FIVE YEARS AGO

Five years have gone by since the passing of my dear mother, Mary Shuker. Sometimes it seems like only moments ago, other times an eternity, a different life in a different world. How I miss you Mom, how I love you and wish with all my heart that you were still here with me, sharing my life, making it worth living again, a real life instead of a sham existence.

FIVE YEARS AGO

Five years ago today, Mom, you left my life, you left this world – and my life, my world, was left lifeless, worldless, without you. So it remains today, and so it will always remain, until we are together once more, all of us, our family, reunited at last and forever. Friends tell me that you have never left me, that you are still here, all about me, always. I am reminded by their words of other words - those attributed to Hakim Sanai, a 12th-Century Persian poet:

Unable to perceive the shape of you,

I find you all around me.

Your presence fills my eyes with your love,

It humbles my heart,

For you are everywhere.

How I wish, how I hope, how I pray that this is so, and, above all else, that even if only once ever, but at least just once, I could know this for certain, beyond any doubt, beyond any shadow or whisper or flicker of hesitation, know that you were indeed here still, filling my soul with your love that was always there for me when you lived beside me in my life, when you walked with me in my world.

Then again, perhaps it is a test, a test of faith - just like Orpheus faced when walking out of the Underworld in the fervent hope that his deceased bride Eurydice was indeed following behind him, but Orpheus failed to win her back when he finally gave in to the temptation of doubt and looked behind him to make sure that she really was there, and, in so doing, lost her a second time, and this time for all time. Perhaps my test is to draw upon and have faith in my memories of your love for me, upon my certain knowledge that as long as you are in any way able to stay close by, you will indeed do so, never leaving or abandoning me, but instead always here for me, watching over me, guiding me as ever, until my own time here is complete - and that as long as I believe this to be so, so shall it be. Only if my mortal doubts overcome me will I lose you here again, a second time, Mom.

So, on this day, of all days, I must overcome any doubts, any fears, and for all time, because I will not lose you again - never! - and henceforth I will continue, in whatever role God intends for me here on His Earth, until in His mercy I am finally at peace and at last restored to you, to all of us, in His Heaven, never more to be parted.

God bless you, Mom, may I always be worthy of you, as the son you loved so much when you lived beside me in this world, and as the son whose love for you lives on in this world, and always will do, through all the days of my own life here, however many or few those may be.

My mother Mary Shuker (© Dr Karl Shuker)

DINOSAUR DREAMS

As soon as I saw this wonderful illustration when browsing online several weeks ago, I knew that one day it would inspire me to write a poem – and today it has done, so here it is.

DINOSAUR DREAMS

Verdant but still is the path through the forest,

A study in sadness, in silence, in shade.

Its trail stretching on, its limit unending,

A realm with no gladness, no gleam in its glade.

Dead as a dinosaur, all my dreams done with,

Enveloped in verdigris, mould, and decay.

The past lies behind, its door closed and cloistered,

And as for the future? Who knows - who can say?

And so I plod on, alone and regardless,

'Midst trees, leaves, and bushes, viridian friends.

Their foliage beckons, soon to embrace me,

To take me back home when my journeying ends.

THREE YEARS AGO TODAY

Mom and I at the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 2007 ((c) Dr Karl Shuker)

Yesterday I penned the following lines, marking the third anniversary of the passing of my dear little Mom, Mary Shuker.
God bless you, Mom, I've missed you so much during these three long, sad years, and I always will do, every moment of every day, through all the days of my life.

THREE YEARS AGO TODAY

Three years ago today, Mom, was the first time in my life that I reached for your hand but no longer found it there for me, ready to hold mine with its loving, comforting, caring touch, as it had always been in the past.

It was the first time in my life that I looked for your smile but no longer saw it there for me, ready to dispel any shadows of doubt with its loving, comforting, kindly reassurance, as it had always been in the past.

It was the first time in my life that I listened for your voice but no longer heard it there for me, ready to lift my spirit with its loving, comforting, cheery encouragement, as it had always been in the past.

It was the first time in my life that I sought you but no longer found you there for me, ready to stand beside me, to walk beside me, to share my life beside me, as you had always been in the past.

Three years ago today, Mom, was the first time in my life when the future no longer mattered to me, when the present no longer interested me, when only my memories remained dear to me, enabling me to return to you and relive our countless happy days, weeks, months, and years together, as there will always be in the past.

IF ONLY...

Mom and I at Hong Kong's Cat Street Markets/Galleries, Summer 2005 (© Dr Karl Shuker)

How often it is said that Time is a great healer. Two years have now gone by since Mom's passing, but for me Time's ministrations have been to no avail – the pain of grief, of loss, of separation, of the grim, heart-wrenching knowledge that I shall never see my mother again in this world remains no less raw, searing, or crippling.

I wrote the following lines to mark today, the second anniversary of that darkest of all days, and I must keep faith in my cherished belief that through God's good grace one fine bright day not too long coming we shall indeed be together again, with all of our family, forever.
I love you, little Mom, always.

IF ONLY...

If only my tears could be the footsteps that lead me to where you now are.

If only my grief could light my way there, a lantern with which I could see.
If only my faith could bear me upwards to Heaven's bright portal afar.
If only my love could find you waiting, and bring you back homeward with me.

Two years ago today, Mom, you left my life, but you also took it with you.

You left my world, but you also took it with you.
Only your love and my memories remain, but they are the happiest of companions,
And in my sorrow I must draw upon their shared happiness
To gain some of my own.
If only I could find a way of doing so -
There must be a way, somehow, somewhere...
God bless you, little Mom - 
How I wish that you were here with me still.
I always will.

A YEAR AGO TODAY

1 April 2013, which was also Easter Monday, was the blackest day of my life, because it was the day that my dear mother, Mary Doreen Shuker, passed away. Today, exactly one year later, has been for me a time of reflection, looking back over what has been a traumatic, life-shattering year of grief, loss, and irrevocable change, but also looking ahead, to whatever the future may hold for me, and to whatever I may accomplish in honour of my mother, and in fulfilment of her most cherished hopes, dreams, and ambitions for me. God bless you, little Mom – thank you for all the happiness, goodness, and love that you have always brought into my life.

A YEAR AGO TODAY

Can it be just a year ago today since you passed from my life, my little Mom?

Sometimes it seems but a heartbeat away, other times a thousand lives, a thousand worlds, from where I am now.

People try to show sympathy and understanding when they learn that you have gone, but they have no concept of the true nature of my loss - the immeasurable breadth and limitless depth of the black chasm created in my life and within my heart by your passing. Yes, I have indeed lost my mother - a loss that in itself would be all but unbearable. But I have also lost my best friend, my ever-present housemate, my constant travelling companion, my most trusted confidante, my number one supporter, and my entire family. You were all of those persons, Mom, and so much more besides. Is it any wonder why I grieve without ending, why my life is now but a paltry, meaningless existence, a mere shadow of its former state, why I look only to the past for happiness and security now, and to the future with only loneliness and fear?

I never cried as a child, because I'd never give the school bully, the playground tormentor, the satisfaction of seeing my tears. Instead, I'd save them all, each one a precious pearl of emotion, only to be released in my darkest of all hours some day. Well that day and that hour finally came, a year ago today, the hour in which I lost you, Mom. The tears flowed, and have continued to flow ever since - every tear that I've ever saved throughout my life, torrents of tears that even now after a year of unbroken outpouring continue in unabated profusion, threatening to drown my very being in their salty, burning despair, or to carry me away, borne upon a veritable ocean of tears to who knows where.

I know that your fondest and most fervent wish for me would be that I should make something of my life, do something worthwhile with it, and, most of all, enjoy it, not fill it with grief and sadness. I cannot change the past and bring you back - I would if I could, in an instant, you know that, Mom, but I can't. What I can do, though, is change the future, my future at least, if I choose to do so. You were always so proud of me when you were here, and I can still make you so now. Indeed, it is knowing all of this that has given me a reason, the only reason, to continue day by day through this first year, and it will do so again in those that follow. You sacrificed so much for me, and loved me too much for me to let you down, to betray your faith and your trust in me, and so my books and my articles and my blog posts continue, as you would want and would hope for.

As for me: I am still granted some fleeting but all-the-more-precious moments with you in my dreams, when once again we are together, happy and contented in each other's company as we always were. I still see you in thousands of fondly-recalled memories at home and in millions of happy remembrances within my mind, which help to dispel the ever-present loneliness pervading my world indoors, and bring to me your welcome company to counter the cloud of invisibility that seems to separate me from everyone else whenever I venture forth into the world outdoors.

How truly blessed I am, Mom, to have shared my life with you as my mother for 53 wonderful, happy years, to have been loved unconditionally by someone who was so proud of me and who genuinely thought of me as special, wonderful even. Few people are ever so lucky. I shall always remember that, especially when at my lowest ebb.

This first year of being without you, of being alone in this world, knowing that wherever I look, whichever street I walk along, whatever shop I walk into, I shall never see you again, shall never hear your voice speaking to me again, shall never see your face in the crowd looking for mine again, has been the worst time of my life. Nothing else ever will, ever could, be as devastating, but I shall miss you always, all the days of my life. I now stand on the brink of entering my second year alone, and I can only pray that acceptance will at last be mine, that grief will lift and give me a measure of release, of peace, and that I shall be worthy of you, Mom, that I shall go on to achieve all that you have ever hoped and dreamed for me.

God bless you, little Mom. Please always stay beside me where you always used to be when here, please always give me hope and encouragement as you always used to do when here, and, above all else, please always love me as you always did when here. If you will do these, I will do the rest – this I promise you, Mom, with all my heart and with all my love, always.

All photographs are (c) Dr Karl Shuker

ShukerNature: REMEMBERING MY MOTHER

ShukerNature: REMEMBERING MY MOTHER: Mom, wearing the beautiful protea-decorated coat that she purchased in Cape Town, South Africa, in 2008 (© Dr Karl Shuker) Today it i...

WEARY OF LIFE

((c) esfitts-d4165pv)

Life is for the living, and death is for the dying. But what is there for those whose living has no life, and for whom dying is not death but release?

WEARY OF LIFE

Weary of life,

Of shrugging off the darkened drapes of melancholy,

Settling like a shroud of grief upon my shoulders,

Like a veil around my face,

Like a mask around my mind.

Weary of life,

Of shaking from my memory the dusty webs of sorrow,

Woven by the spiders in the chasms of my soul,

In the ashes of my future,

In the sunsets of my past.

Weary of life,

Of gazing at the broken, empty dream that once had lived,

That once had brought the light of love, of hope, to me,

Lost now, all over, dead and done for,

Lost now, 'midst the stillness of my tomb.

THE CHAINED GATES

This morning, I visited the newly-completed gravestone of my mother, Mary Doreen Shuker (1921-2013), which has taken 6 months to prepare. Standing there in the solitude of the cemetery, it all still seemed so unreal, that the vibrant little lady always so full of life, of living, and of love was gone, her time in this world marked only by the stone and grave there before me, beautiful and elegant though they were, just like she had always been. Come the closing of December, I shall not grieve the passing of 2013, but I shall forever grieve the passing within it of my mother, whose light is gone from my world until that joyous day when we will be reunited forever. The following lines are ones that I wrote yesterday evening, after I'd previously attempted to visit Mom's grave a few hours earlier, only to discover to my dismay that the cemetery had already closed.

THE CHAINED GATES

This afternoon at around 4.10 pm I received a phone call from the memorial stone masons informing me that Mom's gravestone with her inscription was at last complete and in place upon her grave. The weather wasn't good, so I decided not to visit straight away, but then at around 4.50 pm it improved and the sun came out. So I psyched myself up to be ready, then got the car out and drove to the cemetery, only to find that it was locked. It turns out that from October to April it closes at 4.30 pm, instead of at 7.00 pm as it does for the rest of the year. I didn't know that.

Standing there, outside the cemetery with its chained gates separating me from Mom's grave, was heavily symbolic for me - it is after all a representation of the real situation that I endure every day. I stand in this life, and Mom in the next, so I am separated from her by the great divide of death, the chained gates through which I cannot pass while still alive. Seeing those gates brought it all home to me so much. Of course, I know that I have only to wait until tomorrow to be able to walk through the unchained cemetery gates and be with Mom's mortal self at her grave, whereas I have to wait for the rest of my life before I can transcend death to be with her in spiritual immortality.

Her gravestone was the last thing that I could organise for Mom, and I hope that it is elegant and beautiful, just as she always was. Mom never liked the taking of flowers to graves, as they soon fade and die, or are stolen by others, so I've instructed that a pair of multicoloured bouquets be engraved onto her gravestone, so that she will always have flowers that will never fade, never die, and never be stolen.

Visting her completed grave for the first time will in a sense mark the final footstep in my own personal Via Dolorosa, the sorrowful path that I have trodden for the past 29 weeks since she passed away while everything associated with her funeral and burial was being organised by me for her and was then being carried out, stage by stage. My grief will not be abated by my visit, but there is nothing more that I can do for her now in a direct, physical way, except to make something of what is left of my life - something good, something worthwhile - if I can, as I know how much she would want me to do that, and also to ensure that her name and memory live on, as my personal tribute to a truly wonderful mother and the best person I shall ever know.

Mom is at peace; may my visit to her final resting place on Earth bring me, if still too early for peace yet, at least some degree of acceptance, of understanding regarding our mortality in this present world, in this present life, and also some reaffirment of hope that there is a new life and an everlasting reunion with those we love beyond it, beyond those chained gates that stand before us all during our time here.

THE ROAD OF LIFE

Photograph by Andy Paciorek

Who can say what the future holds? We can only hope that we will be equal to its challenge.

THE ROAD OF LIFE

The road of life has many turnings,
And where they lead is usually hidden from view.
So we must have faith that, wherever it may be,
The sun is shining,
The grass is fresh and green,
And life still holds some purpose, some meaning, in store.

Otherwise we may just as well sink to our knees -
Alone and adrift by the wayside,
Watching our dreams shatter and perish on the stony ground,
Weeping impotent tears of sorrow, desolation,
Willing our days to darken, disintegrate, dwindle into dust -
And die.

YESTERDAY NO LONGER - THE SEASHORE BY TWILIGHT

A final word-picture, this time unrhymed, in which I have attempted to recapture via alliteration, onomatopoeia, and selected repetition the subtle beauty and sounds of the seashore experienced one evening alone with only the sands and waves for company, and the thought that perhaps there really is something more out there than merely our own mortality. Until the next time…

YESTERDAY NO LONGER - THE SEASHORE BY TWILIGHT

Over the slumbering shore I stroll, over the gently undulating seas of glistening sand, shining silver in the pale, overlapping light of the moon and stars. The violet sea flows gently up the silver layers of sandy shore, coated with white surf, billowing like featherdown. It makes no sudden, sharp movement as I walk between the grey, red, green, and yellow pebbles strewn over the seashore, speckled here and there with spiralled shells, almost as if it too were sleeping, the mauve and blue waves reflecting silver light that darts back and forth over their sparkling crests like living shadows cast down from the moon.

As I walk on, the sea stretches alongside, endless in its volume and capacity, rolling softly over silent shores like a blue fluid wind, billowing and ruffling, casting up airborne bubbles to spiral and cycle before bursting, their souls returning downwards to be reborn in the waters of the sea.

And as I look at the sea in this dark, silent evening, it seems as if another world lies beyond its shimmering boundaries, lying just behind the horizon, to which, one day, we shall all go, across the rolling waves of the ocean – leaving behind the silver sands, passing through the tranquil twilight, until we reach the very end of the ocean itself, and then at last we shall be there. We shall have left the world behind, our cares and our hopes and our dreams all forgotten, leaving the slumbering sea to caress the sleepy shores forever.

 

THE COMING OF AUTUMN

When I looked at this wonderful illustration, I envisaged Autumn's subtle, scarcely-perceived, yet irresistible approach, and wrote the following lines accordingly.


THE COMING OF AUTUMN

Autumn in auburn draws closer, ever nearer,
The last green swathes of Summer scuttle by
Like lizards before her golden shadow,
Evading for now her amber embrace,
Yet still destined to die
Within her soft mellow mists of russet and copper,
As, indeed, are we all.

BORNE INTO TOMORROW

Strange as it may sound, this is one poem that quite literally wrote itself. There was no planning, no previous thought involved – I simply sat down one day with a blank sheet of paper and pen, the words came unbidden into my head, and I wrote them down, acting as little more than a thoroughfare along which the verses coursed, fully-formed, from my mind and onto the paper. If only all poetry were as easy to write!


BORNE INTO TOMORROW

The webs of Night draw back their gowns
As rosy clouds of Morning
Pass softly through the waking sky,
While still the sun lies yawning
Beneath a drape of starry sleep
From which the dreams of Evening peep.

But mine are dreams from far beyond,
Sent ever by the future,
Like golden keys to shrouded doors
Of Nature’s hidden sutures.
For these, my life must make its ways
Through shadow worlds and lightless days.

Alone I stand – my world has gone –
The past was mine, not present.
Now shades of Death lie all around.
As I – a humble peasant –
Move slowly through and ever on,
Until my dreams at last are done.

These worlds are strange, unknown to me,
For these I have no feeling.
And only stars may see my grief
From Heaven’s spangled ceiling,
As on I pass through sombre dawns
While e’er for Light my spirit mourns.

But I must bear my silent doom
In alien surroundings,
And suffer as the world demands
Of me – a lonely foundling,
With dreams for which my spirit lives,
For which my life I freely give.

And so, though oft my chosen way
Is dismal and despairing,
I must prevail through dark terrains
Within this world uncaring,
Through deathly vales where shadows loom,
Before my dreams can light their gloom.

Yet this is but a twilit zone
Of deep, forbidding sorrow,
Which all must e’er endure if they
Are borne into Tomorrow,
Until their dreams are each fulfilled,
As Destiny and Fate have willed.

But when at last my pathways end,
When dreams are dreams no longer,
My world will call, with songs of Peace,
My spirit – free and stronger.
And I shall go, and this will seem
To be at most a bitter dream.

YEARNINGS

'Sweet Dreams' (Elda The)

The wistfully innocent, delicately poignant, and potently nostalgic qualities of the above painting subtly combined and intermingled within my mind as I viewed it, until I found myself expressing my innermost yearnings in the following lines.

YEARNINGS

Ah...
For those long-vanished days
Of childhood, innocence, and optimism,
When everything seemed possible,
And the world was an exciting place,
Full of sweet promise and wonder.

DISMISSING CHILDHOOD

The ending of childhood and the onward journey through the teenage years toward maturity is never an easy passage. It is a time filled and fraught with doubt, confusion, and decisions about which pathways, in which directions, to take.

DISMISSING CHILDHOOD

Alone I stand, alone with Fate.
My shadow lies ahead, to wait
For me to come, perhaps too late.

My Past flits by, my Future grows;
I ask myself: “Which way to go?”
And answer still: “I do not know.”

Alone I stay, and softly sigh
To watch my childhood flutter by,
Then turn away, and wonder why.

My changing world through dreams I saw,
As onward e’er my thoughts they bore,
But now my dreams are dreams no more.

And now alone with Fate I stand,
Soon to be taken by the hand
And led away to other lands.

Yet what my Future hides away
‘Neath golden shades of unknown days
I cannot know, for who can say?

I only know that this must be,
Its light is not for me to see,
For this will be my Destiny.

WORLDS APART

The rich, evocative Oscar-winning melody written by Francis Lai as the main theme for the late-1960s movie blockbuster ‘Love Story’ lingered long inside my mind until at last, in sweet supplication, I penned my own lyrics to it, yielding the following poem.

WORLDS APART

Hours flicker by,
My world still orbits through the shadowed evening sky;
The mournful clouds far past my silhouette still fly,
As I sit thinking of where now my past life lies,
Still ne’er surpassed.

You I e’er recall –
My lifelong dream, consuming being, soul, and all –
You never knew Despair, you never knew a fall
From Fate’s fair favour, for you followed e’er her call
To everlast.

For your life was free,
More free, more real than mine could ever hope to be,
A life inspired by Nature’s realms eternally,
So that you ceased to notice Mankind’s worlds, or me –
Just shadowed casts,

Yes, I always knew,
That I was worlds apart from ever reaching you,
Your world was far beyond mine, sacred, strange, and true;
Yet still in dreams your smiling form comes flooding through –
Now is my Past.

AND FOREVER SHALL I WAIT FOR YOU

Age may weaken and ultimately defeat us, the world may change beyond all waking recognition, and the very universe may crumble into nothingness, but love never dies – when all else has vanished, love goes ever on.

AND FOREVER SHALL I WAIT FOR YOU

Though the trees may shrivel and the flowers all die,
Though the moon may vanish far beyond the sky,
Though the stars may shiver in a last goodbye,
I shall wait for you, though my being dies.

As the planets circle in the realms of Space,
And the fire-tipped comets in the twilight race,
I look through the heavens and I see your face,
And I wait for you, though my heart still cries.

I shall wait for you though worlds may come and go,
Though the seas have faltered and may cease to flow,
Though the birds have vanished many years ago,
Still I wait for you, on a bridge of sighs.

And when Darkness comes to fill my final day,
When my soul has wings and softly flies away,
To a Land afar, where every Night is Day,
My soul waits for you, ‘cross the endless skies.

THE LAST MORNING

‘The Last Spring’ is one of Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg’s ‘Two Elegiac Songs’, and listening to the strains of its profoundly sad but hauntingly beautiful melody inspired me to pen the following poem.

THE LAST MORNING

Softly through Space passed the shadow of Morning,
Down through the spirals of starlight and dreams,
Gliding unseen on a shaftlet of primrose,
Dappled with dewdrops and lavender beams,

Softly descending with wings arched and streaming –
Gossamer crescents that soared through the skies,
Sparkling like rainbows as Heaven shone brightly,
Captured by Time in her beautiful eyes.

Yet there lay something that clouded their radiance,
Hiding within them as ever they shone,
And for an instant its shadow engulfed them –
Totally evil, but then it was gone.

She was the Queen of the Dawn and the heavens,
Golden as Light and as endless as Space,
Crowned with a diadem hewn out of amber,
Holding beside her a rose-clustered mace.

Onward she journeyed, through cool shady woodlands,
Lighting their gloom with her soul’s golden ray,
Till e’en the trees bowed in silence before her,
Each one entreating their Empress to stay.

For they knew this was her final appearance,
This was her ultimate day upon Earth.
Never again would she come into being,
This time for her there would be no rebirth.

And as she knelt ‘neath a bower of green shadows,
Snowy anemones murmured her praise,
While in the distance the clouds hung like phantoms,
Shading the skies in a grey, silent haze.

Then, far away, came a strange, surging rumble,
Choking the world with its venomous breath.
And, as she stood, Morning knew whom it called for,
Cold were its tones, for its image was Death.

Yet from her eyes, veiled by Heaven’s blue curtain,
Shining like stars from her beautiful face,
Only a solitary tear trickled slowly,
Downwards to vanish, and leaving no trace.

Now, through the heavens, a spectre rose upwards –
One that her eyes e’er had hidden from view –
Billowing far like a mountain of Evil,
Shrouding the sky with its sickening hue.

And as this hideous wraith filled the heavens,
All of the planet was flooded with tears,
Wept by the mortals who lay in its shadow,
They who created this phantom of Fear.

Gone were the woodlands, each stifled by vapour
Spewn from its lungs as it hovered in Space.
E’en the anemones shrivelled and perished,
Slain by a fiend without flesh, without face.

Yet, neath its cowl – like a shimmering mushroom –
Echoed the grim, eldritch laughter of Doom.
Morning was gone, and anemone petals
Drifted down slowly to cover her tomb.

THE PARTING

Does our journey of existence end with the ending of life, or is the ending of life nothing more than a parting from all that has been, with our journey continuing alone, in other forms and along other routes?


THE PARTING

Like a star in the moonlight,
Like a wave from the shoreline,
All alone with the future,
All the dreaming is done.

Like the birth of a morning,
Now the death of an evening,
For the dawning is over,
And the past has now gone.

Friends and dreams are but shadows
In Oblivion’s vortex,
For the show is completed,
And the cast must move on.

Not to look back in silence,
For the past cannot answer,
And a new world is waiting,
Where my heart has not shone.

All my sorrows are ended,
All my joys are departed,
All alone I must travel,
All alone I go on.