Free Range Lightning

 

 

   [ Surviving In The '70s ]

    He's in his 30s. He's determined to set his mind free. It's a Free Mind sort of a time. He opts for alternate living. He grows a beard. He goes exploring. He discovers wine and music and scabbing and a better way of writing. For the best part of the decade his creative head goes berko but takes the rest of him with it. His pen and his life flies out of control. Some days the stuff bounces off the walls like free-range lightning and some days it goes underground and some days it just lolls about and maudles so there’s no way of sub-categorising it. It is what it is. It's a strange old time. He probably doesn't have any right to survive it but he will. 

<<< >>> 

    SOMETHING DAWNING IN A YOUNG MAN’S MIND 

here I now stand

a being

having existed

for a few revolutions of an insignificant planet

around a smallish-sized star

in the outer edges of an average galaxy

among an unknown multitude of galaxies

in an inconceivably infinite Universe

at a point in Time somewhere between

No Beginning and No Ending

part of an unstoppable chain of circumstances

I had no part in designing

of a life-form I did not choose

in a species that will last

for an eyelid's flicker

comprised of matter and energy

that was never created

and will never be destroyed

    only transferred

    and transformed

    and rearranged 

here I now stand

knowing that a molecule

in my left index fingernail

was once part of Mary Magdalene's sandal

an atom in the lower right cortex of my brain

was once in the excrement

of a pterodactyl

one of the electrical impulses

that helped write this line

was part of the grunt from a slimy green being

on an obscure planet near Andromeda

a zillion years ago 

here I now stand

and foresee that part of the grey tip

of the hair I just scratched out of my beard

will one day fire the cataclysmic inferno

of our Sun's ending

for a very brief moment

as it goes ... POOF!

with none of us to witness

the inglorious departure

of such an old friend 

    T.R.E. (1972) 

           <<< >>>

    SEA BIRD 

a gull

wild on the wind

wheeling out beyond the grasp of land

immune to gravity

and the things of earthbound men 

a spirit

free to be a bird

drifting on those gusty whims of nature

white as a virgin

and perfect in its darwin harmony 

    T.R.E. (1972) 

        <<< >>>

            ART 

the elusive old and brooding craft

ever striving to capture

a deep and fleeting sense of moment

to bridge the gap between two minds

yet not always evoking in the viewer

the image of the artist's grasping 

but, enough that art touch something

stimulate some otherwise sleeping corner

cause change in passing

open a clear and wider eye

on this very personal mystery

that is existence 

    T.R.E. (1972) 

          <<< >>>

    REALISATION 

The child I was

Was programmed from birth

To believe as my parents believed

But the man that I am

And the mind that I am

Wants thoughts only It has conceived 

The God I was given

Of fear and revenge

Has now died in a spreading Light

Of unshackled thought

And a true realisation

Of universal right 

Now I wander at will

In the corridors of my mind

And dare to open each door

To accept what I see

And face what I am

Be it animal? – or man? – or more? 

Will I find God?

Will I find truth?

Or just a passing life-form from the sea

With a compulsive desire

To justify its own awareness

With a myth of divinity? 

    T.R.E. (1972)

          <<< >>>

 

       IN TRANSIT 

There must be space in our lives

for the privacy of our very own

secret thoughts

tucked away

where only the most trusted of friends

can run their fingers over

   their sheer and delicate fabric 

Yet

even that sacred place

is partitioned into zones of selected entry

and rarely in a lifetime

do we discover even one soul

so kindred as to be extended an invitation

   to all those rooms of quiet treasure 

And there is so much carefulness

and so much fearfulness

in the business of checking the passports

of the travellers waiting at the gate 

So few get by

Still

why should they?

So many so loud

so pushing and shoving

all ugly and noisy and big dirty boots

giggles and gawks and snides aside

PR men and cold hollow heroes

all grabbing and stabbing

and business suits and cutout characters

snipped from a book

frilly and frothy and cameras at the ready

stuff you and mount you

on their trophy room wall

they’d root you and shoot you

and they’d laugh when you cried

and they’d never think twice

   of the richness inside 

Strange

it’s the people we come to love

that give us the most unease

for the Uglies of the world get easier to pick

the wiser we become

and even the simple Empties

who want nothing of us either way

can be put aside with courtesy and respect

while the truly good and deep people

(who just aren’t going our way for the moment)

decorate our time

   for a short part of their own journey 

It truly is

those uncertain few

who we feel compelled to love

that cause us to hesitate

in our endless search

for at least one other we can trust

   with the keys to our ancient kingdom 

But the time it takes

to be sure

is more than the time we have

and so we gamble

yearn to be winners

learn to be losers

take the pain inflicted on us

not entirely of our own making

simply because we love to live

and take a risk or two

with the few who touch us

as only those few

   can make us whole 

And some will endow us

with the dreams of the child

take us to places we forgot to hold dear

restore all the pleasures

that slipped from our fingers

paint all the pictures that once were so clear

capture the spirit of the reason for living

fill us with memories

of the past times we’ve known

write all the stories

that are ripe for the telling

find there is wisdom

in the sorrow we have sown 

And

as always

be content with the thought

that nothing is ever finished

   but simply in transit... 

    T.R.E. (1972) 

         <<< >>>

 

        RUSHING 

you can’t rush a lifetime

it has to be taken at a lifetime’s pace

be as impatient with it as you like

(you scratchy clutch of God’s hapless people)

it’s still going to damn-well keep its own velocity

as it plugs on through the mess of matters

    that make up existences of varying lengths

trust me, it’s all part of The Design 

    T.R.E. (1973) 

            <<< >>>

 

      SMALL TREASURES 

it's simply that it's not enough

to know all people from the outside 

if this lifetime is to be of its fullest value

we need to touch the inner places

of at least a few of our fellow travellers

not just shake hands or kiss the social cheek

but get inside the nature of the beast

to share our private-most thoughts

on what we have separately found along the way 

these intimate moments are tragically rare

when two people exchange with trust and affection

their small treasures from the well of wisdom 

we have each trod this same familiar road

and have seen the same things but each in our own way

your experience of it has been different than mine

and I need to understand what you understand

as if somehow two lives can be lived

for the price of one 

yet how afraid we seem to be

to entrust our fellows with pieces of our Self

fearful that they may steal them away

or worse still

diminish them with judgements

and not treat them as treasures at all

hand them back with a shrug and a so what laugh

and leave us just a little more naked than before 

maybe only on the other side

do we get to compare notes

with love and kindness and compassion

and here we only gather them alone 

I think I need to find

that this is not one of the Truths 

    T.R.E. (1973) 

              <<< >>>

       A TRIBUTE TO BURGUNDY 

fellow souls in this limbo of creation

that is at my elbow and in my mind...
 

today is monday the fifteenth day of january

in the year nineteen hundred and seventy three

here on a minor planet Earth 

it’s a day that each of you

have experienced for yourselves in some way

each have lived and felt and stored away

in the places of your soul

to become eternally that which each of us

will ultimately and only comprise

one of those days that imposes itself on you

pushing back all thoughts that are not of

peace and harmony 

there are cottonwool clouds in a space-blue sky

there is daylight for as far as can be seen

there are magpies in trees and leaves on vines

and a warm sun and a cool breeze
and people who at last seem to be part of it all 

it's one of those days made to be captured
and wholly consumed as food and drink
surely designed to make us aware that meaning
is ever around us

should we find the eyes to see 

it's a day to be used for making love with tenderness
and infinite pleasure
in a place where the warmth

goes straight to the skin

it's a day for letting life touch you to the core

and enhance your personality

it's a day to reach out
and pass thru the bounds of the physical
to the universe of all consciousness

and to take a step towards the destiny of all creation 

I have felt days such as this back to the limits of memory

I came to this time and place with the recollection of these days
for I have known days like this over all of eternity
and I respond to each new one as if it were the first

as I am a universal creature 

it takes a day like today to make me know my connection
with the space around me
and to empower me with the gift of conversation
with the spirits of all things 

I am in a sea of souls
they inhabit the grass and move the leaves
and look out at me from the eyes of all creatures

they spin the webs of my awareness
and kindle my passions for living
and my appetite for knowing
 

they conduct the symphony of understanding

and cause the soil to give up treasures 

today earth and sky and spirituality are one

    T.R.E. (1973) 

                 <<< >>>

 

      AGITATED 

Why do I get so agitated?

so simmering bloody angry?

I write all this compulsive shit and some days

all it does is make it worse.

Some things just don’t pour out onto paper,

it’s often such a sterile medium.

I want something back!

Geez, sounds like Dylan Thomas and Paul Gauguin

complaining about the bills

(while they turned out brilliance

nobody cared a stuff about at the time)

Why does it all have to be so ... lonely?

Maybe I’m just pissed off at myself

for thinking it should all

somehow have some reason to it.

People pay me handsomely to write

stuffy numbers and boring letters

endlessly endlessly endlessly,

till sometimes I think I’ll break in two,

and one bit’ll go on grinding data

and go on making the same million widgets

and the other bit will fly away

to that somewhere someplace

that’s of our youth’s dreams,

where I can stretch out
and feel someone else

who feels the same. 

I bet I tear this up. 

    T.R.E. (1973) 

            <<< >>>

     CLICK 

Knew a bookkeeper once

doodled in the margins

of the company accounts

wrote great odious odes like

    “all the figures dressed in grey

     debit credit who’s to pay,

     ask the figures dressed in black,

     don’t ask me – I’m alright Jack”

Ah, Narcissus was an amateur 

He discovered a lower form of life once

on an atoll between Easter Island and Haiti

it spent its days killing time

and eating lifesavers

and he observed it for three days

and all it did was watch him watching it

some creatures have pointless existences 

There ought to be a law against killing time

But how do you kill something

that only exists in your mind?

Kill your Mind!

Click!! 

    T.R.E. (1973) 

           <<< >>>

                CREATIVITY 

Creativity resides in the same part of the Self as insanity

and to be truly creative requires that we visit this place

and come back without being permanently affected by it

as to create with great imagination

demands that the rational and the real

be subjugated for a time

to the free-flying will

of the irrational and the surreal. 

It’s a time and a place of taking chances

to let go and be carried by the energy of the Child spirit

that lies in each of us

the wild and wilful Child

with its endless capacity to indulge itself

to give everything it has

and to take into itself every gratification it can find. 

From the unleashing of this free spirit

comes the images of all consciousness

all time

all space

all lives

all feelings

all passions

all ideas ever conceived or yet to be conceived

as the Child is the fountain-head of all imagination

and too often creativity is a compromise

a compromise demanded by the sane image of our selves

fearful of giving up its sovereignty

lest this Child not give it back. 

    T.R.E. (1973) 

              <<< >>>

    EULOGY FOR HENK 

A young girl

Pretty in her own way

Cried when they let you down

Somehow that spoke more

Than all the droning words

That nobody heard 

Can a young man’s life

Be condensed

To born, baptised, confirmed, rest in peace?

Why did it all seem

Such a commercial for Christianity

And not for living well? 

Please, my own dear friends

If you are there when I’m lowered down

Don’t let me go that way

Will some of you take the pulpit

And say – “he lived well, he lived fully,

    he died ready to go around again” 

And laugh!

No damn long faces for me

For God’s sake and mine

Be happy for me!

Make some music

Drink some wine

Let living go on

Know how much I lived

And only tears of love

For a dear friend

Who will be absent for a while 

    T.R.E. (1973) 

           <<< >>> 

      THE OTHER MARY 

somehow I feel sadder for Mary Magdalene than Jesus

I think he found what he needed of life

but what of her?

what emotions - what needs?

what became of her?

what memories warmed her latter days? 

to do her justice

shouldn't the gospel according to Mary

have been included? 

    T.R.E. (1974) 

            <<< >>>

           WRITING 

writing makes part of me clearer, to myself

causes something to grow that would otherwise

just wait, and wait,

wait impatient, and moody too

trying to escape solitary confinement

and what I write is ever mine to me

and anyone else who'll treat it with respect

not judge it, nor analyse it

but gain what they can

then turn the page 

all of this is a very personal collection

random thoughts from a fragile place

where thoughts are dreams

and dreams reality

and reality an illusion 

and the truth is

it’s in all of us

but you can't live there

only visit

when you need to 

I hope some of this

helps to show you the way 

    T.R.E. (1974)

         <<< >>>

      THE PUZZLE 

Seemingly always searching

Looking for the piece

To make us whole

To complete this puzzle

That is our Self 

Is it really to be found

In someone else?

Or do we arrive with all of the parts we need

And it’s only a matter

Of arranging them in the new order

That is right for us

This time around? 

    T.R.E. (1974) 

            <<< >>>

    IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN 

Spring!

rising up winter limbs

it makes me swell

fit to burst with words 

Ah, it's optimism time again

enough glooming around in corners

let’s get out and give the world

some honest trouble

make a lot of greens and yellows

to colour over the grip of grey

cabbage leaves and sunshine

and cold white wine

tracing inspiration down the glass

drive the neighbours crazy

with singed steak smells

and gobs of onions

broadsides of noisy friends

looking for their summer belly laugh 

This is not a day to waste

ruminating on last year’s losses

give the sap its head

‘cause in no time at all my friend

you’ll be back to pruning

and mumbling to yourself 

    T.R.E. (1974) 

           <<< >>>

   EVER HAVE A DAY? 

did you ever have a day

when wandering thoughts were given

the right to wander? 

follow them and note their journey

some adventures worth knowing may just begin 

I knew a sorcerer once

travelled the boundless limits of my mind

(played a little bluegrass banjo on the side)

his orbit brought him by my part of the heavens

every millennium or so

and he always had a good story or two 

told me about a man on Cypher 27

who begged him to cut out part of his brain

so he could be like the rest

but he cut off his head instead

said the coward deserved to die 

sorcerers are funny that way

I don’t tell him MY troubles 

    T.R.E. (1974) 

          <<< >>>

    THE WOODCUTTER 

She had the strangest dream 

Walking in a sundappled wood

gathering wildflowers

and touching the spirits of old trees

with feelings of mellowness

and of joyful huggings to herself

a good to be alive kind of a day

full of private promises too long in coming 

In a bright thistledown clearing

a woodcutter came by

and he eased his load of axe and timber

watching her youth and her beauty

with a soft and caring eye 

She stopped as if to talk a while

but at some uncertain distance

greeting him with half a smile

and a waiting air 

The woodcutter began to walk around her

and somehow - without surprise -

turned into a tiger

and began stalking

a steady circle around her day 

Once twice three times

never closer than her own desire

yet neither moving away

and she trembled inside her young girl soul

wanting to touch the rippling beast

lay beside it in the summer grass

take in the power of its ways 

Then the tiger stopped

to face her

and smiled

a quiet knowing smile

and turned back into the woodcutter

heaved up his labour’s burden

and made as if to leave her life

“There is magic everywhere”, was all he said

then he walked away. 

    T.R.E. (1975) 

         <<< >>>

I THINK I’VE GOT SPRING FEVER 

some days I think I'll bloody burst

trying to hold in everything

stuff screaming to be let out

the exuberance in here is positively manic

one day I'll swell up

and my eyes will bug out

and pink steam will come out my ears

and I'll go BOOM SPLOOSH WHIZ

WHAPP SPLAT all over the walls

and there will be bits of me on display

like a random gallery

by Dali and Picasso

and everyone will walk by

trying to decide if they like it or not...

  “I wonder if it’s up the right way?”

  “Love the frame, hate the picture”

  “Lots of energy, not much talent?”

  “Has a sort of evocative air, the signature that is”

  “Love this landscape”

  “That’s a portrait of his father”

  “I wonder if it’s up the right way?”

  “I can really relate to this mess”

  “Probably his breakfast”

  "Oh my god, what are those two people doing!”

  “Should be a law against such filth”

  "It’s only a man and a woman looking at each other”

  “Yes, but look what he's thinking”

  “I wonder what she's thinking”

  “Hard to tell”

  “Lots of empty spaces - what do they mean?”

  “They're titled Remaining Possibilities"

  “Lot of self-centered self-indulgent crap if you ask me”

  “Well - I like it”

  “Yeah, but who are you?”

  “I’m what’s left of the person on the wall” 

    T.R.E. (1975)

                  <<< >>>

       A MONDAY MORNING 

I woke up brand new this morning
with a diamond clear eye and a realisation
that somehow the Sorcerer had re-made the world for me overnight 

I saw a creek running with the tailings of Spring
the surface wrinkled with the eddies
of its timelessness coming and going
and I imagined I saw an old man

stooping over a swishing dish
panning out the days of his life
with the glint of gold in his watery eyes 

I saw a white goat with a green mouth
content to be chained to his iron wheel
and I swear he winked at my thoughts
and asked whose chain was heaviest 

I saw a friend's house
and she was probably still in bed
and he was already out slaying his own dragon 

I saw a skyscape of cloud that was all marshmallow

with scudding bottoms and a background of blue

so intent on arranging themselves
they didn't see me watching 

I saw a rhinoceros with red sides and aluminium armoured back
that lumbered and grumbled and breathed smoke out of its horn
a truck with a breakfast of scrambled mountain
for the machines that are slowly eating the world 

I saw a schoolboy with reluctant pedals and wild hair
who could have been Ginger Meggs
or Dylan Thomas
or Ned Kelly
or Orville Wright

or me 

I saw that my glory vines were in leaf
and were climbing straight up their posts like trained snakes
content to be glory vines

and to play out their part in the Order of Things 

I think they were trying to tell me something 

    T.R.E. (1975)

                    <<< >>>

  THE DAY I WAS BORN 

the day I was born

I dreamed me a dream

'bout a boy who knew worlds

and space in between

couldn't be seen

struggled to capture

passing machines

Da Vinci was brother

taught him to fly

the Icarus sky

blacksmith and poet

shared a twin mind

from some other time

disturbed by questions

that have no answers

restless creations

seasons rotations

till universe stops

and rhythms cease 

what then

you inward gazer

what then

you brown-eyed dreamer

of a deeper peace 

    T.R.E. (1976)

         <<< >>>

  VOICE OF THE MIDNIGHT WATCH 

there is a mystery in existence

calling softly from the sea

carried on the sounds of the midnight watch

in my holds of memory 

   listen, listen, searching sailor

   follow my siren sound

   here I am at the masthead light

   with the answers you've never found 

have I heard you in the heron's cry

when I was lost at the edge of the deep

far from the gods and the things of man

in the sargasso's soul-less sleep?

did I see you in the beacon's flash

when I was hungry for rest from my fears

where a few safe hours at your cottage fire

must warm my running years? 

   touch me, touch me, lonely sailor

   make a mark on my gossamer skin

   reach out from your uncertain barque

   to where time and tides begin 

have I sensed you in the lull of battle

when my ship has stunk of greed

in the futility of our golden lusts

and the red of our endless need? 

have I felt you when the moon was young

and our smugglers oars would reach

for the shale as sharp as the waiting dark

and the promise of death on the beach? 

   love me, love me, restless sailor

   come visit the home of the pearl

   and taste the salt of your callow youth

   in the bed of a green-eyed girl 

the midnight watch has seductive ways

that takes me away from the wheel

but tonight I'll climb to the top of the mast

and embrace the presence I feel 

    T.R.E. (1976)

               <<< >>>

    SOMETIMES 

sometimes you wonder

has god put last week's page

last month's page last year's page

into his divine photocopier

and dialled in a number

that is his own private joke? 

    T.R.E. (1976)

            <<< >>>

THREE DRINKS
   AND
     STILL NO
       INSPIRATION

we are here to touch

and be touched

profoundly

by this experience

to be effected

and changed by it

and to cause change

in our passing 

I cut down a tree once

which only put things backwards

and somewhere there's a blacksmith

striking steadily

who feels the same as I do 

the image has already faded

back to counting horseshoes 

    T.R.E. (1976)

          <<< >>>

   JENNY BROWN 

jenny brown

pulled the plug on her own half-life

the only truly personal thing

on the six o'clock news

why does one pretty young mum

her kids stolen away

hooked to a machine

that did most of her living for her

cut me ten times deeper

than four thousand mexicans

or a million ethiopians?

sometimes nothing adds up

but everything takes away

I hope I meet you

jenny brown 

    T.R.E. (1976)

           <<< >>>

   JUNG'S CIRCLE 

my Shadow is a bikie

the Woman in me is you

one at each shoulder

ever slightly out of view 

the four of us are separate

and all of us are one

together make the Wise Old Man

I'm destined to become 

the archetype Hero a collage

bits of Dad and Vern

a spitfire pilot and a blacksmith

Leonardo and Jules Verne 

Henry Miller in the shadows

Nyoka to the side

a thrust of Boadicea

the week the Romans died 

and somewhere there's a Sorcerer

with something up his sleeve

and dark bald mountain magic

and disney coloured leaves 

yet the writing hand moves round

to Peter Pan and friends

a small boy's creek and ten league boots

and siren painful ends 

then home to the womb with thorns inside

to the love that leaves a stain

still and yet the only love

that’s worth the friggin' pain 

    T.R.E. (1976)

             <<< >>>

      VIRGIN PURITY 

There was a virgin purity at large

a distant stretch of infinite

ever-diminishing sea on sand where

the rollers constantly rise and dump

on this endless beach of God’s lonely dreaming 

It was the time of The Beginning 

Somewhere out there

in the depths of the Maker’s blue green mind

the germ of an idea was forming

the restless notion of a thing already loose

amongst the rock and kelp

and heading for the shallows 

It emerged as a nothing speck

in the vastness of that perfect place

struggling in the suck of sand and push of sea

its awful wilfulness already at odds

with the previous natural order 

It rose to a half uncertainty

then with both feet spread in defiance

pulled itself free from its mother the sea 

For a while it stood as if waiting

picking the remnants of seaweed

from its sun-warmed and drying skin

looking to either side into the distant haze

and not yet anything but a possibility 

Written in the sand

just beyond the reach of the tide

in characters of infinite gentleness

and deliberation

was a simple statement –

   “Your name is Humankind. Make of it as you will.” 

Sinking slowly to its knees

it studied this for some time

digging its feet softly into the sand

savouring the sensations of each grain

passing between its toes 

Then it added –

   “WHY?”

And it waited
 

Ages it waited

aeons of time

slipping by between each lick of tongue

over salt-seasoned lips

epochs of time

circling

waiting

nothing stirring

but the timeless wash of the waves

and an irritation from within 

Eventually it rose

and with deliberate step

walked ten thousand leagues along the beach

each step studied for its impression on the sand

and its fleeting existence

as the sea wiped the beach clean behind 

Then

it turned

and ten thousand leagues walked back

and with each step it looked

from the sea to the sun to the sand

and at last it came to the inscription

and added –

   “Why not?” 

      T.R.E. (1976)

               <<< >>>

    NAILING IT 

What’s it all about?

I'll tell you what it’s all about

It’s all about trying to make sense out of things

Things like Gravity

Things like Love and Getting Even

Warfare

Things like Luck and Lust

Electromagnetism

Kryptonite

And degrees of madness

And setting the bar two pegs higher than you can jump

Things like random acts of compassion and selfishness

     and being able to tell the difference
 

And what about Linda Rondstadt I ask you

     legs and roller skates
     and tracks that make you want to bash your head on the desk in sync
     and hard
     just to get involved with the whole fucking experience!
     Now there's something to ponder on!!

And it’s about trying to make sense out of God

And labradors and lesser life forms

It’s about trying to make sense out of the never-ending background hum

     of the dynamo, the Big Engine, like that 

And I ask you this...

     Do any of us get even close to nailing it?

     Hard to say

     Probably not 

(Gee-zuz, I DO so love writing this shit,

    Fridays after lunch,

       but I must go a touch easier

           on the pints of black stuff... maybe) 

    T.R.E. (1977)

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           FORTY 

Forty is a black knight in full armour

coming at a gallop on a wild horse

lance set to impale him through the spirit

as inevitable as the last reckoning 

Forty is so much tick tick time disappearing

clocks picking his pockets in the crowd

stealing the hours he’d earmarked for himself

for when he was older and more deserving 

    T.R.E. (1977)

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  GREY 

Monday grey

Bleak grey

Winter dust grey

Grey as three days of slow rain 

Staring grey

Empty words grey

Business suit grey

    Grey as pencilled numbers 

Cold army stew grey

Prison porridge grey

Wasted lifetime grey

    Grey as stale washwater 

Gravestone grey

Marley’s ghost grey

Poverty and charity grey

    Lingering old age grey

    Grey as ashes and dust to dust 

    T.R.E. (1978)

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     NANA 

no-one is an island

entire of itself

every person is a piece of the Continent

a part of the main

if a clod be washed away by the sea

Europe is the less

as well as if a promontory were

as well as if a manor of thy friends

or of thine own were

anyone's death diminishes me

because I am involved in Mankind

and therefore never send to know

for whom the bell tolls 

it tolls for thee

              John Donne

            < >

 

this is what went through my mind

more as an intense emotion

than thoughts or words

when we buried Nana Burgess

I was glad she was with Harry

and the indignity over

and yet, now looking at it from a further distance

she put up such a fight against a body

letting her down a piece at a time

rage rage rage

at the dying of the light 

is it truly the struggle

and how well we struggle

that is intently more important

than the Goal? 

    T.R.E. (1979)

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