History repeats itself. Or so it has before:
We make mistakes and learn from them. And then we make some more.
If we make new mistakes we’re walking forward with a stride.
But if old mistakes are what we make, it means we’re hurt inside.

Everyone gets hurt; it’s a natural part of life.
Falling on our pride like a martyr on a knife.
And this can open doorways to the place where pain is born.
And if we see with honesty, we’ll help ourselves to mourn.

We can mourn for the pain that we cause ourselves to feel
When we listen to our cruellest thoughts and act as though they’re real.
We can mourn for those we’ve lost; for the people that we miss,
For the people that we loved but were afraid to ever kiss.

We can mourn for opportunities we wish that we had taken,
For saying we were right when, in truth, we were mistaken.
And all these things are worthy of the grief that we can find
If, courageously, we pull the curtain back and look behind.

And, in Forgiveness, we can see that at the centre of our shame,
Where we thought we’d find a shadow and the need to point and blame,
There is nothing there but Gratitude for consciousness; for Life:
If Forgiveness is the husband, here, Gratitude’s his wife.

It’s easy to be grateful: for an autumn summer’s day,
Or the sound of tea and coffee flavoured porridge on a tray;
When we’re snuggled up and cosy by the fire with a book
And a glass of what we love to drink. It’s easy, then, to look.

But if we practice Gratitude for feeling vulnerable,
We can elevate through mourning and oppose the downward pull.
We can ride the waves of grief like a surfer on the foam,
Full to overspill with joy that there’s no place like home.

Tuesday 13th November 2012 ©Simon Welsh Poetry