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The Music Effect

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Music reaches deep inside, invoking feelings that I need. It fills my head with pleasure, on which my soul can feed. It takes me to another place, immerses me in pools of sound. It leaves me free to float or fly – no longer feel earthbound.

With skilful hands it clasps my mood and throws it up real high. Then like a captive bird set free I spread my wings and fly. The open skies I find before me have no clouds – no threat of rain. Even gloomy songs uplift me, elated in this new domain.

Drug me with euphoric feelings, take me on a carefree ride. Nothing else can so uplift me, nothing else can tap inside. Drench me in its sonic shower, pull me through its magic door. Show me all the disparate pieces, help me in my quest for more.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001 – 2019

Butterfly

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One day I sat alone when it settled on my arm. A lovely little butterfly, someone had done it harm. It had a damaged wing, which was very badly frayed, it made me feel quite special. I was happy when it stayed.

Although it had been damaged (to everybody’s eye) it was still a very valid and delightful butterfly. I seemed to make it happy, it appeared to feel secure, but a sudden movement by me – and it was there no more.

Eventually it came again, my fondness for it grew. But when I tried to touch it – up in the air it flew. Whenever it would come back, I tried to show I care, but each time it felt safer returning to the air

One time I thought I’d hurt it as I tried to hold it tight. It stayed in the air a long time before it did alight. Attempting to persuade it to stay a little longer I always seemed to scare it, but my need became much stronger.

Eventually it flew away high up in the sky, I can only now catch sight of it as it goes flying by. Butterfly’s are delicate, they need to feel they’re free. I’ll never try to hold one if one ever lands on me.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

Do it?

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Don’t spend the rest of your life waist deep in cold water. It’s no excuse to say that if you swim over to another shore then you’ll be wetter than you were before. For after reaching dry land, you’ll very often find, that you will soon be wet no more

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

Go to sleep!

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Look; you can’t wake up in the morning if you haven’t been to sleep. This is your final warning – I won’t hear another peep. If I have to come upstairs (apart from nipping to the loo) I’ll be bringing smacks in pairs -that’s right – one for each of you.

I’ve told you many times before, you know I must be right. If you don’t get off to sleep then you’ll be very bored all night. What’s that? Yes, but hurry up, you should have gone before. And don’t forget to wipe it up if you get some on the floor.

Now get in bed and snuggle tight, I want to hear some snoring. No more talk or I’ll turn out the light – I’ll see you both in the morning.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

A friendly warning

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It was a minor misdemeanour Miss Davina used to make and as the only one who’s seen her I’ll expose her as a fake. She puts on hat and trousers and a ginger false moustache. Then she goes round local houses in a daily search for cash.

And all the children think of him as kindly and quite funny, but her minor misdemeanour is to pinch kids’ pocket money. So if you ever see a man with a rather strange moustache. Get back home as fast as you can – and check up on yer cash.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

Glassless Window

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A friend had yielded to neglect, was soon to be no more. I set my task to reconnect, nostalgia junkie needs a score. Walking down the derelict street with the road I played on beneath my feet. Houses shrunken, path too narrow, happy days I’ve come to borrow.

The trees I climbed no longer tower, they’re all too small to the larger me. I unite myself with the past and its power but my memory and eyes disagree. The journey was short but so far away, back to my past where I wish I could stay. Nothing can change there that didn’t before but I still need to feel those great memories once more.

Peering through the glassless window I feel the things that used to be, and with open arms I welcome the images that come to me. No longer able to impress, dereliction hides the truth, yet still I briefly repossess the spirit of my youth.

I climb inside, nostalgia waits, and fills me with regrets I kill. I’m happy now I reason but I feel its presence still. I see broken-glass carpet with curtains of wood and I mentally place the old furniture there. A ghost TV plays and I only see good as I mentally sit in my favourite chair.

If only I’d have seen me now, as now I see me there. That was now – this is then – memories everywhere.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2000

Sharp Instrument

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He wields it like a broadsword, and with a pompous pride. He assumes he has a moral right to have it by his side. He worships all it stands for, a simple devotee, and if it hurts and causes pain – it’s not his fault you see.

It never ever alters, in battle it won’t yield. When using it in his defence it makes an awesome shield. He even stabs his friends with it, which causes them to flee, but when it wounds and hurts them – it’s not his fault you see.

At times it hurts each one of us, but always it is right. It cannot weep for casualties, it’s righteous in its fight. He knows that it won’t let him down, there’s nothing with more dignity, but when it causes suffering – it’s not his fault you see.

He’s not afraid to face it, though it cuts him like the rest. Throughout his life he’s trusted it but still he hasn’t guessed. That just because it’s right and true, it does not guarantee, that when it hurts and causes pain, it’s not his fault – you see.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

Imagination

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Lying awake in the middle of the night, he could definitely hear something creaking.
He wanted somebody to put on the light, but the rest of his family were sleeping.

“I don’t want to hear it, it’s frightening me, I want to get under my covers.
But then I won’t see, when it comes after me – which it will – when it’s eaten the others”

He’d call out for mum, but couldn’t risk shouting, so he started to whisper a prayer
Then a funny thing happened, without any warning, his curtains were opened and mum said, “Good morning”.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2001

The Beast

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It lives inside, surviving at my expense. Parasitic, it takes nourishment from my hope and will. Freedom cowers under its viscous fog. When it slumbers it is weak but rests somewhere safe.

Secreting a sedative it renders me helpless. I feel no pain from its invasion but pain comes from its presence. I witness their pain but feel bereft of responsibility. The part of me that knows the truth is weak and ignored.

I reluctantly shut down under its superior strength. Numbness stifles the head, and my energy drains. Helplessness feels natural, perversely comfortable. Desires are feeble and it’s an effort to speak. The beast thrives.

Anger roars easily, like a tormented lion in a cage prodded and poked by callous passers-by. Music sedates the beast and reaches inside to awaken me. When exposed to it, my malevolent visitor grows weak as my emotions live and dance freely once more. I am enthused by its therapeutic effect.

The louder the medicine, the stronger the result, and the beast retreats further. But unperturbed, it sleeps and cares little. It scoffs at this temporary threat. Music is briefly all-powerful, I bask in its healing and the fog scatters.

Soon after the quiet returns, the beast creeps back – the beast thrives.

© Andy(ArT)Trigg 2000