July 2, 2009 at 2:35 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged poem, news, old, aspiration, ambition, plans, vacant
On the plateau I vacantly stride,
I fill this empty time.
Caring not for rain
Caring not for shine.
I possess an empty notebook
I possess the vacuum perched upon my neck.
Ignore it, and move on ahead.
Assiduous wreck.
There lies a broken compass
In the palm of my hand.
I smash it down into the sand.
A map so unused,
The energy confused,
This lifetime forever uttering old news.
On the plateau we dance.
And I strive toward nothing,
Towards the thoughtful hourglass.
Caring too much for now
Caring too little for the past.
There are many levels to this plane.
On the prairie, it is cats we tame.
I saw the steps, glorious before me.
And I wished to wipe this cold slate clean,
Of familiar and banal views,
This lifetime forever uttering old news.
Forever uttering old news.
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June 11, 2009 at 3:58 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged ambiance, furniture, lobby, poem, poetry
There is a timid storm
On the unfeeling airwaves
I am the furniture
That lines petty stairways
There is a furious calm
That pacifies the antique
But I lack the intelligence
To be unique.
It is you,
In the hallway,
That heavy oaken scent
Which fills a confused corridor
With echoes, with lament.
Ambiance tears asunder,
A weakened personality.
So I ask who’s turn it is
…To make the tea?
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June 7, 2009 at 9:08 am
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged audience, poem, poetry, writing
He writes not for an audience
But for himself.
The flicker of the lamplight,
Upon the turrets of obscure allusions
He loses a hasty glance towards the ego
And it ages his soul.
The lonely room;
Co-authoring this melodrama.
Lays a gentle hand on his beard,
Despondent at the lack of support,
There is rarely support nowadays anyway.
In the bizarre night,
He calls it a day.
And packs his things away.
All the utensils of a domestic performer -
Back into the draw you go.
As he sips much needed coffee,
And reflects upon the meeting of the eve,
Of a weary winter he could not, would not, conceive.
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May 28, 2009 at 1:59 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged apocalypse, end, poem, poetry, sun
How does it end?
The flourish of the sun.
In a volley of the scuttling plague
3 billion years.
I am old, cold and worn
Bearing no progeny,
But the flares of what is torn.
In a final burst,
The stretch and convulsion of skin.
I leave it for you to guess.
What lies herein.
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May 18, 2009 at 7:13 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged discovery, poem
Discovery used to be interesting.
Now it is mere platitudes.
It is long chemicals in leaves,
Or the dangers of common food.
Discovery used to be mountains,
And continents and zones.
It was once elements and reactions
And forces yet unknown.
I rediscovered myself today,
But it was not at all exciting.
Discovery was once so grand,
I wish to be struck by lightning.
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May 12, 2009 at 8:45 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged poem, love, motivator
Her Elysian eyes,
Abundant in splendour.
Her beauty makes the Gods cry.
My dear, Gentle and Tender
Months matter no more.
Time is so young,
And it graces the mirthful floors.
Although time is a neglected child,
And although my actions appear so wild
She is the Great Motivator.
No excuse is needed; no masterful guise or plot.
With her I am.
Without her,
I am not…
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May 12, 2009 at 8:34 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems, Uncategorized ·Tagged conscience, poem, punishment, rebellion, will
Never been held back.
I wish I was.
I wish there was an inner ethical tyrant.
I have no will.
My conscience sits back and nods complacently.
Cigarette in mouth. Casual, criminal.
Disregarding my behaviour. Thanks.
Who guards the guards? No one. I don’t mind.
Freedom hugs me and sneers.
A tap on the back, I turn around and cringe.
Eventually the reaction is minimal.
This Will is too liberal.
It suits me too well.
A bit of contrast never stings.
And healthy punishment won’t sing,
Of debauchery and revelry,
Or rioting and devilry.
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May 12, 2009 at 8:26 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged love, music, poem
Too close to the bridge
Shrill singing. Sirens screeching.
You played me, much too close.
To the bridge.
This heavy red.
Growing inside my chest.
Struggling to cope.
Despondence. Hope.
Don’t give me your aria.
I don’t need that now.
I’m sick of concertos.
They are the weeping barrier.
So when you scratch the grain,
Or pluck the strings,
And when all this love brings,
Is a hole in the sky.
I won’t ask why.
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April 19, 2009 at 1:38 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems ·Tagged love, poem, sonnet
Unto which pedestal dost thou stand?
And for whom doth thy splendour radiate?
Which fair spot doth thy moonlight shine,
That thy precious glory necessitate?
I ask humbly, and without the coercion of envy,
For thine wonderful goodness warms the Earth,
But I hope not frail thine conscience becomes,
For me, thou art both honey and the ocean’s surf.
The grand delights which flock to thee,
And which hunt insidious misery,
Do merge and toil till balance is content,
And natures clasp doth refuse to repent,
I thank Gaia, and I pray at her shrine,
With whispered yearning and love so sublime.
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March 13, 2009 at 9:03 pm
· Filed under Misc. Poems, philosophy ·Tagged meditate, ninth hour, poem, sleep
The ninth hour returns
And sirens, alarm
The smog of subconscious
Hovers, briefly
And you meditate
Discreetly letting go,
Of the great anchor
And resume holding her…
Ineluctable slumber
The ninth hour
Head, buried under
The turret and crow’s nest
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