the heart song
‘If a picture paints a thousand words, a poem can contain the world.’
transport you to another place
open your mind to new thoughts
sometimes
poetry is my weapon
a way to express feelings
a map for left brain engineering
in the language of logic,
poetry is a super structure
Forgotten words
for the dam
generates the power within
‘If pictures can paint a thousand words,
my poetry attempts are stick men’

 (To be continued) 

Walt Whitman “Pioneers! O Pioneers!

First, a recording of a fine actor, Will Geer, reading “Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Second, a recording of this poem being live streamed.

 

The Walt Whitman Show on Periscope
(saved via Katch)

https://katch.me/embed/v/d7bce79c-57b7-328d-a2cd-40526034fc9d?sync=1

_____________________

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, 10
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the
seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines
within;
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high
plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood
intervein’d;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the
Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult–I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang’d and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon’d
mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly
fill’d,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Life’s involv’d and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions
pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait
behind,
We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep–you have done your
work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the
studious;
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock’d and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on
our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call–hark! how loud and clear I hear it
wind;
Swift! to the head of the army!–swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers.

Walt Whitman

__________________

Notes:

  1. I found the video on You Tube with the following information attached:
    “Uploaded to You Tube on 11 Nov 2009 
    Vocals By Will Geer

“This is the full version of the poem that was used in the Levi “Go Forth” commercial. I added the backing music to spice it up a bit (thanks Garage Band) You can find the vocal portion of this (and other Whitman poems) on iTunes. I do not own the vocals –  however to take it down for copyright violation would be to down a little piece of America… Whitman….America…think about it”

 

2.  The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope. I use the January 1892 “Death Bed Edition” of Leaves of Grass.  Walt died on 26 March 1892

“What a writer” – poem by Charles Bukowski

[gigya src=”https://d15mj6e6qmt1na.cloudfront.net/cdn/embed_player.swf” style=”background-color:transparent; display:block; max-width: 700px;” flashvars=”image_option=small&imgURL=https%3A%2F%2Fd15mj6e6qmt1na.cloudfront.net%2Fi%2F18311045%2F300x300%2Fc&link_color=%2358d1eb&mp3Author=omaniblog&mp3Duration=192446.0&mp3LinkURL=https%3A%2F%2Faudioboom.com%2Fboos%2F3893318-what-a-writer-poem-by-charles-bukowski&mp3Time=06.26pm+01+Dec+2015&mp3Title=%22What+a+writer%22+-+poem+by+Charles+Bukowski&mp3URL=https%3A%2F%2Faudioboom.com%2Fboos%2F3893318-what-a-writer-poem-by-charles-bukowski.mp3%3Fsource%3Dwordpress&player_theme=light&rootID=boo_player_1&show_title=true&waveimgURL=https%3A%2F%2Fd15mj6e6qmt1na.cloudfront.net%2Fi%2Fw%2F3972100″ width=”100%” height=”150″ allowFullScreen=”true” wmode=”transparent”]

 

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon.

ThoughtForToday – 1 November 

  
There isn’t enough short- term thinking

 like : 

why should I improve my world – today? 

like: 

how can I make a better world in the next hour? 

like: 

what do I do now to make a difference? 

Think short-term.

“Thanks-Giving Day” – poem by Paul O’Mahony

sometimes our thank you is said so casually
or quickly that it is nearly meaningless.
(Martin Seligman)
______________

I was never thankful
to my father
or my mother

I wasn’t even thankful
to the Universe
for what I had.

the house, clothes, water, food, shoes, shirts, bath,
garden, roses, grass, apples, hens, cabbage, loganberries,
hedgehog, lizard, bushes, even the bees

tortoise, trees, dogs, cats, fire, pocket-money, prayers,
holy water, statues, carpets, paintings, music, jelly, eggcups,
fireplaces,books, radiogram, even the plums

school, transport, brothers, sisters, God, cod-liver oil, mass,
chickens, eggs, lamb, salmon, ox-tongue, bread and butter pudding,
golf clubs, cut glass, even the gooseberries

ice cream, pancakes, rice pudding, red currants, peaches, pears,
record player, transistor radio, Luxembourg, milk, football, rashers,
cards, chess, rugby, even the blackberries

dobbers, conkers, tiddlywinks, compendium of games, holidays,
stories, photographs, confession, friends, short trousers, novenas,
nuns, thermometers, even the wagtails

pillows, pencils, bicycles, blazers, socks, sweets, pepper, porridge,
underpants, sandals, gospels, rules, knives, teaspoons, commandments,
gongs, conversations, birthdays, even the earthworms

If you asked me then whether I was grateful
I’d have said ‘yes’

If you ask me now whether I was thankful
I shall stay silent.

If you’re curious to know whether I am thankful today
I am more full of thanks than ever

– for all that and more.

 

 

The Walt Whitman Show (25 November)

https://katch.me/embed/v/08165654-aa05-36a4-848b-e2b140f947b7?sync=1

“I used to love hating poetry” – poem by Lars Blichfeldt 

I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.

No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.

It left me with two choices. 

I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.

To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.

But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.

My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.  

I choose the last.

Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉

Thank you for taking your time to read this.
_______________

I used to love hating poetry.

Written by those who failed

living the expected life themselves.

Now wrapping-up words

in riddles and fancy glitter.

To attain the unattainable.

Narcissistic socialists

breathing the universe

while reminding the masses

to be satisfied just looking at the sun.

I did.
I looked at the sun.

Astonishing…

Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.

I started writing.

It felt refreshing.

Pats on the back,

Polite comments and praises.

I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.

Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond

The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Flawless.
Unique.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..

What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.

Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.

One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.

Hopefully it won’t be soon.

________________________

Note:

A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt 

You can read other poems by Lars here & here 

ThoughtForToday. – 21 November 

  

The most attractive story 

you can tell 

about yourself 

is 

how 

you went from 

corrupting to trustworthy

rags to riches

carnal to holy

alpha to omega 

– thanks to a force outside your control

The Walt Whitman Show

The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope.

The show is a  gathering of people who

  • want to hear Whitman’s poetry read to them
  • love the good company of other people who like poetry & chat
  • are curious to find out what’s going on
  • like the sound of my accent
  • are motivated by some other reason
The Walt Whitman Show

______________________________
View more lists from Paul Hugh O’Mahony

“Sick” – poem by Paul O’Mahony


“I am sick”

the old man said

fingers interlocked

behind a hairy neck

as he rocked in a kitchen stool.

Arrogant son of a bitch

nowadays referred to more kindly

as “self reverential omnipotent”.

Paul loved his style

even more than the secondhand suit

he had from Armani.

His journeys to charity shops

were retail adventures

in the stories he expounded to strangers

on anthropological field trips

to pubs

in search of the community

where he’d be appreciated.

Because he was sick to himself

he made a difference

to the universe.

Personal pride in his sickness

his tombstone he designed.

It would say

“Here lies one sick man 

– look up to him“.

ThoughtForToday – 18 November 

As Oscar Wilde wrote

“for all men kill the thing they love”

But

what about the women?

“For all women love the thing they kill”?

Venus & Mars eh

Chalk and Cheese

_______________________

Note:

The Oscar Wilde quote comes from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”

[of course you knew that already – but not everyone is as well versed as you]

ThoughtForToday – 17 November

  

Imagine

you’re an explorer

– bold organised adventurer
–

you go where no one’s been before

– sharing your findings generously

– where are you going today?

Would you go

with the mentality of a traveller

seeking your trail ?

Trail- blazer 

ThoughtForToday – 17 November 

  

Blue 

– dichotomy. 

One minute it’s sucking us up 

into the sky of imagination. 

Another minute it’s pushing us down 

into the septic trough. 

Blue is the human colour 

– torn in contrasting directions 

“They are dead”   –  Poem by Paul O’Mahony 

5646ddfcc36188e1198b4602

[If you can’t see the player below, click here]

[gigya src=”https://d15mj6e6qmt1na.cloudfront.net/cdn/embed_player.swf” style=”background-color:transparent; display:block; max-width: 700px;” flashvars=”image_option=small&imgURL=https%3A%2F%2Fd15mj6e6qmt1na.cloudfront.net%2Fi%2F17910868%2F300x300%2Fc&link_color=%2358d1eb&mp3Author=omaniblog&mp3Duration=293615.0&mp3LinkURL=https%3A%2F%2Faudioboom.com%2Fboos%2F3812264-they-are-dead-jesuisparis&mp3Time=11.54am+14+Nov+2015&mp3Title=They+Are+Dead+++++++%23JeSuisParis&mp3URL=https%3A%2F%2Faudioboom.com%2Fboos%2F3812264-they-are-dead-jesuisparis.mp3%3Fsource%3Dwordpress&player_theme=light&rootID=boo_player_1&show_title=true&waveimgURL=https%3A%2F%2Fd15mj6e6qmt1na.cloudfront.net%2Fi%2Fw%2F3809343″ width=”100%” height=”150″ allowFullScreen=”true” wmode=”transparent”]

They are dead

my verse is blank

my spirit violated

my heart hurt

my mind

struggling

confused

torn.

What can my verse do?

What can my fingers do?

What can my flesh do?

What can the atoms and molecules of my shape do?

_________

A lot …

a huge amount:

I can stand

in solidarity

I can hold out my hand

in love

I can be compassion.

There is a lot I can do

I am not helpless

in the face of massacre

I am not helpless.

___________

Alongside the dead,

the dying

the injured

the frightened

I am not powerless

I can love

I can be kindly to others

I can be generous

I can be compassionate

___________

Though my verse is blank

and

has no rhyme

though the rhythm be uneven

though the metre be hard to find

I am strong enough

I have the courage to be human

to be mixed-up

to have mixed feelings

to be at sixes and sevens

to be lost.

I have the power to find myself

I’ve done it before.

There have been other massacres

There have been other assassinations

My heart has been injured

my feelings hurt

I have been attacked

I have been close to death.

I have strength enough to be human with the people of Paris, the people of France the people of Europe, the people of the whole world

I have that strength

I have the strength to remember I am a human.

I may not have died in Paris

but my humanity has been disturbed

into life

Enough

Enough

Enough

Rest in peace.

____________________________

Note:

This poem was first composed on the audio you can listen to above.

The photograph is of  “Peace for Paris”, an illustration by the French graphic designer Jean Jullien 

ThoughtForToday – 14 November 

  

Je suis Paris

today there is nothing to do

but

stand in solidarity

with the people of Paris France

and

wish for peace 

remembering 

#wearehumans 

#jesuischarlie 

#JeSuisParis

“Islander” – poem by Paul O’Mahony 

Chapter 1

He could have been on Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs or even Rathlin…

He was an outlaw, cast away from the land,

away from his people.

His face didn’t fit,

his family were not from the right side of town.

There was no time for him, he could rot there.

Eventually his spirit would break,

he would comply, he would conform,

he would be broken

– or so they thought…

________________

It would teach them,

it would show them not to meddle with our family,

not to get above themselves.

Yea, 27 winters on Sherkin

27 springs on the Skelligs

27 summers on Rathlin

27 years of nightmares on any island you fancy.

It was good to keep him there, disappeared.

Our family had need of safety,

his family were dangerous,

thugs, revolutionaries, communists, rapists.

oh yea, uncouth, uncivilised, Untermenschen.

______________

Chapter 2

Our family is special,

we have survived our own wars.
We’re used to feeling superior

our family before all families

our tribe before all tribes
our village –  the white man’s burden
Everyman is an island
We have not balked at blood sacrifice
We have buried our enemies in unmarked graves
– even displayed corpses to teach families how to behave themselves

We survived war against an Empire of superior force – that gave us backbone.
That gave us good enough reason to turn the tables on families of inferior beings.
Oh yes, our family is special – forever.

______________

Chapter 3

You will not leave that island

You will languish in your dreams

You will scratch your balls

You will scrape the fleas in your hair

You will freeze your bollocks off.

We will control you.

When we let you out – it will be to die.

Our family is ordained to carry the burden of ruling this land.

Yes, your family is bigger than our family

Your family’s so big it’s disgusting.

Your people are everywhere – but your people are worthless

– we’ve made sure of that.

________________

The sea the sea the sea

the waves the wind, the ocean, the cold

the fish the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean

the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean the seaweed
____________________

Eat your heart out Islandman – we have you.

Oh yes, we’ve had you now for 27 years.

How did you pull through?

_____________

Chapter 4

Are you coming off that island?

Are you coming to take our land from us?

Are coming to obliterate us, are you coming to wipe us out?

are you coming to leave a bloodbath?

are you going to come off the island

like an avenging angel – the Assyrian descending on the fold?

are you going to be the Inquisition?

are you going to be ethnically cleansing us?

are you going to force our children to leave?

are you gonna split up all that we’ve created among so many people and leave everybody with hardly anything?

Who are you?

who are you after?

who are you after festering anger resentment?

you must be a walking bomb

you must be a walking terrorist

you must be a killer of all of our dreams.

I see you now, we see you now, step ashore

______________

Chapter 5

I must say you look rather good after 27 years.

If I’d been there for 27 years I probably wouldn’t have stood up as well as you look

maybe your family has got some kind of metal in your DNA?

maybe you’re just bloody tough?

who are you Islander?

who are you warrior?

what’s in your mind?

what’s in that heart?

Why should we trust you?

the only thing we can trust is our own fear.

yes, we’re outnumbered

yes, your family is bitter.

What are those words forming in your mouth?

what’s that look in your eye?

what’s that breath from your nostril?

You’re walking towards us,

are you coming to wipe us out?

now your time has come

now every other bastard has abandoned our family

left us alone

left us isolated

left us rejected

Yea, we were at the forefront of fighting for what we believed in,

for what we thought others believed in.

yes we were the top dogs once,

Now,

yea we’re lepers

my family is spat on

my family is rejected

no one from my family can get married into any other family.

And you will inherit the earth.

I expect you’ll get revenge now

you’re coming

you’re coming across

you’re coming ashore, you’re coming inland.

What’s that you hold in your hand?

what are you doing with your hands?

towards whom are you

outstretching?

You don’t mean to offer me a hand

you cannot mean to stretch out a hand.

It’s a trick.

You want to persuade me you are a friend

come from 27 years of incarceration

on that …

on Sherkin, on Boffin, on Skelligs

You want me to believe that that’s a genuine hand?

as soon as you grip my hand you’ll pull me under

you’ll squash me to death.

I know,

that’s what I’d do if I was in your position.

You want my hand.

your hand is warm

your eye is warm

you are forming words

you are looking over my shoulder

beyond where I stand

you are looking beyond my family

You have brought a flag with you

a towel, a canopy, a rug,

something that will go over everybody.

You expect me to join you

you expect me to work with you

you expect me not to run and hide

you expect me to accept you

you expect me to be your partner

And you will not take everything from me?

you will leave me with my money intact?

you will leave me with my capital acquired?

you will leave me with some shred of self-respect?

God it feels like you’re offering me a route to Salvation
Where the hell have you come from?
where the hell did you become like this?

You stretch out a hand of friendship

a hand of warmth, a hand of the future

to my family.

You restrain your family from eating me alive

you restrain others from decimation

you prefer us to be together than all go down.

You are serious?

Islandman,

what kind of a resurrection is this?

what stones have you rolled back?

what cave have you come from?

what sort of Heaven on earth are you trying to create?

When you were on that island, and I was on the mainland,

you were a small guy.

you were locked up in a place where I didn’t have to see your eyes

where I didn’t have to feel your hand.

but now I cannot avoid you

I cannot ignore you

I cannot step away from you.

That island: Sherkin, Inishbofin, the Skelligs, Aran Islands, the Saltees, Lambay, Rathlin…

– they’re all our islands.

we’ve always used islands to lock inferior beings away out of sight.

now those islands have turned everything inside out,

have turned everything on its head.

I don’t know what to say

I don’t know where to look

I’ve embarrassed by your strength, by your courage

by your power

and you know what the worst thing is?

you’re so bloody humble

you are so bloody humble

you offer warmth, friendship

you offer togetherness

you offer hope

you offer a future

My children – they don’t have to die

my children – they don’t have to run

our children can play together.

Where have you come from?

What happened to you
on that island?

Is there any chance I can do 27 years on that same island?

_________________________

Chapter 6

The Unknown Unknown…

We are all the creators

all families creators

all individuals creators

Any chance we can all do 27 years on the island?

The end of the beginning.

_______________________

Note:
Written in honour of my hero Nelson Mandela (18 July 1918 – 5 December 2013)

ThoughtForToday – 12 November 

  
Explore the socks off the world.

Dig deep into the core.

Forage in the forest of imagination.

There is more to be found

underground. 

ThoughtForToday – 11 November 

  
You can recover.

From upset,

disappointment,

damage,

injury,

loss,

fury,

fear,

habits,

hurt,

unkindness,

sloth,

attack,

depression,

shock

– anything.

So long as you keep breathing.