Marked Down

I was wandering through the store today and I saw a sign over a few items on a shelf that said 'Marked Down Price'. I began to think on that. I wondered to myself why those things had been marked. They had been deemed unfit to be placed among other items just like them. They had been 'Marked' because they were damaged or out of style. Perhaps they were not up to the standards of consumers on weight, appearance, usefulness. They were not to be mistaken for things that were wanted. They were marked to show the world they were not as good as others. They were not worth as much as they had once been. By no fault of their own they been seen as less worthy. I began to compare this to humans. How many times do people mark someone for not being up to par? They judge on outer surfaces instead of taking a chance on that person. Just because they are different, does that mean they are to be given a 'Marked Down Price'? Do they lose worth because they do not fit the mold? In my experience, the things in this world and in this life that seem different, that seem damaged or under consumer standards, have worked just as well as those that were cherished by everyone. My experience with people has been no different. Should any one's?

Fears

I was watching a program on television and a man with a microphone was asking passersby on the street what they were afraid of. Some said spiders, a few said snakes and others named a few more wee beasties, but most of the people said that they were afraid to die. They were afraid of death. I started to wonder: Is that why there are so many products out there to make a person look younger than they really are? Are they trying to defy death? Why can't they accept that they will age with dignity and grace? There are many religions, stories and legends that speak of death. In them death takes many forms such as an angel, a spirit horse, The Grim Reaper, or just a cold feeling that lays over them at the time of passing. There are also many different opinions on how death will come, but one thing they do have in common is this: DEATH DOES COME. No one can escape it. Kings to peasants, saints to the wicked will all meet death. No matter how far you run or how deeply you hide death will find you and no amount of cream or ointment will stop or change it. I also began to think of what I am afraid of. I am afraid of not living. Instead of wasting my time trying to save my life I would rather use my time to have a life. I want to live the way I want to with no holds barred. To live every moment and every dream to the absolute fullest. When death does come for me I want to look back on my life with no regrets and no remorse. I want to look back and smile because I will know that I lived MY way. I do not want to be haunted with ' I should have done this, I could have done this, I would have done this, if only...' I want to be happy with the knowledge that I did. I think perhaps if we all lived the lives we wanted, the way we wanted, then nothing would be left undone and no one would fear death because they would have truly lived. With all this, I wonder if death is really to be feared. I feel we should embrace it and celebrate it. We never know when death will call to us, today or tomorrow or even five minutes from now, and if that makes us treasure every moment and every person in our lives more and more in every day that we are given, then why should we fear death? Is fear and all it robs us of worth it in the end? What are you afraid of?

Longing

In times like this I feel a longing.
A pull inside of me.
A calling of another time.
I feel out of place in this day and age.
Outside of this advanced world with my wanting of days of old.
Outside of this world with my desires and beliefs.
Outside of this world with my heart, mind, spirit and soul.
Outside of this world.
My heart dances with a memory of another place.
A place from long ago.
I can not escape this wanting,
This urge to be somewhere I cannot be.
I long to have existed in another time.
A time of beauty and simplicity.
An age of mystery and superstition.
Of true love and far away fantasy.
My soul longs for these ancient days.
My spirit lives in memories of that life,
Though my mind cannot remember anything.
My desires peak and my imagination soars.
How I wish to live in those forgotten nights,
Those wished kissed days,
Where everything and anything was possible.
Perhaps my spirit is recalling a life I have left behind.
A life my soul was not ready to let go of.
Perhaps it was ripped from me by another,
Or even by my own hand.
I do not know many things,
But there is something I have no doubt of:
I live in the wrong place.
I exist in the wrong time.
I wish to return.
I wish to go home.

Life goes on

Life goes on.
All around me, life goes on.
Without me, life goes on.
Leaving me behind, life goes on.
People are growing up, life goes on.
People I once knew are getting married, life goes on.
I am forgotten, life goes on.
I can't be like them, life goes on.
No matter how hard I try, life goes on.
Why can't I find love to, life goes on.
I am left out, life goes on.
Without me, life goes on.
All around me, life goes on.
Life goes on.

Gone

Today it was gone.
The spirit.
The sounds.
The presence.
It was gone.
Things are so empty now.
Not quite right.
So much is different.
I feel so empty now.
Without it I feel so empty now.
Without her I feel so empty now.
She just walked away.
Walked away and left us behind.
She made us be without her.
Without her spirit.
Without her sounds.
Without her presence.
She is gone.
Without her things are empty now.
Without her things are not quite right.
Without her things are different.
Without her.
Without my Mother.

Heart

Heartbreak.
Heart ache.
Heart of stone.
Heart of ice.

If the heart is such a good thing then why does the most pain and suffering, the worst hurts, happen in the heart?

The Highwayman......by Alfred Noyes

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement!
His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.