In the midst and turmoil of daily life where do we cross to find ourself?

Photo by author in Kyoto

A Bridge to Our Self Once Taken — a free verse poem

I came across a bridge and lingered before crossing

Stone and mosaic moss, it slept before me

Paths worn and tired, it tempted untold souls

Arched to perfection, its completeness concealed a blessed cruelty.

The stone bridge echoes of departure and arrival

It spans time like a mirror of thought

Reaching across from expectation and desire

It touches down in uncertainty, battles yet to be fought.

It urges us to abandon safety and…

How to know if the choice was right, a review when cuddling after 40 years.

Photo by Everton Vila on Unsplash

The Disclaimer : I am not boasting the years I have accumulated, that is not my intent, I was fortunate and I recognize everyone has their own road to walk. I do not want to admonish anyone nor thump dictates into another, that would be pointless for no road is smooth and all paths have bumps which give the journey dimension.

The Location and Time : In bed at 4 A.M. thinking of what to write when I rolled to one side and found familiar…

Standing in No Man´s land, a charred post views our heroes.

photo courtesy 903115 on

The post stood alone, brittle, bereft of kindness, a peering eye.

Between the trenches it watched as man´s hubris sputtered by.

Raging courage, to quell the fears, it saw men blindly race to the fore,

Soon to be slaughtered with guts hanging in mud, terror turned inward with gore.

The post was merciless, strewn with wire, channelling a poisonous pain-filled parting,

At young men, with innocent loves tendered, who saw the light of life soon departing.

Posts, nought but wood, made a line, a christening, decorated with razor wire,

The last moments of two driven ideologies breathe their final thoughts.

Image by Dennis Larsen from Pixabay

The glistening shine of blood trickled between his fingers. The smudge and gunpowder ingrained creases of his desperately squeezing fingers were an angry reminder of what had casued him to hold his guts in. The intestines were a yellow, sickly-pale grey. They bubbled around the bottom of his palm, unwelcome sausages searing pain and dimming hope. His panting was light, held in a grimace, as he stared across the three yards to the other side of the ditch. …

Is our literary diet being usurped by algorithms and agenda driven editors in the big publishing houses?

Photo by Juan Rumimpunu on Unsplash

I am not wounded, laying in a ditch of self-loathing, nor fiendishly plotting the demise of those possessing loathsome opinions who do not see the world as I do… but I have a sharp instrument in my hand.

Thankfully it is merely a pen.

I recently read an article by a fellow Medium writer Britni Pepper entitled, ‘Did you write this crap?’ The article was a pleasant escape, but it troubled me.

Finding test readers is like panning for gold. I went through…

A poem of thought in the pond at my entrance.

photo by author

She floated alone, complete in her being

I ventured near, held in wonder

Her petals reached up, her spirit all-seeing

My hopes destroyed, my heart torn asunder.

The pale hue that graced her depth of soul

Made me quiver, a helpless child

She wrestled from me my love’s control

Leaving my worthy ardor defiled.

Of course it was not she who cast me out

It was a villain far more hateful and cruel.

It was the shadow that lurks within — doubt

That revealed my heart to be a hapless…

The old expression, ‘do you have what it takes,’ well do you?

Image by Jakaria Islam from Pixabay

A mountain of struggles compounds daily in the lives of many and the struggles are not new. They may be different but the idea of enduring difficulty, in whatever form it manifests itself, has been around since Neanderthals first scavenged for food.

I wonder if, during a deluge on our primitive world, hundreds of thousands of years ago in some darkened hovel or cave, two early beings shared a desire for protection from the elements and a morsel of food, perhaps a hind of wild boar. Boars in those times were immense, and a hind was enough for eight, let…

How to find your future.

by author

I cycle a lot. My road bike takes me over hundreds of kilometers every week through some staggeringly beautiful landscapes and some revolting commercial abominations, such is the view from the saddle. My mind often exemplifies the rotation of the pedals and like a hamster on a perpetual wheel, I am drawn to the same pursuit of mental anguish that has plagued me since I was able to reach out and grasp at that not within my immediate sphere.

I gazed at the road below, trying to find my future. Enraptured by the idea of…

Kevin Farran

Kamakura based writer, lover of Great Danes, vintage cars, good red wine, bonsai and the Bard

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