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

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.

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.

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,


A free verse tragic glance at the stain of life

I awoke to the sound of death.
Death washed coarse and brutal on my ears.
It scraped a gnarled finger across the surface of my heart and scarred it, leaving it bleeding in the street.
Blood, life’s gold, leaked on the tarmac, was pissed on the stones. A small river of hope draining to nothingness.
In the trickle of blood was a storehouse of laughter and hopes, of childhood dreams and kindness. Swirling in the thickening liquid was the rush of love and confused emotions of desire. …


And now they ask for advice?

I thought it a truly magical moment and done with style. Kept in secrecy with less than a handful of insiders it stunned a mountain top.

A little background.

In late July my son managed to gather thrity friends to do something the Japanese say should be done once in a lifetime — climb Mt Fuji to see the sunrise. The Japanese also say, ‘only an idiot does it twice.’ The gang, aged from late twenties to my greying plus sixty, was up for it.

I have done it as a competition many times but for the uninitiated, even though…


If Prometheus and Sisyphus were to somehow bear offspring would the newborn write for Medium?

Damnation, futility, laborious efforts, chastisement, perpetual effort, disillusion… it would be easier to have my body gnawed upon by ravenous beasts.

I like Greek mythology. I believe it offers a huge amount of creative stimulation for a writer. However if there were a writer with the DNA of two mythological beings should he/she write for Medium? That journey would be a voyage far more challenging than slicing of Medusa’s head. Perseus at least had the Helm of Darkness from Hades to avoid the trolling of…


Thoughts on a darkening sky

it can be welcoming or daunting
it is can be opportunity or a suppression
it holds you and releases you
it contains you and lets you go
it is a barrier to outsiders and insiders alike
it can be spiritual, mental, or physical

What am I?

There are many answers to the above simple riddle; love, a door, or the mind but I prefer the word ‘gate.’ The concepts have similarities yet as an analogy while contemplating a darkening sky a gate is the most appropriate.

I have gazed across many gates. As the years accumulate it is not unusual…


How to move up in the ‘Reentry League’

Hesitation rippled through me like a breeze ruffling leaves. I had never spoken to one of that color and kept my distance. The color was cycles ahead of me. The light sienna almost glowed. I gazed in awe and wondered how many cycles it would take before reaching that color of passage?

Standing like a marooned lawn gnome, my shoulders and hips were bumped and jostled as souls of every hue and color streamed past, all eager to increase their collection of cycles, regardless of quality. …


Our essence is shapeless yet it occupies a space within which defines us.

The tingle of sunshine, a prickly burn, danced on my cheek as I gazed across the shimmering bake that engulfed the public square. A lone street performer labored in the sweltering heat for a paltry coin or two. His enthusiasm puzzled me. Was it the cash that fueled his desire to endure the ravages of the mid-day summer sun or was it that giggle, that wonder of unleashed freedom that shot from the children’s eyes?

His simple equipment brought both joy and sadness in a languid ephemeral…


Take a moment, take many moments, take a chance to see your love.

I see you in every dawn.
Settled, unwavering, your honesty in hope
each day springs alive and new,
life beside you is one heart, never cleaved in two.

I see you in every seaside wave.
Thundering and soothing, your depth in contrast
launches my breath to gasp on high,
I yearn to caress you, never to question why.

I feel you in the brush of a breeze.
Encompassing, holding, your essence consumes me
cupping my fears in unending support,
You are my haven, my heart’s enduring resort.

Kevin Farran

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

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