Climb

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Climb

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With the peak in sight, my mind starts to drift
Back to memories of dreams and hopes that I sniffed.
When knowledge was small, ignorance abounded
Before all my efforts became firmly grounded,
In the workings and ways, tasks and plans
Learning to keep plates spinning through hands.
Until now at last, with the top nearing view
All the doubts resurface, claim to be true.
Then standing above, my eyes turn to fountains
Cos’ all I can see is just more damn mountains.

In some ways a Kickstarter is like the above. You can check my Kickstarter for my new novel Crescendo! right here.

G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

To Paper – some poetical jottings

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To Paper

I want to look at you without you staring back,
Like a freeze frame in a movie so I can get the detail.
I want to touch your hair and see how substantial it is,
Shine a light a see if the red is a product of some bottle.
From the corner of my gaze I think yours is a young face
But whether there’s hope or angst I can’t see from here.
So I want to kneel down in front and burn into those eyes,
Read the soul, explore your emotions.
Your clothing is functional, drab in most ways
But is that just a cover for a curving figure.
Can I see if you are assessing the room,
Hunting for appreciative looks or hiding away.
It’s hard to tell your reads through subversive glances,
Desperately avoiding your view when your hair is flicked back.
And when you brushed it back, were you preening for my benefit?
or did you just have a knot that was causing annoyance.

Forgive my stare, forgive my interest
For you can’t know what madness drives me on.
I must assess you, I must admire you, I must own you in my mind.
If you had this curse, if you stood in my shoes you would understand.
You must be put in print, you must be scribed and be known.
When you live in my words I will expose your very soul.
I am a writer and I will make you immortal …..

…. until they burn my book!

Sometimes it’s hard being a writer for we stare at our world in order to know it, to ponder it. This is poem asking foregiveness of those we stare at. Yes, we are disturbed and probably mad, but that’s what makes us so creative.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

National Poetry Day

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It’s National poetry day so here’s one I made earlier in celebration. It’s from my poetry book “Four Life Emotions” and a wee favourite of mine. It tells of the relationship between my mum and my grandmother when the former was visiting the latter in a nursing home after the onset of Parkinson’s Disease. Sometimes life just flips on it’s head and we’re never truly ready for it.

My Child

She is my child.

She lies head caressed to my bosom, a babe in arms,
Seeking security of my presence.

She is my child.

I cut her food and instruct her on how to eat,
To take the joy of her new life.

She is my child.

She relies on me for the basic human functions,
Assisting her with her mistakes.

She is my child.

I hold her as she walks with unsure balance and direction
But with persistent agitation.

She is my child.

I am close to her and she to me,
For she said I’ll miss her.

She is my child.

She was my mother.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

Changing of a Bed

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When my 4 year old recently kicked me in the head whilst lying in my bed, I got to thinking about how the place where we sleep changes through the years. As so often, this generated the guts of a poem and the following ensued. Usually these rough starts are where my poetry comes from.

Bed

From encompassing arms, I was laid into a flat bed
Bars that protected my roaming urge, left me void of the caress
That would be obtained when I later wandered
Across the landing to reach the space between
My mother and father, disturbing their peace.

A larger bed left me wondering when,
My legs would grow to touch the air beyond the duvet
Which had to be thrown in moments of heat,
Attacked with a vengeance by arms too small,
To control such obstacles to receiving a cuddle.

As testosterone raged and limbs expanded,
I treasured the space that truly was mine
To control and decorate, to relax on and linger
Surveying the posters of dreams that fought
To lay an impression on the journey’s start.

Then in different rooms, I took refuge in beds,
That were not my own but hired for a time.
Homeless but happy, breaking new grounds abroad.
An abode so petite, so cramped and basic
But owned periodically to give it some worth.

Then the bed grew, doubled in size,
To allow for manoeuvre of multiple occupants
Who fumbled and loved, learnt new emotions.
For some the tenants changed but I grew fortunate
In keeping the lodger within the house walls.

Feet in my head, an occupying force,
Takes ground in my bed, with the cutest attack
Which left this dreamer awake most nights.
So strong the attack that more followed on
And all hopes of ownership went off to the wall.

Then she spent longer in that slumbering bastion
Before they suggested a different abode.
But she troubled them not long, never lingered,
And she made her way to a different home,
Parting with tears and eyes ever so tired.

Too much room in this bed nowadays
And no flesh to tell me my feet are cold.
A room that was filled with noise and laughter,
Passions fulfilled and children rampaging
Has become a tomb with orthopaedic pillows.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

Reactions

Aside

This is a little piece that came to me over lunch. With so many refugees, it set me wondering to how I respond to them, and more so, how offensive my thinking can be.

Reactions

I wondered which rooms we could put them in,
Planned the beds, with that smug little grin
That says I am helping you, doing good.
We could share meals and show you good food,
Cut out the spices as our meat is pure,
Not rancid or left lying in heat.
Would you need some space for your queer little customs?
Maybe a car but it’s the left from now on.
And your children, we’d dress in uniforms neat
They would still stand out but their clothes would match.
After a time we’d show you how to fit in
Take up our ways, civilised things.

When I look back at the thoughts that ran riot,
I thank Him that at least we were willing.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

The Ponderings of a Past Poet

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Lately I have been challenged when reading poetry with some of the wide differences in the voices of the past and those of the present. My father bought me a book of poetry by Yeats and reading it I began to wonder how he, or indeed anyone from a different time would react to the poetry of today. This poem flowed from that. It’s not a judgement or comment on today’s writings but rather a thought on how we see that which breaks our conventions. Is it modern and relevant, or are these people merely lazy and dismissing good form? Well that’s your decision.

When did poetry stop rhyming
With words and beat combining?
When did alliteration alight
And stark endings happen?
What would old poets say
To smiths who craft their way
Without reference to known style or grace
Cultured phrases lost without trace.

Am I just a fusspot, or poor in my sight,
That I flee from prose which although not trite
Occurs in a form that doesn’t suffice,
That neither flows or connects,
And loses its way in a mesh of
Exaggerated expletive and angered intent.

When did our words become free
And not molded by ourselves,
Broncos on the hoof, not birds on the wing.
When did all form collapse
So that now we write like a child,
Building his Lego from whatever is in the box.

Like the painter’s of my time,
We should tell of vivid but recognized colours
Of days that we recognize but honed
And polished into a creation
Which let’s us drive in comfort while
Allowing the road to be challenged.

It is prose, not poetry, Sir. And I reject it.

GR Jordan’s first book of his poetry “Four Life Emotions” is available at Amazon, Smashwords and other outlets.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

Hey Mr Postman! Making an eBook a Paperback!

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This image has had me on tender hooks for the last week. Everyday, several times a day, this image pops into my mind and in the most strangest of places. Feeding chickens and my mind says “Is it here?” Fending off aircraft from each other in the air traffic control tower and the weather is poor. There’s a doubt whether the aircraft will arrive. All that goes through my mind is “If the aircraft with mail doesn’t land then my book won’t land either!” Even changing the little one’s nappy and all I can think is “where’s the book?” when normally all I think is let’s get this done quick!

This was definitely a new phenomenon to me. For those who don’t know I have published an eBook of poetry and am now in the process of self-publishing it as a paperback. Trust me the eBook was easy by comparison. I went with Indie publisher Smashwords and they laid out a whole scheme of how to format the book. I followed that and once it was prepared it was a matter of a day to then actually publish it. Then it jumped onto their site and soon after onto various eBook sellers. No long wait, no grinding nerves. Downloaded it and checked the copy almost instantly.

However the printed word is not so easy. To be fair I went with Createspace and their software and instructions were good and I had the book draft ready fairly quickly. But now they are sending out the proof and it is taking a while. Again to be fair they are in the USA, I am in the UK. They took probably less than 24 hours to get the book printed and underway. But I didn’t pay for the fastest delivery as it was extremely more expensive though I did go for the intermediate postal service. If I had any hair left to tear out it would be gone, so praise Him as I am a baldie! The song is right, the waiting is the hardest part.

So now I having waited the great dread is coming upon me! What if there’s a mistake? Did I miss a comma, an apostrophe, a full stop!? How come the smallest things cause the greatest anguish? So please any would be writer’s out there who long to see their precious manuscript make that leap from computer type to embalmed delight take it from me – while that wonderful cargo is in the post plan a holiday, somewhere far, far away! Possibly Mars would do. Failing that take the second star to the right and straight on til morning. And Mr Postman, if you return to sender……………….

Four Life Emotions, the eBook is available here. Look out in the coming months for “I am Thunderstorm” my first kid’s book and also “A Lighter Shade of Dark” a collection of short allegorical stories, both appearing in eBook and paperback format, details when available at my Smashwords homepage.

Originally Published 16 June 2014 on blogspot

Looking for Myself I found a Zombie!

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It was an exciting time to say the least. I had just sent my first e-Book to the publisher and it was then winging its way through the ether to various platforms, to be uploaded for purchase. Eagerly I got onto my favourite search engine and typed in the various sites using my name as a search. Well what a palava! One site has me lobbed in with Laurel and Hardy and other comedy classics. Another has me in with a baseball prospectus. But the absolute best was one that did indeed have my book and another of an apparently “similar” read beside it. The similar read was the sixth in a series all about zombies! My book: a book of poetry taking you through four of life’s emotions.

So I thought, can I get a proper cross over out of this. Do I publish the long awaited poetry book – Zombie life: The Four Primary Emotions? And what would they be? Well hunger for one! Could I manage such delicate material as the insatiable desire for the human brain? “Hair in my Pudding” comes to mind as a good title. Actually taking that through to its logical conclusion that puts us bald people more at risk. Disturbing! Other titles: “Why do I feel like I’m always in second gear?”, or, “My Sprinting Days Behind Me”. “Arm Ache Blues” also leaps out as a promising title. But I settled with this, see what you think?

I’m Stuck with this Moaning Crowd
I’ve got in with a really bad crowd,
Indeed sometimes they can be just so damn loud,
But it’s not like they party til dawn,
Instead they just drone on and on.
We all dance in the same stupid fashion,
Arms outstretched is our popular passion.
We all seek to be first at the head
But that’s where it’s at when you’re dead.
If you’re new and wonder how to begin,
We’ll all surround you and help you fit in.
If you keep pace with us through the night,
It’s farewell at the first sign of light!
Think I’ll stick with the living, it’s got fresher subjects!
Four Life Emotions is my book of non-horror poetry.
Posted originally on blogspot: 5th June 2014