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57 pages

English

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Life comes in a variety of shapes, tastes, and colors - often not of our choice.THE DARK SIDE takes you to your own private places and will make you smile or cry or perhaps identify with the writer's own thoughts and feelings.They may be his musings but perhaps you've met him on your own journey through life?As you read you will surely meet yourself in one or more of the musings, so prepare to look into the mirror.Allan Younger works as a professional tour guide in the Holy Land and is the author of the historical mystery novel MISGUIDED.His journey into the DARK SIDE started with his desire to document different aspects of humanity.

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Poetry

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Publié par	BooxAi
Date de parution	14 juin 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9789655779035
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0284€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

ALLAN YOUNGER
THE DARK SIDE
ALLAN YOUNGER
THE DARK SIDE

All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2021 by Allan Younger

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publihsed by BooxAi
ISBN: 978-965-577-903-5
The Dark Side

Allan YOUNGER
Contents

1. A Fathers’ Love

2. Flotsam And Jetsam

3. Leaf

4. 80

5. Memories

6. A JOB is a JOB is a JOB

7. The Visit

8. You Are Better Than Them

9. Mess

10. Virus

11. Man Ant

12. Freedom

13. Nowhere To Go

14. Cowboy Story

15. Snowflake’s Tale –Wwi

16. Spare A Dime

17. Bright Like A Diamond

18. Rise Up

19. Snowflake’s Visit

20. The Salmon’s Tail

21. Nothing

22. Don’t Judge A Book By Its Cover

23. Writers Block

24. If

25. Savior

26. Tie Rack

27. My Perfect Day

28. Happy Birthday

29. Lovers Dance

30. Sacrifice

31. The Last Dream

32. Year Zero

33. Awakening

34. Welcome Home

35. Pressure

36. Back Again

37. Boring

38. The Silence Of The Witness

39. End Of Night

40. Menu

41. Crowning Glory

42. Prayer

43. Ecstasy

44. Through My Eyes

45. Game

46. Vini Vidi Vici

47. Finished Symphony

48. The End Of The Rainbow

49. Your Meat, My Poison

50. Owl
A FATHERS’ LOVE

* * *

Listened to a song today – can’t get the lyrics out of my mind.
They fly around and won’t go away,
soaring high inside my head seems unfair to be emotion led.
A song about fathers and of their sons.
Of pain and anguish over loved ones – you want them like you, just as you are, but be honest did you really go far?
Were you like your father or did you break free?
Did you ask yourself where would you rather be?
You made the mold and fashioned the clay,
but what of your ego, did you have it your way?
Did you tell him you loved him when he was a child?
Did you show him your love, did you let it run wild?
That being a man is about caring and crying, and if you want then you can?
So, on goes the music around in my head along with the tears as well as old fears.
Does he know that I love him as he walks away?
I whisper it softly but I know he can hear when his pace starts to slow and he looks back with no fear.
He seems to be saying ‘Don’t worry Dad I’m on the right track. I know that you love me – one day I’ll be back.’
It’s what I said to my father as well, so now I just wait for time to tell.
FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

* * *

I lie in the dark eyes open
My eyes, like a man hanging desperately from the edge of a cliff, grab at the light trying to focus as if….
But there is no light save that in my head growing ever brighter then suddenly dead.
My eyes greet the dark of the night.
I lie in the dark eyes open
In the dark of the night, time creeps so slow – forever lingering, refusing to go.
Ever loud, the beat of my heart fills my ears.
Cold blood flows, visits old friends – awakens old fears then slowly but surely brings on my tears.
Like flotsam and jetsam in rivers flow, memories surface then sink with nothing to show.
I know they were there but where did they go?
I lie in the dark eyes open
I remember my love – taste the salt in my tears.
We ruled the world, had perfect years.
Then I sigh as I welcome the warmth of the sun as with one final breath, I go forward to meet her as we become one.
Finally,
I lie, eyes closed.
LEAF

* * *

Spring calls. I rise from my slumber, exhilarated by the sounds as life awakens.
On my tree.
I look around and see many friends. All of us young and eager
but where are the others?
Those with the experience of yester year, they have gone – vanished as if never here.
In the gentle sun I stretch and glory with all my friends to live my story.
But what will happen when I too gain the experience of yester year?
Will someone greet me, or will I just fall to vanish as if never here at all.
80

* * *

It took a long time to get here.
I started down my road eighty years ago, and here I am.
Remember as remember can.
Don't let them tell you time passes quickly, it has taken me eighty years to get here, and I savor every moment like a fine wine or perhaps a nice piece of chocolate.
Takes me back to my childhood, my favorite treat.
Memories, waiting to be teased from my mind, each one to grab onto, to slowly unwrap.
They wait patiently as I summon them one by one.
No pushing or shoving, they just wait their turn.
I roll the fine wine – my chocolate around in my mouth then let it linger and slip off my tongue just like my memories one by one.
They stay in my mind, going around and around till I let them run free.
A hint of what was? – I know they were there.
Problem is, I can't always catch them, so unfair.
It feels so unkind as they tease my mind for what, more memories hiding behind?
So many to choose from but they refuse to come out 'till, like old autumn leaves blowing around,
I pick them up quickly as if from the ground.
Some, old withered leaves that crumble to dust as I grab them too tight, but I'm afraid they'll escape like thieves in the night.
I promise myself when spring comes along to tidy my head,
sort out my memories, put them to bed.
To throw out the junk – my smiles, my laughter, my tears and old fears so patiently gathered over 80 good years.
But I've tried before and stopped when I saw that my memories are me, years of laughter and sunshine and many good times.
Of passion and loving and nursery rhymes.
Memories of children when they were born, taking first steps as they made their own way.
Can I give it all up? Never not even for one extra day.
I'm sorry but I can't bear to part with any of them. Why should I?
They are the essence of me, without them a mere shadow; eyes that don't see.
So, if I forget your name that's alright, I might just remember during the night.
I won't be asleep for there’s too much to do, reliving my life before it all passes through.
MEMORIES

* * *

Crack of whip shredding air.
Crack of gunshot ringing out.
Crack of ice as glacier hits water below.
None of these hurt like the crack of my tree as it slowly surrendered to the weight of the snow.
It hurt as memories poured from its trunk, sap slowly being sucked into the ground.
They fade as I run to gather them up – memories flying like leaves blown around.
I remember when I climbed my tree, the hero no one could stop as I claimed my place at the very top.
My initials carved into the bark.
My treehouse.
Branches protecting as I slept in the dark.
Tomorrow after the storm, I will plant another tree and although I will not be here to reap the memories that will be sown, I know that one day, others will.
A JOB is a JOB is a JOB

* * *

Gives you spirit, gives you hope, stops you sliding down endless slope.
Helps you stand on your own.
Forget the look that once was thrown by others with voices full of scorn.
But as you climb the slippery slope, stretch out your hand, grasp the chance to escape the spiral of the wicked dance that tries to tear you every way.
True, it’s not the job to hang your wish.
Ten dollars a day, washing dish after dish but………
A job is a job is a job.
THE VISIT

* * *

Just a Chair – leather, old.
Doesn’t scare, so why am I frightened to bare my soul?
As private thoughts I’m asked to share to a stranger who listens and tries to heal.
It hurts you know, to show how you feel.
Sadist who enjoys seeing pain, or masochist who’ll be back again?
Both of us know I’ll be back to sit in the old leather Chair after all it’s quite a good fit.
It's where I banish my demons bit by bit.
YOU ARE BETTER THAN THEM

* * *

Why is it that you can see further than everyone?
Over the horizon.
Why is it that you can see people for what they are, but others see only when it is too late?
Why is it no one wants to let you remove their blinkers, to expand their world – cure their myopic vision?
Myopia born of timidity and cowardice.
To see, you must first cut free.
From stigma, from the small person with the big job.
The one that blusters and browbeats and cuts you down.
From sycophants who worry for their own thin skins.
Do they not see there is no protection at all, for when the day comes, they’ll be the first to fall?
You see further because you are better.
Your course is charted by the needs of others who, like beacons guide you through dangerous currents in an ocean of fear and mediocrity.
Go forward my friend, set your course as others follow.
Stand tall and straight as you go.
You may start alone, but do not waver for in time others will take the path that you show.
The small will always try and pull you down for this is their way.
Ignore them.
They are not destined to be with you as you go forward, straight as an arrow true to your way.
MESS

* * *

Grabbing, tugging, clawing, sucking.
So thick I can almost swim.
Impossible to see – plays tricks, light glows pale as senses fail.
All is muffled no sound is clear, but I carry on walking – swallow my fear.
As I walk through mist, it twists my mind, turns logic blind.
Imagine things – footsteps behind?
Nature’s game as I invoke the Holy name.
Then up the hill through evil stew; mans’ pollution –
wicked brew.
The sun from high looks on down.
Clears the mist when, with a cry I breathe the air and
mourn the mess.
Why is it we couldn't care less?
I wonder then, if years from now will the mist have gone for those not yet born?
Will they breathe, or even when they’ll ever smile or simply live and remain forlorn?
VIRUS

* * *

Some people – lik