Posts tagged poetry

Out through the night

I

You took us out through the night
And the sweep of indifference,
Toured the bright lights in pretty puddles
And sleeping city streets.

There was always a storm to tell.

Reaching out of ourselves we
Unlocked moments,
That ecstatic ride far from controls
And erratic neon shrouds,
Where no thing rises and falls far
From the pen.

How the rose brings many thorns
Like a careless invitation.

 

II
Leaning aimless, a blur of focus,
In dive bars and bazars we drunk some
Time to kill reason.
The relics and ashes of civilization
Belittle this poor excuse for debauchery.

That man is no Jesus.
Our procession has lost it’s sparkle
And in rebellion,
Too clumsy for magic or sage.
With one loving hand on despair,
Carrying cracked faces and books
Like an ambling prayer,

Filling each desolate steppe with romance
And foreign gestures.
Some are haunted by the word,
Most are cowards at the coal face of freedom.

 

III
Knelt on pews and crystal ashtrays
And slunk in dripping, nowhere alleys,
We rode on song and scraps,
Eating lunch off origami,
Taking shelter in the wind.

Poisoning fear was whiskey and piano,
Waking in a sweat of dew close to dawn;
So sick and shivering
In the scales of mediocrity.

When love and hate stare back
From the drained bottles,
When you analyse too close the tears in the labels,
Then heart descends, in fever and lazy to care
For the love plague and tiring colours.

Weak without umbilical urges the
Greatest tales of all-time
Fill the doubting waste paper basket.

The aching significance of our hidden language.
How discreetly we suffer the subtleties.

 

IV
The battered guitar and cheap candles
Guard the dusk,
Words falling between the gaps,
The mannequin troubadour escaping
The Grecian palate
For a splash of Ganges with familiar friends.

In those worn and polished gutters
I saw what this could mean.
I broke myself because there was no
Poetry in completion.

When I was torn at the loom you offered
A single golden stitch,
That kept me together, that made me itch.
You whistled like the weaver making patterns
With knots and coarse thread and all around a
Heavenly strain taut with purpose.

The ageing stains of wonder have circled us in,
Some call it life, some call it sin.
The inevitable ring of ignorance,
For what we have lost will never end.

No amount of tears will make it pure again,
No more wishing for easy forgiveness
Or homeward whispers,

Our human poem has the eyes of a child
Running away from resurrection.

 

V
You held my hand in the dead of night and
Knew those salty travellers tears,
The roots of my disbelief were not lost
In casual abstraction.

And now. Can you guess?
I don’t buy this depressive holiness.
Won’t carve out bile on a smoking crutch,
Won’t break down in flaming surrender.
I choose a raging isolation,

Irrelevant in this dystopia
I seek a reckoning with emptiness
To fill me heart with clarity,
The rider on those waves is lifted
Closer to reality,

You picked our wars
Without flaming crosses,
Your triumphs were the
Greatest mystery.

How will we find a way?
Without the harp and compass
To keep us from the rocks.

 

VI
So bring again the apple blossom to the
Shivering chills of Manhattan,
Bring the pilgrims papers and warm bread
Wrapped in memories,
Bring the mornings haze of forgiveness and
The scent of parks and hotel lobbies.
For I am sleepy and dawn is when I like.

Throw the curtains back and let me see the
Lines by your eyes that grow each time we laugh,
Your scratched compositions by candle light,
The subtitles of your foreign dreams
And silhouettes of perfect bodies.

No failures in longing for loves
Secret souvenirs.
Your gift was a sympathetic repose,
The way you made each tired glance unique.

 

VII
Now you’re raised
In some effortless simplicity,
What is, just is.
Was that you lingering in a sigh?

Out through the night,
Never weakened.
I hope the stars are kinder now
And your dancing away from all those
Yesterdays,

Wearing your heart in a knowing grin
Freed from the sadness in others beauty
And its faithful chains.

You took what you could,
You kept it close,
Maybe that is enough.

In a low voice, speak of glory.

 

For Leonard

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Love is Life – Leo Tolstoy

“Love is life.

All, everything that I understand,

I understand only because I love.

Everything is, everything exists,

only because I love.

Everything is united by it alone.

Love is God, and to die means that I,

a particle of love, shall return to the general

and eternal source.”

Leo Tolstoy

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Short Order Grilling

Feral freight boxes on the midnight boundary;
Bugles and epaulets sink like sugar in the rain,
Heart beast flutters, roads signs and bullet holes
Pass the time.

Honey is love and the city a concrete hive,
Worker bees low and not humble
But words burn deeper than the Stanley knife tease,
When mixed with vim, a cocktail of forces
In the maverick rows of green bottled minds.

Creations heals a miden of scar tissues and knotted intentions,
Something amiss breeds hope unrequited and delectable;
Acid rain erodes the detritus and coaxes the
Grotesques asphalt to appease the soles.

Honoured ghosts you are beatific in the marble forest creeks,
Speak now for our virtues are brackish and needy,
Our Gods left us diseased on the short order grill
Where all immigrant flesh is broiled
And desensitized and tranquilized.

We are presented as a cripple
Beneath the flashing bulbs of bucolic banality.

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A Child with Dusty Feet

Deep in the mind there are oceans of empty peace,

Beyond the mind the universe is blissful and whole,

 

Within the body our senses are the merest dawning of experience,

In consciousness we are in flight and tracing the astral vapours,

 

In love we are the divine incarnate entwined in a colourful game,

On rocks we rest and stare into sheer nothing in adulation,

 

Enraptured by the wilderness fold, we are lost to the elements,

Our fate is sealed, there is one road to a glorious departure,

 

Where we may tread as a child with dusty feet, still trusting.

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Moss Banks and Fading Heather

Summers Coming!

Summers Coming!

This poem is a gift to all those still living through winter, summer is ever on the way!x

The steaming moss banks and fading heather,
The land gently sloping away;
The call of sky larks hung in morning splendour
Breaking through the new day haze.

The lightening greens of summer promise,
The aching wait for the first fair day;
The coming of the heat wave and ice creams,
The loosening of our island ways.

The startled sheep as trains pass by,
Smoke clouds cloak holiday makers and sighs,
The people clutching hold of valleys,
Carving paradise into the hills.

The quietening of the countryside,
The wind is seldom raised to a breeze;
The snoozing in meadows and riverbanks,
The laughter over a picnic tea.

The dark water marks of winter recede,
The light comes pouring through;
Stride emboldened over dip and dale,
Deep in forests along new found trails.

There is a palpable ease
When the trees sway listless under brightened leaves;
There is a sense of inner peace
When the sun kisses our milky skins.

There is a rising of our dreams
As we are ironing this crease,
Where nature is a friend not foe
And each life a legend to behold.

May we harvest the essence of these times,
Store its energy as precious seeds inside;
Mark this very day as the tidal reverse,
A chorus springing straight from the heart.

We are arm in arm enraptured
By these early summer chapters,
Devoid of precious, sullied fears,
At this blessed time of year.

P1070363

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Live It

Live it loud,
Live it free,
Live it opposed to the powers that be…….

Live it in love,
Live it in sorrow,
Live it because there is no tomorrow……..

Live it in words,
Live it in song,
Live it your way, but not for long…….

Live it to enjoy,
Live it with style,
Live it with passion and well worn smiles………

Live it alone,
Live it in groups,
Live it embraced in the quest for truth………

Live it to dream,
Live it to dance,
Live it like this is your very first chance……

Live it resist,
Live it relax,
Live it in moments not tied to the past………….

Live it in celebration,
Live it in doubt,
Live it still curious, open and proud………

Live it, live it, live it………

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All Tomorrow’s Parties

I
Give me a thick coat to keep out the howling winds;
From those eyes, blood drained hate, mortal rust never
Sleeps alone.

Melancholia knew a boy blindsided,
I’d never seen the needle of death coming,
Skipped misery as a flaw.

How strange that happy words won’t turn the
Dissolving soul.

Young dreams now darker in the corner, bodies revolving
Towards the earth and heavens.

II
The way I remember your bed, may it never change.
In that morning light when I was not grey or tinned.
Potential, in skins; in the darkest blue of night
(the ecstatic fizz)
I still find you shining and fraying, twisted at the summit,
Drowned in concoctions of beauty and sacral liquid.

Step out with me on the feathered roads,
Spreading like nerves endings into the flesh of continents,
Where the winds map our backs and whip our necks into shape;
Dancing hair and minds invoke true love games tied in writhing knots.

Weave blankets over sinning dark rivers of doubt that flush the belly
Of freedom and potential; a familiar seasick feeling en masse.
Driftwood, our damned and splintered edges,
Finds soft lake lands beneath zero, shores of smoothed vermillion stones,
Wear this weariness like fur, easing away to hibernation.

The open road is no place for a closed book.

III
How long has this ghost lived here?
The heroes overseas with their own abstract endings to burden,
Hang on the free-winged as the horizon erupts like angry volcanoes.
The road is dug shallow, we reach for real but feelings soon fade
And muddy.

Excuses for religions blot ages and revolutions topple paper idols
Whilst the culprits lie low with serpentine illness;
Smoking balls of wool, laps lined with golden tweed
And seditious cocktails of hatred.

Never found a hometown, never settle down,
Never laid down rocks or rules, never cared for those odds;

The silhouetted condor picks at stars, tears through constellations,
Across the railroad track and I’m one way headed, no back ward steps.

Toothpicks and broken glass by the lazy stones not expecting
To find a penny in the mire or hands to hold.

IV
Back in our bed, I lay with your wholeness, wrapped up against icy climes;
36 and still young, just tender. Dreaming up names on the crumbling walls
Where rats raid our sleep.

Still nothing done, no words remain, no meaning-less
Than before, no scam that elegant, no ruse unique.
Alcohol still makes me burn and ruminate.

I hear the rain lashing down, renewing Turkish soil and the roses of the garden,
Tearing the dead leaves from the gutters, falling on the wolves of the forest,
Etching natural mandalas across the wilderness plains.

Show it to me again in dawn’s first blush, perfection breaks the hallowed canopies
Of the smoking village elders.

V
Maybe I’ll start wearing hats, take a vow of some sort;
Turn the grist in the internal grind, draw the white line engrained
Too far in timelessness;
Trace these migratory routes over rolls of red tape and wire fences,
To surely witness the making of an angel without crimson needles,
Dripping mania.

You can’t read about Picasso, take one snowflake at a time.

VI
When it’s your time you won’t feel the pain and your father will fall
Silently on one knee. Freedom falls beyond deaths shadows,
Where young hearts forever roam imperious.

Old sun, richer; sweet morning quality of being,
I’m drifting still in melted mind puddle.
No thoughts in my cave, buried alive by mundanity,
This material mutiny must be crushed.

Pictures behind closed eyes tell me more,
First real talk with my inner child, first time I loved there.
There’s fighting to be done, a war at our door,
No peace to be found until the last doubt fades
And the oak groves reclaim this island paradise;

A green revival trickles steady, drawn from the truth seams,
Scrawled jagged, ancestral, blackened minerals of fossilised wisdom.

For upstairs, wild mountain; in all tomorrows parties freedom comes,
In perfumed silence over purple heather clutches,
No one can live right steeped in senses.

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