Sit and watch the swans dance
Sublime across liquid time,
Ripples sparkle with dying light,
Edge the night’s winning battle with day,
Waning as it does towards the end
All the while wondering at time lost,
Another echo in the well of lives remembered,
When eyes still burned with amazing grace
As each new dawns golden light broke
Once upon a time, not forgotten but tasted
Instead on tip of soul’s forked tongue,
Not lies at least, embellishments of memory’s fickle grasp
Love’s ghosts, favoured tastes of childhood’s own
Rose-tinted glasses, a hug, a smile, a coy glance
Forever lost in the quickly darkening water,
To surface again only in the glint of time’s remembered waltz,
The dying day’s final kiss bleeding light breaking sharp
Against the deep dark, swans sublime swimming
Cross micro waves of timeless wonder,
When will we next meet again, my heart
Is here when I next visit Kingston-
Upon-Thames.
Category Archives: Poems
Poetry is
The art of the heart
Written in the lifeblood
Of the soul.
The Market Lane horses
Standing slightly bedraggled
Sad Gordian Knot hair hanging listlessly,
They gaze querily, beyond the edge of the field,
Rubbing chins against the broken fence
Overpowering memories of what they once were,
Wild and free, powerful and hungry
Eager to bolt and run with the herd,
Nostrils flaring, hooves pummelling the earth into happy submission,
One more pounding heartbeat of mother earth’s naked crust,
Memories cripple their hunched majestic necks,
As they stand there, so still
Their mad eyes remembering
What their bodies never will
That once upon a time,
In their cells remembered past,
They were free to run riot,
To breath perfect air, run anytime
anywhere. Now
Having been harnessed,
Brought to the brink,
Given slavery instead of freedom,
They’ve gone mad,
And stand rubbing chins
on bent metal fences,
Staring into the end.
The Market Lane horses,
Once so free, proud and gay
Stand stock still, til beckoned
Eyes blaring mad, empty thoughts,
Forlorn hearts steeped in soul-cell memories
Of better days, of freedom
of life.
money dreams
‘What if someone steals it,’ Cheryl asks me,
Ramping up previously nonexistent fear
I quickly file away and smile nonchallantly,
‘I’m not worried,
if they steal it and make money, it’s extra publicity for me,’
Hearing my own bald-faced lie,
emotional attachment to letters arranged,
I pulled the strings, touching my soul
and back out again,
I file the fear for a different day, the future calm,
My subconscious
with time to digest
Then spurts the answer I need to relax, and
When the answer came
Of sculptures soaring free
Where anyone can climb and enjoy,
see and take in
Interpret their own meaning
The clear thought that true art,
Coming from deepest space inside,
Should be free to disperse in the public’s eye,
To remind us all how, as humans together,
There is more than fragmented dreams allow,
I could say all of this in a lengthy late reply,
But the answer was just for me,
The fear breathed out,
after-stress sigh.
Thank you, subconscious,
For sorting all that out,
Now if only you were focused
On feeding my monetary drought.
the answer for that seemingly life-long question
would come just as easy, and take away the stress
that desolate accounts plague my dreams at night.
Mother Bear
Another day, another airport,
So far away, further than before,
Heading to calm steam emotions,
Flat self echoing fear and superstition,
All that I want, I cannot say,
All is calm inside and out,
But deep down I rile,
Thank the steam of cool control,
That stems the flow of tears,
The solid resolve to not break down,
That holds me tight in iron grip,
And flattens my darkest fears.
Life without is strangely empty,
No thoughts can move along that path,
You are my reason, touchstone, sanity,
Without you I am adrift at sea,
I know you are always with me,
That forever waits for no one, yet
I hope to hold you close once again,
And chase your nightmares away, Mother Bear,
For me, for everyone, you have always been there,
And within us you will always stay.
Notes on Suicide
What the fuck is the point,
Why the fuck should I care,
There’s nothing more for me out there,
No solice to last, no thrill, no real blast,
No life-joy, fun-filled, exhilarating high,
No self-destructive, suicidally-depressive low,
That I haven’t already tasted, seen, heard felt,
Why, into this carpet, can’t I just melt,
To each Michael his music,
To Ruthie, love of life,
To Elil reality acted,
To father, just more strife,
But I don’t have that je ne sais quoi,
That joie de vivre, or other quota,
It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s all a pile of shit,
Even Ian has a life, though it’s pure flip,
Where is my hole, my soul in the ground,
When will I ever get off this merry-go-round.
Let the candles burn low,
Let my heart bleed dirt,
No more will I cry,
Never again will I hurt,
This ugly thing called life,
An abomination, no, more, an abortion of hope,
And again in the darkness I grope,
Like a sad easter bunny, searching blindly for one last egg,
I fell too deeply, now broke my leg,
And noone may help me, nor hear my lost soul beg,
For loneliness is my only friend, and in the end I’m dead.
But death is too good, too final for me,
The nine billion monkeys would no longer be laughing with glee,
They would have lost their plaything,
In dying I hope, the end is the end,
Another life would be hell,
And it would all begin again with the last toll of the bell.
Death is too easy for me pray-tell,
No last chance saloon or horror hotel,
Nothing nightmarish but what’s in my own head,
Don’t cry for me, I’ve made my own bed.
I sacrifice everything, and nothing at all,
For life is really simple, look on the wall,
In blood will be written; when all angels fall,
The end is the beginning,
As winter follows fall,
The forest is empty,
The trees have all died,
The wood is all hollow,
The three woodsmen have cried.
Tears won’t outlast a true nature’s beast,
And rest is eternal for nothing at least,
Not in this lifetime or the next,
Not my smiling face putting demon’s to rest.
For as we all know truth is power,
And the only lasting truth will be known in my last hour,
But to know, to want, to feel, to have,
These are the things that can only make us sad,
Cry tears for our children for they do no know,
The loss that we give them is the bottomless hole,
That black empty cradle of deathless light,
That in its bright shining cripples all night.
There is no more to say to this babble,
Rise up above the shit all ye rabble,
And take what is yours from my own pompous lips,
You can have it with my blessings, it’s really a pile of useless shit.
But then again,
Love,
Truth,
Sacrifice,
Isn’t that all so very nice.
And in the end, it comes again,
Like bad penny rising or bile in throat,
No more will my laughter everyone choke,
For death is my final say in all things,
And you can all fuck off, even you in the wings,
You don’t mean shit to me,
You’re not even a speck on a speck,
And the truth to all lies makes this one big joke dear friend,
Because I really couldn’t give a shit in the end.
So fuck off all you well wishers,
All helpers and lovers,
Friends above-board and under the covers,
I don’t need any more insights or painful revelations.
I know it all better than you ever will,
And yet I know nothing at all.
But,
I will fight,
I will bleed,
For the day my soul’s freed,
Because nothing to live for,
Is everything I need.