Francis Meyrick

So WHY scribble? And dream? Perhaps we just vent the soul? Click HERE

In regard to some well-meaning writers and other friends of mine, who seem vexed with my indifference to a whole host of things they seem to prize highly… To wit: advertise on my website (are you kidding?) (YUK!), ( ) make $$$ m-o-n-e-y, get published, (oh! WOW!) be famous, and, and…) (become a crashing bore…) (take myself seriously) (take Life seriously) (quit laughing at myself) … NO!…FUCNO!

let’s BLOG, BABY!

“To My Regular Readers, all TWO of You “

To you two readers
(now Jimmy’s in the clink
And Lotty’s on the drink)
I humbly say
In my bumbling,
foggy way,
“Thank you” for one million clicks
And bearing with my boyish tricks.

I ask you, simply
As a scribe
(Pondering a distant vibe)
do you mind if I’m not fussed
If my stories end up cussed?

Should I bother to be torn,
By a bunch of withering scorn?
Should I secretly seek praise
In all kinds of devious ways?
Should I give a fiddler’s hoot
And ache to harvest $$$ dollar fruit ?

Or is perhaps
My greatest fun
Just plinking with a scribbler’s gun?
My fingers wearing out the trigger
While I giggle, tap and snigger?
That happy sound in the room
When I rhyme the word KA-BOOM…?

May I join you
In your mind
Roundly laughing at Mankind?

Funny creatures, you and me
And yet we bond instinctively
If my scribbles made you smile
And time spent here was worth your while

Then I already have been paid
Handsomely, in notes of jade.

Moggy

PS: That was, satisfyingly, a truly awful poem.

(keep scrolling down – more below)

STORM AND FIRE

THESIS:

I’m in a steep dive.
In a small, two seat, aerobatic aircraft. An Eagle. Agile, fast.
The airspeed is increasing. The controls are going super sensitive.
The propeller tips are going supersonic.
Now they are screaming. Above the bellow of the engine, I can hear them.
140…150…160 knots….
The altimeter is unwinding. The two hands are racing backwards around the clock. I have the stick hard forward.
The green fields are coming up. This is insanity.
170…180…185 knots…
The throttle is hard forward. My left hand is still pushing, but the throttle can go no further. She is giving me everything she’s got. Two hundred horses. Their manes flying in the wind, foaming at the mouth, bridle in their teeth, Their eyes are borderline demented, frenzied. Riders of the storm.
Faster. I want to go faster. Steeper.
And still the altimeter unwinds…

The heavy motorcycle weaves through the Interstate traffic effortlessly.
A black leather figure with a white helmet.
Both cylinders are working to capacity. The throttle is rolled hard open. It can go no further.
He wished it would. All thirteen hundred cc’s of cylinder space are doing their level best. Converting fuel and air into fire.
115…120…miles per hour…
Faster. I want to go faster.
And still the speedometer climbs…

The waves are being tortured.
Foam and spray, white and helpless, is being blown back. Grotesque scars tear down the back of the rollers.
The wind is dominant. And I, puny mortal, have three men putting their trust in me.
Ahead, the offshore platform deck seems awfully small, and surrounded by an unforgiving storm lashed sea.
40 knots of wind…
The intercom is quiet. They are not happy. But they know me, and they trust me. I am honored by their trust. And that of their families. But I… am happy. I am in my element.
I ease back on the cyclic, simultaneously lowering some collective pitch. The helicopter pitches up slightly, and slows down a fraction. Our descent rate is increasing. We have half a mile and five hundred feet to go…

If you spread out your arms and legs, you slow down.
That enables other jumpers to catch up with you. You form a ring in the sky. It’s nuts.
You are all together. Linked up. Everybody grins. This is so cool.
Let’s ignore- for a little while- that this ride is terminal.
120 miles per hour…
We split up. I do a turning back flip, and adopt the Delta position.
130….140… miles per hour.
I can feel my jump suit rattling in the wind storm. I love it.

“No “, she said. “I’m tired of you. “
I, brokenhearted, asked why.
“You are Extreme Man “, she said.
“You don’t do anything by halves. You live, think, dream, and drive like the wind. And you make love like a whirlwind.
I can’t keep up with you. And that Celtic gloom… I have never known a man who can be so happy, and so sad at the same time. You drive me crazy. I want somebody ordinary… “
And I, a twenty three year old wrinkled veteran of Life, what was I to say?

I am hunched down. He can barely hear me.
Around me, the flies and smell of the Angolan refugee camp.
His small, emaciated six year old body is wracked by coughing spasms. Pathetically malnutritioned, his ribs sticking out like little sticks covered by a thin, yellowy skin, his eyes, stunningly insightful, stare at me from his death bed.
“Don’t die, Sumbo “, I beg him, simply.
His eyes ask me why I even care. There are millions like him. Many millions more are long gone.
I know why I care. I don’t know if he will believe me. He has seen his father die. He has seen his mother die.
Why should he believe I care?

“Put the gun down! Do it NOW! “
I heard the angry voices, clearly carrying on the night air. Sliding along the side of the house, a round in the chamber, I moved through the half shadows carefully. Warily, I raised my head up so I could peep over the stained wooden window sill. I noticed how it badly needed some paint. Steadily I brought up my weapon. Until it was aimed squarely at the right side of his unseeing head. Once I had acquired the target, I felt a savage, cold satisfaction. My finger moved to the trigger.

The long knife that exploded at me in a vicious arc glinted dully in the artificial lights of the ship’s engine room.
I stepped back just in time. My brain, reeling, knew instantly that death had missed me by inches. Again.
My fist, taking on a life of its own, propelled by a most primitive instinct, impacted as hard as I could possibly manage, on the side of his head. He grunted, and stalled for a second…

“Do you understand the triangle of the Three Great Loves? “, he asked me, gently.
I looked blank. He smiled. I liked him. It was five in the morning. We had -once again- been discussing God and the Universe. All night long.
“At the top of the triangle “, he continued, “is the Love of God. You have that Love. In great abundance… “
I protested. “But I don’t even know if there IS a God. “
He smiled, and waved away my protestations. Continuing, he said:
“at the one corner at the bottom, is the Love of Man. You have that Love. “
I said nothing.
“But at the other corner. What do you think we have there? “
I looked even more blank. I had no clue.

“I swear by Almighty God to tell the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth… “
I listened to them all, swearing the oath on the Bible. All except the Atheist, he refused the Bible. Instead, he made an affirmation I think they called it. I knew they were going to lie. Through their teeth.They always did.
As for me? I told the Truth. I lost the case of course.

******

ANTITHESIS:

The Never-exceed-speed is two hundred and ten miles per hour.
At that speed, the flying wires of your little biplane are quivering like the strings on a guitar. You’re coming down like a German Stuka dive bomber. Howling. But you’ve got a lot of energy.
The ground of course is just spreading out in all directions.
Ground rush. Spectacular,but Deadly. Trick is to wait. Wait…. wait….
Then: Hard back on the stick!
As soon as you hit the vertical, a hard over on the ailerons. Now you are performing a climbing roll. You can literally place the trailing edge of your wing on the horizon, and roll it 360 degrees around. And all the while, you have all this energy to play with. All that energy, so valuable, which gives you tremendous vertical penetration. You can truly rocket up into the Wild Blue. The airshow crowd love it. Especially with a smoke generator….

******

SYNTHESIS:

You dive headlong into it,
seemingly suicidal,
but actually with great skill,
and a certain subtle cunning,
a mischievous delight
to then
rise high above it all,
and soar to greater creative heights than ever before.
Life is for living. Life is Risk. Living has a 100% fatality rate. It’s not about wealth.
Or retirement savings.
Or career.
Or esteem from your peers.

It’s about “fight “. Getting your ticket’s worth. Ride that bus. Think. Challenge. Dream…

And love it…

Francis Meyrick

Photo: “Rough Sea ” by Michelle1973

The Little Bird off Slea Head

(written over a Christmas break in 1982, during a howling gale; I was alone, in an isolated, rain sodden cottage up on a steep cliff of Slea Head, County Kerry, Ireland; reading and writing poetry, and drinking in the timelessness of Old Ireland; from my window I could see,feel,and hear the waves I described; and the long struggle of one little bird… A metaphor for all that is noble in us, for all the longing that struggles to express itself, despite a rampantly materialistic, cold, and cynical society, in which ‘dog eats dog’ is the prevailing rule, and where the feeling folk are regarded as weak and naive, and are usually trodden on)

Waves. Hard, ruthless waves. Slamming relentlessly on the jagged, broken rocks of ancient Slea Head. Deadly. Lashed by a pitiless wind. Inhospitable. No shelter.

A little bird…

Tired. Exhausted. Heading for shore. Beaten back by the wind. Trying again. Tired. Dropping close to the hungry waves. Closer and closer. Desperate, feeble wing beats.
Salt, cutting, spray. A roar of distant waves on battered rocks. Undercurrents of violence. An explosive, hate-filled air. The little bird flutters on, despairingly.
A wave, higher than the others. Imminent oblivion. A desperate effort. Yet another narrow escape. Onwards to a distant, mist draped shore line. Yet another wave. And yet another postponement of the seemingly inevitable.

Oh, no! Seagulls…

Mocking, laughing, circling, screeching, fighting, hungry, seagulls. The little bird struggles on.
The shore line is a little closer. A feeble little bird, close to utter exhaustion, clinging to its purpose, refusing to surrender to its fate.
Well-built, sturdy, masters of the sky, seagulls soaring, seagulls milling, seagulls diving into the roaring waves, fighting one another for imaginary morsels of nourishment.
A small, frightened, lonely little bird, who has come from far, battered, windswept, lashed, refusing to be beaten.
A shredded sky. Light. Light, all-seeing light. Tears that glisten, are blown by the wind, swallowed by the sea, uncounted, unnoticed, unheeded, sparkling, real.
Awareness? Perhaps, but then, a dark cloud, rushing across a ragged world, rendering the whole even more bleak, hopeless.

The little bird struggles on…

A shore line with… trees? Shrubs? Shelter? Berries to eat?

Ah! Those seagulls again…

Aggressive. Menacing. Cruel. Strong. Masters of the Sky. Seemingly well-fed. Yet seemingly always hungry. Fighting, always fighting. Screeching in rage as another appears to be first off the mark towards what could possibly be an edible mouthful, drifting, on a polluted, rotten, roaring sea.
Never satisfied…

The shore is coming a little closer. There are definitely some trees there. Perhaps no food, no much needed nourishment, but definitely signs of Life. Perhaps a chance to rest, to recover, to grow stronger. Perhaps even a shore, where, soon, will come a warm, sunny day, which will move a small, happy little bird to a glorious, thrilling, titillating bird song.
Perhaps… a shore… where someone sad will hear an unheard of, never imagined bird song. Someone hurt, unhappy. Who will stop… breathless, straining to hear. A listener who will, perhaps, carefully, surreptitiously, draw closer, to listen, enjoy, grow hopeful again…?

A squall, sudden, more vicious and hard and cold than ever, and the little bird is lost from sight behind a mountainous wave.
An ever-changing, ever-different sky. Uncaring?
I watch, through a rain blasted window pane, on tiptoes, breathless, trying to peer over the wave. Is he…?
But, somehow, the little bird re-appears. Madly, passionately, willing survival. A monumental will in a tiny frame.
The shore is closer. Or is it? Perhaps an illusion caused by hope? Is there a shore? Are there really trees, bushes, berries, sad and lonely people listening for a fragile bird song? So many dangers. So many deaths.
A shudder. A trembling. Feeble, ragged wings.

Can he even sing?

Or will the waves have muted him? Destroyed him. Broken his heart. Bent, twisted, and corroded his spirit…?

Could he ever really sing? Has anyone ever really listened?

Yes. They have. And another wave is cleared. Yes. He can sing. And another wave goes by. And, anyway, he wants to sing. And two more, no, three more waves go by.

But. Fear. A huge wave. Indecision. To go back? Or onwards?

Hands. Warm, caring, loving hands. Hands that cup themselves and reach out. Hands that pulsate with warm, living blood. Hands that might well reach out to lift up a small, exhausted bird from amongst the granite boulders on the shore line. Warm, delicate, feminine hands, that might well love and nurse the little bird back to life.
But. Are not all birds terrified of all hands? Might not this be the ultimate and final shock that would stop a valiant little heart forever? Might the little bird, now lifeless and limp in caring hands, not have survived if left to Nature? Might it not eventually have lifted its head, refreshed by its momentary rest, to flutter further ashore?
Might…

And yet another wave…

The little bird continues. Will it reach the shore? Will there be trees? Bushes? Berries? Warm hands? Or people to sing to who will listen gladly?
To what? The cynic laughs. Cruelly.

Dreams, Loneliness and Hope. What are they?
The song of the birds. The thundering melody of the storm tossed sea.
The howl of the cold wind across Ancient Ireland.
The scars… of the writer.

Photo: “Solitary Bird ” by Steveec_2009

And one, small, insignificant, fluttering, forgotten, feeling, beating heart…

Francis Meyrick

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I once received this email from a Magazine Editor whom I rather like:

“Remember that when you “commit” to writing for someone, not yourself anymore — you need to consider that you are writing to a defined audience. You need to consider that audience and what the goals of your messages are. Your mindset must shift. Currently, you write and ramble on about your past experiences and views for your own pleasure, and if by chance anyone gives a crap about it, then fine. If not, then that is fine as well. That is pure freedom in a way. “

And I thought, when I read it: “Damn! That boy’s got me sussed… “

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 26, 2015, 1:00 am