Crab Nebula Poem by Toby Twigg

Crab Nebula*

* Not an Astronomy Reference… (Unlike the Dust of Galaxies
/ these are just the scattered thoughts, of an old man) .

'Mother and son sit alone in the cold
A kerosene lamp with dirty glass
Paints the room ochre and dust
Rock Cold
wince!

She pushes back against the night
Lighting Lucky Strikes one after one in chains
Talking to demons buried deep within the swirling smoke
Rock Cold
wince!

Her son sits unseen under the table
Watching the play unfold
Trying to understand a past before he was born
Before he became
Rock Cold
wince!

* (wince! , is the sound a rocking chair makes on the ‘push back
wince! , is also a facial tic caused by the winterness of childhood)


First, the ‘tricity went, then the gas,
the cold water pipes all froze
and as a child, I seldom took a bath after that
Thoughts festered in the gloom,
Sitting alone in those cold dark rooms.
From that time on, I was always out of step
A bit off track
Lost in the dusty mirror
Looking at the neglected child.
'Sometimes, life be like that'

As a wounded naked child
In the chill of the long night.
I pondered the decisions in my life
and could find fault with none other than my' self.
It was I, that rejected the wisdom of others experience,
going my own way in arrogant delusions defiance
With too much pride and too late in the game to change,
I accept my fate of being ignored in the ‘Book of Life

Carried on wisps of whispered kisses,
I clutched and grabbed on to hold my place,
rather than drift away from the face
that had borne the me I am
Pushed from behind by blinded eyes,
not drawn by a need to fly
I was thrust into the cold air and sea,
floating on coarse cloth tearing me,
away from all that was maternal

Forever from that moment on,
I lived a dream that never happened.
Searching highways for familiar paths
to take me back to the beginnings
and the traumas of being born too soon.
'Not me, not me, (I had cried)
choose another other than I'…


Too soon, they had cut the cord
and I am now undone
Now I must forever run, hide and seek,
until the womb of those dreams
becomes the tomb of clay beneath my feet
Till even the dust of me is washed away

I would forever have wished
that I had never been born only to die
Except that I, remain in the dream
of those who believed my being born
was because they were once in Love

Continually lost,
looking for that familiar space
in my genetic memory,
that far removed place
of ancient lives and times
of my night wanderings

I was man become as homing pigeon
Caught in the middle of a magnetic ion storm
Having lost direction to where I belong,
I wander the forever
looking for that warm sweet breast
and the loving call of the eternal Mother.

A flowering struggle was the birth
on a cold day of gray such as this
Reminiscent of my own,
and yet I too somehow came to exist
un-kissed by the warmth of Sun,
dwelling in the damp and gloom
Pushed aside as runt, stunted in growth,
overshadowed by others
that stretched out too soon to reach the light

They quickly burned off and I was left to stay,
so that I might show my discontent and say:
'Such is life here, on this side, in the shade'.

A cold front moved across the Hudson River,
settling into the concrete streets of Hell's Kitchen
A Postal canvas hamper cried in its wheels
while being pushed by a scavenger
collecting cardboard refuse
Impatient horns made known their intent
A woman missing teeth with an affluent smile
rattled a paper cup asking for change
giving God's blessing in return,
and I, lost in my own disappointments
barely noticed the Opera's drama.
Unawares that I had been ‘caste, in the role as an extra

The Moon hidden behind skyline spires,
as are the passions that were once desired
Though echoes are mere mutters
beneath torrential rains awash in gutters.
The homeless bodies are wracked in sadness
Their minds mired in madness
There they lay and often weep

Then they scribe wishes for love on paper scraps
Sticking them into the buildings cracks
Wrapping hopes in vague traditions
under conditions no one else could bear
Such is the life we live seemingly forever
We all fitfully sleep, dream and hope,
that sanity still exists somewhere out there.

Jumping the turnstile, intending to ride the train for free
What I saw was not as nice as I had hoped and dreamed
The Stations were filled at every stop
with tired people and weary cops
Platforms lighted in cold neon temptations,
with scent of Carmel Corn and urination's
Then I heard the conductors static cry...

'Utopia Station, is closed for construction,
this train is now running express and will pass it by'.

A lonely rams horn sounds
where once fresh fountain waters flowed.
Men now slept in hovels of cardboard boxes,
mumbling in the winters cold.
Shaking Miter heads wail, cry and point
to their altars denied.
Rubble is all that remains of a world gone terribly wrong.

Proud voices quieted of their militant marching song.
Crippled hands wave to days of glory passed.
Fueled by greed that was never meant to last.
Merely a tease and a bribe
to follow another war yet to come.
After another generation had lost their last remaining son.

'Moon of many names, come out from your hiding',
show your true face of blood and shed your pretense of ‘Romance.
Falling leaves whispered your true nature
and changing seasons have announced that ‘Ten Colds,
will thin the herd, before the realization cometh
that WE are the Harvest.

There are times as your mind travels on a scattered past,
flitting about from first to last,
or perhaps all out of sync,
trying to find that link to today.
A reason to step out of sorrow.
Cross that bridge to tomorrow,
now hidden by low lying clouds of gray.
As newborn birds try to learn to fly,
my own wings ragged and dry,
wishing I had a reason to soar above the rest
and test once again the mourning sky.

Each day I study the script thus far writ,
not by the author of us all,
rather the chronicler that lives within.
The author's abstract and dubious wit,
is the final act' and is hidden and unclear.
Each must play their part on Faith alone.
If not, then randomness and chaos will ensue.

It is not for us to discern the time of the curtains fall
or what we must endure for remaining true.
Daily actions are mere rehearsals for the end.
Now as evening draws to a close,
not all know the one who will lead the pack.
Rather, they believe the one who thinks he knows,
‘the Dreams of Winter Rain.

Wandering nights in my sleep,
crossing streets that have no traffic.
I am aware that I'm getting closer to home.
Exchanging converses with those I meet,
there is a familiarity I recognize
through eyes that seem to be the same as my own.
Upon my waking, I discern there is an understanding
I should have known, that we do not arrive there,
until our time here on earth has finally and inevitably flown.

Keeping time with the thump of the road.
Heel hitting gravel on shoulders unpaved.
Adjusting the strap of pack upon my back,
I gave it all I had.
Now in restless sleep,
faithfully I keep the rhythm going on in my head.
As I, now much older lay infirm upon my bed.
It drives 'the wife, insane.
She does not understand why in dreams
I go astray.
It seems to her,
I purpose to ruin her rest.
She does not know the lasting lust
of youthful legs spent in freedoms search upon the open road.

Words are gathered, arranged, exchanged,
articulated and emphasized,
thrust before our eyes and into our consciousness.
There is no echo. No response.
Nothing has changed save the settling of dust
and the natural decay of things.
Celebrity has not been my goal,
nor the acquisition of diamonds or coal.
Rather to understand and to know, the why of me.

Fools on the Tarot Card with puppies yapping at their feet.
Happy with stick and puffy clouds overhead.
Stepping off into the abyss,
kissing goodbye their life unnoticed.
Interrupting fantasies and dreams.
I am thrust into the face of the surreal.
Riots in the street for lack of food,
or clean water to drink and economic chaos.
War planes raining down tears.
Waves of sludge, volcanic ash and then
comes a brief peace with the end of the Evening News,
dancing bears and sour singing divas lull us back into foolishness.

Snow as cold powder measured in more feet than me,
drifts up against wood framed houses.
icicles dripping off eaves.
Bare black branches cracking ‘staccato
in the concerto of my childhood dreams,
in a world where the clouds are blue and the sky dirty green.
'Life is what it is. Cold and mean'.

As I walk the streets through Subway steam
oblivious to the thoughts of others.
Their wants and needs, lusts and greed.
Unwed Mothers and children crying,
hungry, homeless, cold and dying
from cheap wine, with nowhere to safely sleep.

All that remains is pride.
Of what?
Embarrassed shame?
A strangers name?
Nothing remains in who I had hoped to be.

Cold night moon.
Winter cold.
New Years old cold familiar as broken bones.
Too tight shoes, hole in my Soul,
where the warm fell away lost,
pain too large to lose,
carried as a cloak over one shoulder
as I leant on a black painted limping stick.
I should have embraced the Tao.
Where NO thing is worth the seeking and 'the pain of life, just is'.

the men plod, trying to stride.
Their steps half and halt,
burdened by the faults of uneven streets,
always grading up.
Plod another step,
another stair tread climbed,
beyond where they should have stayed
to let the world pass them by.
Sometime they rest,
to reflect the remains of yesterdays.
Only the face of strangers change.

What do we hope to find
around the corner, down the street?
A friendly smile in those we meet?
or perhaps proof exists, GOD or some other curiosity.

I made up all those dreams
and memories that make me who I am.
My life barely made a difference,
but then I never gave a damn.
Somehow I knew that this could never last.
For me there was no future
only an uncertain past. Anyway...
they were only whispers while standing in the tall weeds of grass.

Others caught words in their understanding.
Concepts of math and GOD that I could not.
Perhaps I in my rebellion chose instead
to catch dreams of what could have been,
or better yet, should be.
Like all those things
that were swirling around inside of me.

I found comfort there in the dusty dim.
Pictures projected upon my inner mental scrim.
Words did not come from my lips.
They were all there, locked up tight in my mind.
They can keep their happy song
as my silence lay at their feet.
I kicked and scuffed my shoe, thinking wordlessly,
‘What is wrong with me seeing things differently?

I did not wish to get old.
In a way, I am surprised
to see I am still alive.
The only benefit I can find, is,
I do not have to do as I am told.
I do not have to smile or pretend,
that I care what others say.

I do not expect tomorrow,
I only live for today.
I want nothing more.
If I actually believed wishes really came true,
I would wish the same for you.

Having always sought the self,
that within which I do not yet know.
That evolving creature that is borne of hope,
that I might still become more then I am.
Foolish as I am, I wanted to be
who I suspect I was meant to be,
before the hammer slings and controlling others
began their molding abuses.
Before the brain washers wash away my individuality.
How audacious I must appear to others.
How arrogant I must seem to be,
to just want to be ‘me'.

Donald Goodside©Jan-2010/2017