Archive for category Poetry
I’m writing this hardly able to spot the keys, I’m so drunk.
There is something weird about a world where we’re so interconnected and yet it’s still so hard to find one single person in a moment
with whom to communicate honestly and i don’t mean chat. I mean communicate.
I mean overlap my sphere of perception with another’s to make something new.
So here I send my drum beat thrum.
A shuddering vibration sent out to all other rational, thinking, lonely people.
Let my transmission bounce off you and echo back to me, altered and amended by you, muffled by you, or made brittle and resonant by you.
You don’t even have to talk to me.
There’s too much sunlight.
The sky’s too deep blue.
Air sits still and glutinous
and the birds have gone quiet.
Passing tourists are briefly loud though.
Towels worn like cloaks and
obligatory American baseball caps.
Their swearing spoils my contemplation
of the pale blue painted beams
of my ceiling. Cracked old powdery paint.
The tourists pass and that barking dog
and buzzing hedge trimmer
also fade to far away abstractions.
In this extended space I swap the universe
for a calmer place where sounds are
distant and soothing sleep creeps over me
like hot fog.
I’d ached for a long time.
Waiting for a break.
One day I saw as in a dream,
a world about me that closed in upon me,
then crazed and shattered liked stressed glass
exploding in a dance of differing circumstances.
Then all became quiet and I opened my eyes.
Millions of people stood watching me, waiting.
The air was still and wet with despair,
the oceans stilled by flotsam and filth,
and the land was hard and lay stripped bare.
Then some spirit of wisdom rose up and declared
that love and respect and considered desire
was what was required.
I told them. I showed them.
And still they denied.
Driven by lust and short term want.
Now sighing winds
blow through their bones,
singing their epitaph.
A quieter world now
that when it sighs,
If you were without cognisance of
or involvement in the human world,
but were aware of the wonders of the universe,
then you would be a supreme being.
If you were a supreme being
who’s existence depended upon
the cognisance of humans,
then you would be a contradiction in terms.
The essence of all is consistent.
What adds difference
and lifts the plain to shining peaks
or reduces it to valleys dark
Beauty stands proud
as the mediator that defines mediocrity
and all that is foul and all that inspires
and all that gives life value.
It slows our time
and distracts the mind and the eye
and causes the soul to cry
and to laugh and to ponder.
If beauty be science
and the grandiosity of knowing.
Or the pause that knowing gives to observation.
And the gentle confusion that then arises.
That response we have
to a mere curve
or to a change that’s different.
Or some shift in balance between weights
that has some hidden mathematical rhythm,
or some subtlety that knows
real wisdom and causes us to falter.
Some subtle insight that speaks
of an embellishment to our view
and which stands just slightly out of reach.
That soothes our heart
as might the passing glimpse
of a friend who smiles
but who we don’t know.
Hot air cicada song thrum,
constant in the smokey heat.
Peach drips across sweat sticky skin
as orange sun casts long shadows over dying land.
I loved you and meant well.
A future once seen cascading like a waterfall,
became a trickle.
Birds dip in dusk light to chase fly by nights,
and land burns red in quickly blackening foreboding.
Cicadas still sing though. And I do too.
I saw you once
watching me askance
in a reflection in a passing
You startled me
and I tried to smile
but somewhere turning
in the passing angle
the message was lost.
Then you distorted
and curled around your passing space
and I moved through the view
at twice the normal rate.
I turned to see the real you
but you’d gone by then.
Dissolved into the real world.
Passed away to all intents and purposes.
There was a man who lived in a cupboard,
and all he could see
was what was visible through the keyhole.
Because someone had stolen the key.
And thrown it away.
At any given point in time,
because there was no night or day,
he might see the thigh of a woman
or part of a cat as it passed by,
or the leg of a table but no more,
or an odd S shape in a carpet,
the rest of which was obscure.
And then there was another man
who lived on top of a mountain
and who could see everything
all at once as the wind blew.
His hands were always cold.
And his eyes always wept
and his smile was a rictus.
In between, someone lived
unaware of either constraints or limits.
He had to guess.
Cat parts seemed too mysterious to know
as did the shape in the carpet.
And the horizon was unfeasibly far and long.
He had a choice.
Ponder both views or ignore them.
In his confusion he did both
and both lived and died.
His constraints limited him
and his limits constrained him
They were and were not simultaneously.
Which is as it should be
because that’s the nature of things.
Ask a cat.
It didn’t help him much either
because with each passing moment,
with both his baffled stares and his overwhelmed wonder,
still the pain remained and the joy
and the inexplicable puzzle of it all
were both partly seen and wholly glimpsed.
I may as well be on a desert island.
Life under a dome of hot sky blended seamlessly to sea.
Empty beaches, sighing trees, whispering waves,
and solitary boulders that stand silent, watching out for me.
There’s a magic supermarket here that’s run by AI.
It feeds me and provides a regular supply
of washing up liquid and beer and tobacco
and sausages and pizza and shit like that.
Sometimes there I see shapes like people.
Mirages amongst the stacked shelves.
The hard and real stacked shelves.
When they stop they merge with the tins and the toys.
The voices of their children whisper want
and no one sees me moving amongst them.
Sometimes they stand in my way.
I move through these vapid creatures that
belong to a universe that isn’t mine.
But sometimes I have to walk around them.
Outside in the baking hot sun that sings cicada songs
in hot white light that dazzles off glass and the distant sea,
I pause and listen to the sounds and the light
that travel through me and which never carry my name.
When your parents die
the movie ends.
Now you’re not playing a part.
You can sit back in your chair,
the one with your name on it,
and watch the action played back.
See the part you played.
Sit uncomfortable beside others,
self-conscious as your playing is reviewed.
And the silence closes in about you
as you see your failings,
and the quiet of those around
falls away into the distance.
Your life and the stuff that is you
comes into focus.
A real tearjerker is this.
Who wrote this script?
How could, who would, did I?
They were just people.
Life’s timeline compresses.
Your streaming curve cuts across theirs
and streams away to curve back.
You with your guns firing.
Your stupid guns.
We should have talked more.
Because now I don’t see you
by way of a mirror.
Now I can look straight at you.
And I have to hang my head.
So what am I really?
Now I’m in the mirror.
You stayed for a while after.
I felt you and I heard your thoughts.
Now it’s quieter.
But one day I may
have to have that talk.
About how we all made mistakes.
Mine feel so much greater
and I wonder where I’ll sit
between you and my sons.
Warm air rang chilled,
hammer on a bell.
Church steeple still
in pleasant landscape.
Stopped to look
at small life given.
Sleepy world glancing
his way for once
as simmering summer
sultry birdsong sang
So little England carried on
and one who came to pass
and had lived their way
no longer had a choice.
A mild wind in blue sky with sun glinting
off snowy Cretan mountain peaks,
bird song amongst orange groves
ripe with fruit waiting to be picked,
reverberated to a double shotgun blast
as someone blew his brains out
and spread them over the plaster landscape
that was his for too long.
As I wrote mellowed by birdsong,
righteously writing about what was wrong
with no cognisance of what went on
just below my balcony.
A moment came and passed.
And I learned about it from the news.
Written a long way away.
And now when I gaze down,
the birds still sing amongst the oranges.
And the dogs still bark.
She was a cold, mirror smooth lake
in the cloud tossing tempest that raged around her,
and I stood wet and weather beaten on her rocky shore.
How could she be so disconnected?
When you truly listen to people
and you hear what they are,
you will find
that everyone is lonely.
The sad thing is that
the only people I’ve harmed
have been those I loved.
That hard bit just now,
after that warm and yellow bit.
I wonder what’s next?
Sitting in bath warm water,
waves lapping up my thighs,
leaning on one hand on the yielding sand,
watching the moon sink into the sea.
The natural world is all that’s real.
The rest is construct and hubris.
Watching that sinking moon
over the turning world,
and the whirling cosmos of a trillion lights,
all ticking step by step in time.
And then it came to be known
amongst all sentience
that the Original Source is me,
and we are the Original Source.
I wear my tears like
a Warrior who weary,
has become gentle.
This is a poem.
I can say whatever I like.
Poetic licence and all that.
I can say without fear of ridicule
that I am lonely and mystified by life.
The whirlpools of logic and illogic
and unfathomable stupidities.
And the wonders and astonishing things.
Aspects of grand realities
that seem distant and huge.
And I’m allowed to confess that I cry,
often and loudly,
because I’m a two sided coin.
And other things too.
The sense of smallness
that makes me gently humble as I look around.
That sense of contiguity with all that is
that occurs occasionally.
My smallness and my scope.
My all encompassing modest place.
Watching wise if I’m lucky.
Defined by my context.
Laughing while crying and vice versa.
Over drab hills held down
by scudding clouds,
a gap opened and sun’s rays shone down.
Splitting into a million colours
through a million tiny drops,
as the light of a star showed itself to us.
Its million aspects viewed with awe
by the only entity capable of seeing.
So see yourself in that light.
As he died and saw the world fade away,
he also saw his life spread out
like a two dimensional fan in front of him.
Then flames appeared and a charred black hole
spread out from the source into the delicate fan spread.
Each blade a part of his life,
crumbling to charred paper and blowing away on the wind.
And so he returned to his original state.
Now able to play a part in the way
he spent his life hoping he might.
Wiser now and on a universal stage
rather than a bit part in a sideshow.
But having learned to understand this.
A happy soul is one
that’s learned to let go.
Like a seed from a dandelion head
in a sunny breeze,
that let go
of its anchor point
and turned to face the breeze
and the skimming land below.
To arrive where what is.
There were four,
but then it fractured
And I curled and died
with shame and pain.
But they’ve risen from
and fly proud.
What part did I play though
as was my understood purpose?
That purpose that faded away
so I could only watch
And cast faintly heard praise.
they’ll live better lives.
All we can see of ourselves,
that tells our tale,
is our hands.
Smooth and then
suddenly not so.
This process of
the compression of one’s life
cannot be seen by seeing yourself.
That would be to try
to describe your face
without a mirror.
But you can see
the hands that lie there
looking back at you,
and they tell no lies.
Wrinkled a little now,
they represent your life.
Its good and bad
and ultimately tired understanding.
Ahead lay the divide that ran from top to bottom of their lives,
Defining the move between their doom and their fortune.
So millions of people lived their paths,
Not knowing that far above,
White winged Josef and the raven winged woman
Flew towards the light.
If only the minions also had that sight.
Blank hard walls
and in a window that doesn’t care what it sees,
I see reflected a me that used to be.
There are so many.
So many ways
a rose might have opened.
A butterfly might have emerged.
In the eye of the beholder
my fate is decided,
and then I fade away.
Walking drunk down the passageway
past the sorry rooms
to gaze through the window
at the grey skies and
the blown crows
I have to ask why
things worked out his way.
Had I known that I needed to know
such certainty of ambition so soon,
perhaps I could have focused.
The crows know a secret
that the wind shares.
You must follow your true nature,
if you can filter it out from the deafening noise.
Is it not odd in a world of
That a female Praying Mantis
Still eats its mate.
That it’s possible to die
By digital excess,
Or also lack thereof.
Through that one small window pane
Looking out onto a black garden
On the darkest of nights,
I saw so many children
Running in the sunshine
Made sparkling by hosepipe rain.
And dogs and barbeques.
And the oak tree leaning over
To whisper smiling praise
For the children’s snowman.
And that battered and sun faded deckchair
That never got put away.
And the rose bush that ran wild.
And the garden shed that came to sag sadly.
And that forgotten glass in the flowerbed
That grew pale green with time.
And the memory of you.
Clear as daylight. Sitting there.
And that crumbling vision of a life
That drained away into the earth
As though it had never been.
I weep for that now,
Seeing it through my mean window pane.
I weep for that in the eternal now.
On a dating website tonight,
I paused and considered what I saw.
Images of people frozen at
Very particular moments in their lives.
And then writing an advert to promote it.
Someone messaged me tonight.
I was shy to link to her too soon.
When I did, she’d destroyed her account.
Admiralty129000 I will never know you.
And this space I’m in
That comprises me and a screen.
This is how we interface now.
And yet she was there. She was.
She messaged me.
And then she didn’t exist anymore.
You achingly dark spangled
infinitely deep universe
How does my mysterious sparking
Of elemental syntheses
Mirror your endless spinning rotations?
The qualitative universal components
That make my observations what they are.
So small are my thoughts by comparison.
Like splashing drops in an ocean wave
Crashing upon a shore,
Unrelenting in its logic.
Standing on the Chain Bridge
Over Budapest’s Danube,
Watching the water flow by.
Gellert Hill stands in the background,
Where the Nazis had their headquarters
In the second world war.
How many Stukas lie buried in river mud?
Bleached skulls gazing up at passing pleasure boats now,
Wondering what it was for.
In a Budapest pub against a wall,
Stands an ancient pram that sits quietly
Amongst the bawdy crowd,
Remembering walks in the park.
Its cast iron wheels and rusty springs
Support a wicker basket lined with
Broken cotton that once warmed
A baby long dead now.
In its place lie old bottles,
And a single, painted plate.
It looks up at the ghost of the woman
Who still patiently pushes her charge
Down tree lined paths in parks
Long since bombed beyond existence.
She sings to her baby
And it beams back,
Its awkward, human hand painted features
Irregular in a mechanised world.
The plate is still there
Whilst the baby’s long gone,
Having lived a process through
Two world wars.
Now through that plate,
The artist and the child join spirits
And smile happily up at the pretty young woman
Who knew nothing of what was to come.
The cigarette smoke world curls around me,
changing shape and fading away.
The present I see includes the past
as well as imagined futures.
The trees are bare now.
They had leaves and will have again.
The whorls and whirls of the wind
swirl remnants of the past year,
as beady squirrel eyes watch
the world move on.
Earth spins and moves and does its thing.
Fox and Owl make their noises in dark woods,
Jaguar prowls and Bat flits.
In some African savannah,
Kudu is eaten alive by lions.
Nearby, self obsessed termites
build webbed cities.
In the middle of this maelstrom
of whirling world things,
weather and wind and life passing,
I stand bewildered by the pace
and irresistible process
of which I’m a part with no control.
But mostly I’m amazed
by humanity’s contempt.
And I play my part,
and wait to see the consequences.
May my sons forgive us.
I know I’m not supposed to admit this.
It’s neither dignified nor manly.
Because men only think about one thing.
And they’re not allowed to cry.
Pillars of society,
We joyfully join the scrum.
Pretending indifference to the quiet voice.
We have to scorn the quiet voice.
That’s what it is to be a man.
Quiet voice that in quiet moments
Allows us to wonder at the unfurling clouds
And the emerging beauty of spring.
That oh so gentle curve from neck to shoulder
That might simply be beautiful rather than just sexual.
Even that small voice of a child.
Any intuitive interaction
That might be seen to be too gentle
To be masculine.
Women’s preconceptions preclude these sensitivities.
I know. I’ve seen how the bastards always win.
Taunted by thigh and tit and scorned for responding
Unless we’re fancied or are able to be ruthless enough
To ignore another’s value. Like bastards.
However good you are in bed,
Or how large your heart may actually be,
The bastards always win.
And seem welcomed for this.
Even as they pretend to wail,
I scorn those crying women.
I died a million times tonight.
All I had to do was to remember,
And my heart crumbled.
So remind me,
What do I have to do to live?
Moonlight sonata strokes my soul and makes me weep.
It reduces me to my basics.
I’m left vulnerable and open to the world.
And to the unthinking ways of people.
If you want to break me,
Then do so whilst Beethoven’s
Heart breaks also.
It’ll be easier for you.
I’m dying. My feet tell me so.
As I pace back and forth
Between hope and despair.
There’s no stairway to heaven here.
There’s no way to wisdom
Or any such feast.
Just meagre scraps that fall
From processes I don’t understand.
And as for love,
There’s no such thing.
Instead there’s a place in an hierarchy
That deserves regard or doesn’t.
Take your heart and crush it underfoot.
I might have loved you
If you hadn’t looked at me like that.
When I confessed my nature
Didn’t fit the modern way.
If you wonder why you exist,
It’s because life is a fundamental component
Of an inevitably evolving universe.
As fundamental as hydrogen or carbon atoms.
A reflection not of bits but of process.
Of how these and others interact.
And of the evolution of these interactions.
And as this interaction evolves,
It acquires ever evolving conciousness.
If you want to know how to be happy,
Understand this fact.
One life everywhere
So look skyward and see
That one day we’ll blend.
And at that point
The discreet existences we all know
Will come to an end.
As entropy finally converts all matter
To nothing more than understanding
And everything finally stops.
Because there’ll be nothing more to know.
Calm down and quieten your mind.
Stop thinking so much.
Be a smaller and more delicate thing
That taps tentatively rather than beats.
Let the world vibrate as it is,
And watch more
But observe less.
Draw further back and accept.
If it dies even as you watch,
It was too big for you to save.
And if it thrives and grows,
It would have done so without you.
Just ask that whether what you see
is death or the blossoming of dreams,
you played the right part.
From my window I see cars
Parked like soldiers ranked
On black tarmac that in
Street light is silver,
Whilst the sky above
Has turned black from white.
Past the train station.
Its old stones and arching glass having seen
Tanks and wars and revolutions.
I stood amongst shoppers with garish bags
From all the top brands.
Then past me walked a woman in blue plastic
With tears running down her face
As she saw the cold night ahead living on the street.
And I wanted to give her something to help
But I didn’t.
I stopped and turned and watched her walk away
Through the hurried, selfish crowd.
Now it’s I who weep.
For my weakness.
Silvered moon over the gleaming Danube.
Twinkling Budapest lights.
Where are you? Someone.
It would be good to nuzzle your lovely neck
Whilst seeing this.
I think I’ll go for a walkie-poo.
Actually it’s something I really must do.
And as I do my walkie-poo,
I’ll do a dance, just for you.
In the spangled sunshine.
Under the tree
With spread-eagled fingers.
I’ll kick the golden leaves
And see the flighty clouds spin overhead.
When I look from my window
At people passing by
I wonder how the thing i am is.
I wonder at the things that made me,
That make me sad.
Life is like watching a river pass
And wishing that the bit that passed a while ago,
That I’m sure had more fish in it,
Would pass again.
It’s a river.
That bit has passed.
Now be happy.
If you stopped to ask him why,
As he sat filthy bent there on the street,
A few small coins in a paper cup,
Would he lift up his sag skinned face,
Filthy creased leather and wire wool beard,
Eyes red rimmed and shocking piercing,
And answer you?
Would he tell you his story?
Would he warn you why?
Would he tell of children and lost love?
Of missed chance and chances taken?
Would his eyes water with regret
Or turn deep with hidden meaning?
Or would he ask you the same question?
Through air cold as ice they ran,
over pretty leaves of gold and brown,
crushed more dead by each soft footfall.
He caught her, laughing, and swung her round.
She saw his eyes and lent back
against thin hard vertical bark.
He cupped her face tenderly either side
and ran his hands gently up to course
her hair through his fingers.
Taking hold he pulled her head back
to show her beautiful neck
with delicate strain like his arcing cock.
And she looked up and saw the arcing trees
bending away towards the stars.
He bent low and kissed her throat,
and moved up to whisper in her ear
how sublimely beautiful she was. And she was.
As she was kissed, she watched
and saw amongst the wind drifted trees,
the silhouette of a flying bird.
She saw it watch her as she writhed
in silky analogue motion
that jumped with each digital phase
of the bird’s flight frozen
as in a freeze frame film.
And so she saw his passion granted,
as part of a universal flow.
She saw and gave and came
as the birds saw and knew.
She arced her graceful back
and squirmed across the face
of the man who knew her in his lust.
Flying up there with those knowing birds,
over the moonlit silvered trees
and through the star splintered dark,
she looked down in her ecstasy
and saw two people entwined
in their confusion and their
lust tempered by love.
Well I watched you leave.
Even if no one else did.
Walking slightly too slowly perhaps,
Through the foggy small talk
Of gossip and football.
I don’t like it either.
You nested your hair
Into the exquisite nape
Of your neck
As you wrapped your scarf.
Then you left and ghosted alone
Into the cold dark.
If you’d turned to glance,
I would have smiled.
Amongst the Autumn tawny leaved trees
With the oily, boiling Danube coursing by each side,
I came across the ruins of a Franciscan church.
Placing my hand on a stone embedded in one ancient wall,
My mind’s eye saw what the monk who built it saw.
Autumn tawny leaves with the Danube boiling by.
Things of real value don’t change.
The rest is ephemeral distraction.
It’s hard to let go of things.
But once you let go of the first one,
And the memories associated with it
Become like those clouded passing visions
We all remember from childhood,
Then losing the next item becomes easier.
And then the next item becomes
Easier again to choose,
As if loss throws value into relief.
And when that next thing goes,
The context that one’s built over years
Starts to dissolve.
A process of distillation takes place
That concentrates your
Value of things
To a few.
Enough to carry with you.
Then your perspective changes
As you let go.
If you’re lucky a lightness takes hold
And your life thus far seems contrived.
Like a game played by a child.
There aren’t many years left now.
Time to turn and face yourself.
And just as your things reduce and fall away,
The markers you measured yourself by
Fall away as well.
And you’re left with a wide open
And wondrous world
That’s yours for you to wander through
For the first time.
It isn’t too late.
Because it takes just a moment
To realise the extent of your smallness
And the scale of what you’re privileged to know.