Where do the tears go when they are shed

Where do the tears go when they are shed ©
By
Michael Casey

Where do the tears go when they are shed
While I lie here crying on my bed
Do the tears drip drip away and seep though
The  floorboards and head for the sea.
Do my tears join an ocean that rises and falls
Do the tears yell and scream but only sea farers
Hear them, do whales moan as they crash through them
Only whales know of my distress as my tears groan
In deep deep oceans in the unknown dark deep seas.

Do my tears head north to the North Pole and Santa
Does Santa Ho Ho Ho so much because he is trying to drown out
The cries and sobs and tears held back for so many years.
Do tears form ice shelves and become icebergs, silent and majestic
Like giant cathedrals of ice. Is this the way to silent the voice of tears.
Frozen in Time for 100s of years, the fears of today and yesterday are merged
As one, gagged for eternity in an ice cathedral.
Will everything be forgot, deep freezed, quick frozen like garden peas.

Do my tears evaporate and head for the sky, joining the clouds as they pass by.
Are my tears blown this way and that, are they taken far away over the ocean.
As planes pass through the clouds that are my tears, can the passengers hear
Can the passengers hear my tears, all my hopes and fears, or are my tears
Drowned out by the in flight movie, 007 killing my prayers to heaven.

Do my tears wash away my pain, my guilt, are they like mothers’ milk?
For tears touch us all, they are like a morning mist that shrouds us.
For tears are the dark dark night of the soul, a cold coat that covers us.
In the morning we remember we fell asleep crying, but what of now?
Now we’ve looked at our dead mum’s photo and think of what she would have said.
We smile as we remember, her fight, her love, her spirit, her smile.
But never tears, she shed no tears for us, she shed no tears for us.
Tears will come, tears will come again, but they are just water, we are stronger
Than mere water, we have a boat and that boat is Love.

**** I had this poem in my head so tonight I tried to a nail it down

A Famous Life, an Expired Life, Words from Beyond The Grave

I did my best, I tried to live a holy life, thinking of the next life and not tied to this. But now I'm gone you turn me into an icon, I get 15minutes of fame, after I'm dead, but those 15minutes last forever. I wanted a humble grave, a quiet send off, only a brass band turned up. People spoke kind words about me, some even meaning them, but for what? For vanity, for care, for compassion to those I left behind, or to make themselves important by association. I'm just a signpost pointing the way, go higher, don't stop at me, the signpost, go higher. Go to heaven itself, not this ornate graveyard, with people selling tee shirts with my name on. Go higher.

I'm just a mother so remember me well, don't fight with one another, love one another and help each other, if you want to remember me then remember those words of mine. And I'm not angry with you any more, for that joke about Thomas being the ideal name for an aethist. Breath the fresh air, sit on the grass in our small garden and remember how as kids we all cut that grass by using small pairs of sissors because we couldn't afford a lawn mower. Life goes on without me, I never saw those pretty girls of yours, but God lets us see things sometimes, and yes you are right I would have spoilt them if only I had lived to see them. But my passing led to dad going into the old folks home, and it was there where you met you wife, at least he held the 1st girl in his eyes before he was called into Paradise. And do you know they have a beautiful garden there, and for fun we are allowed to cut the grass with sissors, one blade at a time. So enjoy your life and enjoy your family. Those prayers you said for years brought tears to Heaven, and then by chance at a letter box she met a man who ran the home, and that’s why she was there waiting for you, waiting for you all the time, love is no crime. Hope and Tears and love, and I did give cupid a push from above, and I'm so glad you didn't call anybody Thomas.

Attachment: Padre Pio and Me.doc

Pink Floyd, Music and Me

I've just watched a biography  about Pink Floyd's Dark Side of The Moon. It was very good, music really is the soundtrack to our lives. Compared to Music, Writing is rubbish, Photography is better than Writing too. The old saying a picture is worth 1000 words rings true. I used to be surgically attached to a camera as my old boss used to say. Any company event and I was there with my camera. Thats no longer true, but I use it to illustrate the fact that I like photos, taking them and composing them. Straight boring photos were people line up, like in 1950s school photos are terrible. Photos should have energy, I did enter a competition to win a nice new Nicon. but I don't think I've won. They wanted a cycle shot, like in Tour de France. I sent in a photo of my daughter, then aged 3, riding a plastic trycical in our back yard, she was wearing her pink pyjamas and some pearls she'd stolen from my wife. If Nicon have a sense of humour then perhaps I'll win after all. Anyways I hope that proves photos are more powerful than words. Going back to music though, my brother used to have a reel to reel tape recorder and a speaker through which he played music  at high volume,  to drown out the sound of the rest of us while he was studying. Using this method he got into the best  university. So it was then 40years agro that my Love of Music began, at the time it was Cream music, which featured a young Eric Clapton. I still have that speaker in my house. And as for Eric Clapton, I almost carried his bags. Going back to my point though, Music touches us in seconds, a Clapton riff, the first few notes of a piece played by a pianist on a piano, a phrase by Michael Bulee. Musicians have power over us. So much power. Perhaps the caveman who drummed on a skull with a bone from other caveman he'd just eaten; perhaps he, perhaps he excited the cavewoman enough so he could mate with her, and  that led to us, and me writing here in Birmingham England and with a press of the button sharing my thoughts with the entire world. So a drumbeat on a skull was the beginning of music, and sex and the continuation of our species. As for writing, thousands of years had to pass before it began and could be used to pass on stories. Storytelling started straight away, as the cavewoman told he sister to get some of the action from the drummer. But the writer as such did not start until thousands of years later. Perhaps that is why Music is deeper within us, and why we hum and whistle or tap tap tap on the steering wheel while we are stuck in traffic. If there are 3 words that can be writtern to compare with the speed of Music's power, perhaps its " I Love You" , "I want you", "Come here...." Words like that, spoken, do have power, but  words have to be backed up with better words, stronger words, the words on the page have to ignite to get the reader to read more, to touch the reader. A poem or two of mine can touch people when my poetry is on form, but, but it takes 30seconds for my words to go from the page through somebody's eyes and then finally touch their heart. And that's why I'll always be  jealous of drummers, even if the drums are made of leftover skulls from dinner.

 

Attachment: Crawling Like a Worm in The Dirt.doc
Attachment: Padre Pio and Me.doc

A Winter's Day

As I look from my window I see the blue blue sky. Birds dive and soar better than any circus acrobat, they are painting a picture with their wings. Tiny tiny whisps of white cloud remain, like left over candy floss on a childs face, like white whiskers on a very old woman's face.
Curtains are pulled open and windows are  inched open too, daylight and fresh air to bedrooms shuttered down against a cold winters night. People stand  and yarn and scratch too as they struggle to wake up fully. Then one or two realise they don't wear any pyjamas so they hurry away from their windows, their wives, their husbands, their lovers laughing at their stupidity. At least old Mrs Jones may have had a thrill.
The sounds of morning, of daylight rise. Slowly the sound of the milk float, the sounds of milk bottles clinking together as the milkman does his rounds, this way and that. The sound of of Mrs Murphy walking her dog, the dog panting in the cold winters air. He doesn't have a sheepskin coat to keep him warm. He has his own fur coat but this winter is a cold one, so Goldie the dog could do with an extra coat too.
People dance down their door steps to  their car, nagging children to hurry up as its cold. Children write their name in the frost on their neighbours' cars before being told off. John the neigbourhood jogger rushes past, the kids stick their tongue out at him, he does the same, they all laugh, only for John to miss his stride slip on an icy patch and fall to the ground hurting his elbow as he does so. Still laughing the kids get inthe car and are taken off to see grandpa, John is rubbing his elbow and his bum as he gets ups gingerly.
The lads, we are so hard, appear from their homes to noisily attack the day, Sunday is for shouting, but not too loud, as they have headaches and hangovers, did they really chat up that ugly fat girl, but they gave her his brother's mobile number and not his own. They stride off to the news agent for The News Of The World, just for the sports pages, their mums can read the scandal section and the horoscopes.
One or two black people wearing their Sunday best pass by on their way to church, a throwback to decades before when people still went to church and when people still wore their Sunday best. People used to dress up to go to the theatre too, but now, but now.
I reach for the kettle and have my first coffee of the day, coffee with milk and no sugar, the way English people have coffee, not the American way, just the soft English way. My kids want toast and peanut butter, or cheese on toast, so my 3 slices of toast become one slice of toast as I feed my girls. I nag them to put slippers and socks on, yes we have nice carpet but in the winter's weather they are always getting colds, so I nag them, I nag them. My wife nags them in Chinese too, or Shanghai dialect. The phone rings, its Germany calling, or rather my wife's best friend who's calling from  Germany, the cackle or hens, of chickens clucking is the noise these 2 Shanghai girls make, as they talk in Shanghai, when are we coming back to Germany is the message. Cluck cluck cluck.
The sky has changed the blue has changed to grey, will the snow return, its been a snowy winter over here in Birmingham, some parts of the country have had the worse weather in 20years. The children have quietened down, my wife has relented and put a nature program on the tv for them. As for me I was going to try and write a poem but instead you see what's before you. I'm half listening to Mike and The Mechanics a cd I've loaded to the computer, "give me the simple life" he sings, I suppose my life is a simple life too. But if we can see  the poetry in life then we enjoy the simple things which make up all are lives. All our lives are  poetry if only we take the time to watch and listen, while we're making toast for the kids

p.s. This piece was from last Winter.

A writer talked about Kindle in Todays Observer- an English Newspaper, MY REPLY

This is for Observer Readers

Sunday, October 11, 2009, 01:34 PM GMT [General]

 

 

11 Oct 09, 1:16pm (8 minutes ago)

I started MY book 20years ago, then I slumbered. I tried self publishing but that did not work out. The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker is a good title and on www.michaelgcasey.multiply.com you can all read it. You can print it off and read it in the bath with Victoria, just make sure she does not make you sit
at the tap end of the bath, but she may have a jacussi, so they'll be room for 3 or even 4. In which case Essays and Plays my 2nd book could also go to the bathroom with you all, a kind of slumber party but in the water, reading my stuff, or you could download it from my site to a kindle device, it only has batteries so none of you would be electrocuted. Another thought why not have literary launches in bathrooms, or in steam baths. Dress up in togas and have slaves wash your back, very Anthony and Cleopatra, while eunuches read pages from the latest release, in wax on tablets. Then everything will have come full circle.
www.michaelgcasey.multiply.com
p.s. Victoria, I also write plays, Shoplife for example, but we'd need a rugby teams bath to get all the actors in.

Having just browsed the Observer I can say I do prefer The Telegraph. I'd also say that any medium that encouraged  reading is good. I do most of my reading on the computer in front of me. So Kindle would be nice, though I've never had one so I cannot say once I had one would I prefer it to paper or the LCD screen in front of me.If somebody wants to donate one, then great, IF it were full of kids stories then thats good, I have 2 kids 6 & 8 you see.

P.S.I used to work in a 4star deluxe hotel for 3years, so I'll beg anything,if anybody has a house they don't need anymore.......

Tempus Fugit - I am your Future, you are my Past

Its my smallest daughter's Birthday soon, this got me thinking. My sister sent some presents over in advance and my daughter was delighted with her treasure, even if it wasn't Winnie The Pooh but some other bear. Eyes lighting up as she went through her bag of treasure, counting out the treasure just like the King in his counting house. Her big sister observing and trying not to get jealous, however she had some treasure of her own, my sister had sent some Maths quiz books over to encourage her with her sums.

This morning they were having a disco in their bedroom, with a DAB radio blasting out Heart at high volume. I had an blue radio with holes in it like a sieve when I was their age, it had MW &  LW on it. FM was not the standard yet in those days. IT was while listening to that radio that we heard RFK had been shot, I remember running down stairs to tell me mum, she was in the kitchen, she was always in the kitchen, she fell to her knees and got her  rosary beads from her apron pocket.

A few years later Frank who was one of our lodgers went back to Ireland to look after his sick mum, her left all of his stuff behind, a full and heavy suitcase plus a Bush Radio. He eventually came back and said we, thats me and my  brother could have the radio. The Bush radio is a classic design. It has a large strip carry handle, like a giant strip of marzipan, it also has a  giant saucer dial with grooves in it, and as for the controls they were like dominoes, plus a grooved wheel to turn for volume. That radio changed my life. Why? Well me and my brother used to listen to the World Tonight with Douglas Stuart reporting, which was a 30min news programme from the BBC Radio4 and best of all it was followed by The Book at Bedtime. Because I started to listen to Radio 4 from the age of 10 or so I became addicted to Current Affairs as posh people call it, News to you and me. The stories and plays were great too. Though after 20years of radio plays, The Radio 4 radio play style can have its shine taken off. So that was my thing for 20years or so,I suppose that was what led me to Writing. It also made me realise Radio is better than TV, as far as news goes. Radio has more power and the picture don't get in the way of the story. IF you try an experiment and listen to a news story then later watch the news and hear the same story, you will realise that the Radio version is better. Those of you in USA may not be able to do this experiment directly, so try closing your eyes and listening to the news, then watch the same piece later. Ears are better than Eyes.

Nowadays DAB radio is the thing, though they use lots of electricity, but the sound quality is so good. So my daughter has a DAB radio and that's her standard, small radio but high quality. The Bush radio we had was bigger than a cereal box and heavy too, but it did change my life. It was company for me when my brother left home to do his gap year, before gap years were invented, as I struggled with my Latin, my Bush radio was the sound in the background. Though I had music on when I did homework, now as I write  this I have music on too but this time its via the computer. Where have all the years gone, I look at my eldest daughter and she looks so much like me when I was small over 40years ago. WE have a joke as we look into each others eyes. "I am your future, you are my past."

Attachment: Crawling Like a Worm in The Dirt.doc

What If

I stumbled over this from a few years ago, perhaps you'll like it. The attachments can be downloaded in seconds and then you can sample my 2 books and a couple of plays. They all go well with a coffee and a donut

 

What If (c)

By

Michael Casey



What if Today wasn't the 1st day of a New Year but the last Day of Your Life.

Who would you hug, who would you kiss, who would you miss.

Who would miss you, do you have a clue, and do you know why?

Would your years of striving to be a good writer/teacher/cop or whatever still mean so much to you .

Would you miss making love in a tent high up in the mountains.

Would you miss a real good coffee and donut on 7th and 4th.

Would you miss the sales where you always bought nothing but shoes, shoes for work. But the fun you had with the girls was worth it , because pals are fun.

Would you miss Midnight Mass and Silent Night getting home exhausted and late and crying for your late mother.

Would you be too afraid that you'd not meet her again in the afterlife, or would that be the only hope you'd cling too as you watched the hands on clock sweep around faster and faster.

Would you rail at the world and want to get your gun and shoot those bastards who'd ruined your life in the past , even if all they ever did was steal your parking place, or would you be all sweetness and light, dying peacefully without a fight.

What would be your parting words, would anybody remember you, small kindnesses remembered and rewarded.

Remember thou art dust and to dust thy will return is the Ash Wednesday phrase

Is that how you want to be remembered?

Or he made me laugh, he made me cry but I was always was happy when he was around , I'll miss him yes , but I've not lost him because because a laugh lasts forever.

That is my hope, for the start of this New Year and new day, and everyday because we all should live like today is our last because one fact is certain, one day it will be , so make 'em laugh , make 'em laugh, make 'em laugh

Happy New Year from this Comedy Writer Michael Casey
www.michaelgcasey.multiply.com