A Monologue

This is a monologue.

 I woke up this morning feeling like I was buried under ten thousand pounds of earth. I opened my eyes, and sat up in bed. My chest hurt, my eyes were moist and my heart was beating nineteen to the dozen. The bastard was back. He's still there after all this time has passed.

I could not face work, so I stayed at home. I thought I'd bury myself in a book and that would help make it go away. I sought refuge in Thomas Hardy. It worked for a bit but it wasn't enough.  So I tried to sleep and in my dreams there came the phantasms- people coming to kill me, armed to the teeth; a tall, fat man shouting his head off at me, visions of me destroying things I loved and I woke up some time ago, shaking.

I need release. That is why I am writing this, hoping it helps to get the thing out of me. It's worked in the past and it should work again. I am trying to stay positive, telling myself that this too shall pass and in time it will. Thankfully I have a holiday tomorrow so I can rest up and get back on my feet.

Here's hoping!

The Bilge Master

Colourful

Tell me what it's like

To dream in black and white

When the world is without colour

And diffraction doesn't happen to light

Tell me of a world where gray is absent

And everything happens with

The preciseness of calculus

Tell me of your monochrome lives

Trapped as they are in a cycle

That swings between two poles

And two poles only

Now tell me of a world

Of red, blue and green

With a little gray and a touch of orange

Where each person is unique

And colour of skin or preference in  love

Does not matter

Help me make that world

Help me free you

From your homogeneous lives

For living in colour is so much more expressive

Than a world of black and white

The Bilge Master

The Songbird

There is a prison for lost ones

Heinous their crime

Where all are put to death

One at a time

I entered this prison

On the 4th of July at nine

My body shall leave it

Sooner than I had in mind

Outside stands a tree

In the tree lives a bird

And at five o clock it sings

A melancholy little tune

I cannot see the bird

Merely hear its mournful tune

For it knows that murder occurs

Within these four walls

And appropriate is its melody

That it sings to us all

And at five o clock

They take me to the gallows pole

But at least I can hear the bird

Before all that's left of me is my soul

The Bilge Master

Storms

You may think I am placid as a lake in summer

But should dare to dive in

You will be greeted by hurricanes of kaleidoscopic patterns

And tornadoes of thought

For beneath this mask beats a wild heart

That can never be tamed

If you are a boat, I am the tempest that rocks you to and fro

Get to know me and you will come to realize

Why storms are named after people

The Bilge Master

The Dream Merchant

I

There was once a town

By a shaded wood

Where people didn't know

How to dream

They lived lives like clockwork toys

Rising and toiling with the sunrise

They had their meals at a fixed time

And made love to their wives

Once a month

In this town there were no artists

Nor writers or preachers

For the word of God was unknown here

 II

There was once a merchant

Who lived in Baghdad

He sold one type of ware

His cargo was dreams

He had dreams about every subject

Dreams that were happy, sad and fulfilled or abandoned

He kept them in little glass bottles

And sold them for coin

The merchant would come into the market

With his sack full of dreams

Dainty as a clown, he would pluck one out

And hand it to the lost

III

The merchant travelled far and wide

Seeking to imprison dreams

Which he would then sell

For a price of course

His travels brought him to our little town

By the edge of the wood

Where nobody had seen a dream

And the people did not believe

IV

The merchant put up at the inn

And noticed the idiosyncrasies

Of the people in the town

When asked what he sold

He replied "Dreams"

"What is a dream?" they asked

Regarding him with awe

And so he told them of his wares

Long into the night

V

The merchant woke early

And set up his wares

People flocked to his stall

Seeking a dream to wrap themselves in

Before long his wares were all sold

And a handsome sum he had made

He then packed up and prepared to leave

Promising to come again

But he never returned

To the town he had taught to dream

VI

The dreams they bought gave them hope

But soon they began to despair

For the merchant was a wicked man

And had sold them nightmares

And so it came to be

That the inhabitants went mad with grief

And their dreams lay shattered on the hearth

In pieces at their feet

VII

So should you meet this merchant, friend

Beware of what he sells

For his dreams are not happy or healthy

And he is clever and crafty

Dare to dream on your own

Dream of a better tomorrow

A world without anger and pain

And lots and lots of rain

Dream of love, dream of peace

Dream of discoveries and happy things

Do not let dream turn to nightmare

For then the dream merchant has fooled you

And you are naught but his tool

The Bilge Master