44.The Canal.

This one was always going to be among the first posted here but I needed a good friend to give his blessing to it first as part of the inspiration is down to a story of his. The scene with the foxes is wholly his and was borrowed as it seemed to fit the general theme being a canal based narrative too.  After several months we met again today, blessing given, therefore lyric (or is this  more poem?) posted. With thanks to Eugene McCarron, 75 and still going strong God bless him.

44. The Canal.

Sticks and stones,
And dead bird bones,
The smile of a satisfied cat,
Feathers freshly fallen,
Now down a second time,
Are soon to disappear,
After a short canal ride,
On a sinking old beer can.
That once filled the hands of a man,
A man that hasn’t strayed,
Who’ll soon be in the way,
Stopping Captain Nemo’s can,
From truly touching down,
Still capable of mischief,
Even in his wet death,
He’s a constant bobbing fidget,
But comfortable enough,
Lying supine in his weedy bed,
Twin vulpine pillows beneath his head,
Twin pillows that like him,
Couldn’t outrun the one who’s grim,
Resting on the same spot,
This pair of perished foxes,
Once left their cardboard boxes,
Playing into Winters fingers,
On the canals almost solid surface,
Doomed red furred lovers,
One trying to rescue the other,
But unlike the bird and the man,
They were recorded leaving the land,
As a Borders poet wandered by,
But a short time after,
Their final fatal cry,
And through tears born from their plight,
He caught their final moment,
Passing it from damp eyes to mind,
From mind he placed it down on paper,
Seldom had his heart done harder labour,
The tale was written and so was saved,
But he kept it quietly to himself,
Except for a very chosen few,
None of whom would need to tell him
There was inspiration amongst the grim,
For it told of love as much as death,
And the story needed to begin,
Upon his guitar’s six strings,
With appropriately chosen notes,
Before he then could sing,
His story of foxes, love and death,
Now many times the world has spun,
Since the bard picked up his pen,
To put the foxes story down,
Uneasily it’s always slept,
Spooned in snug discomfort in doubts bed,
Between shivering self confidence,
And talent always underrated,
Time though still has space for him,
And if loved ones could say one thing,
They’d say he must take a chance,
To brake his cage, throw off his fears,
Tune his strings and find a stool,
Fuck the world and all its thoughts,
To clear his throat and fill his heart,
To put down his can and be himself and….Sing!

(c) Jim Laing 2014.

Berated for never being good enough,
Knowing deep down that all it needs,
Is the daylight and the fresh air,
All along the bards friends have prayed,
He’d shred his cloak of doubt,
With his hearts poetic pen,
And his soul’s seldom heard voice,

So keeps his doubting silence,
Not believing in his skills,
How he needs to open up,
His heart his mouth and mind,
To sing the tale of dog and vixen,
If not the hidden man,
His soul would sweetly sing,
If it could only be filled up
By his chiming guitar strings,
Simply accompanying,
His tuneful emptying lungs.

Ophelia drowning,
Shakespearean foxes,

About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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