Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Iceage

Oh how you've been clinging to those icy grips
like languishing leaves lost among litter.
The weather, it tries its best to warn you
you'd be left directionless and bitter.

That's not to say it's cold all of the time
but rather a sudden forecasted front
and what meteorologists once said;
they'd now rather not be taking that punt.

The forecast's grim; but at least not for him
who's walking around in shorts and a vest.
His happiness shows, for he really knows
he's on the cold Earth only as a guest.

And when the ice melts, he'll swim in the flood
and when he's drowning he'll say "it is good".

Pre-Determined Free-Will

There is a finality and determinism
                              to life that we struggle to describe
                                                             as under the control of our will;
                                                              our choice.

This is true to a certain extent.
                            There is a huge element of cause and effect
                                                             that gives us our many variations
                                                             of lives.

Our choices determine who we are, and
                             what becomes of us as people, yet
                                                            these choices are constricted in the
                                                            confines of fate.

One needs context in order to feel, so the first
                             life would feel nothing, for it had nothing
                                                            to compare to; meaning is ordained from
                                                            prior life.

We are predetermined by our genetic makeup
                                 and by a history of what we 
                                                           at least perceive as free choices; what we're
                                                           programmed to do.

The human life has been set by fate to have a
                                 spring, summer, autumn, winter. This is unavoidable
                                                          unless we ripped out pages from
                                                          life's calendar.

But we can never choose
                                 that the next season should not fall;
                                                         delay it and prepare for it
                                                         though we might.

Our free will determines what happens 
                               with these seasons, just as our choices
                                                         help to bring some seasons to be longer
                                                         than others.

The more free-will we get, the more
                              this global warming effect will occur,
                                                        not only in meteorological seasons but in this
                                                        issue of will.

In order to best attain a credible
                              existence, we must become autonomous
                                                         beings and allow fate to direct us through seasons
                                                         as prescribed for us.

We should not fall foul on the path
                              of choice, for choice blinds us
                                                          into the narcissistic notion that
                                                          we are free.

Whether we are free or not
                              is ultimately an otiose debate
                                                         for we only found out both sides by both
                                                        choice and fate.

Cans

Home is where the heart is
or so I have been told
but it isn't the ones out on the streets
whose hearts are empty and cold.
Hungry and not heartless
not harmful, but hurting;
so their heinous criminalisation
is more than disconcerting.
And yet they're swept away
like empty cider cans,
dropped by ones not labelled for addictions;
dropped by privileged hands.
No-one's there to pick them up,
 they all just walk straight past
for they degrade this depressing city
and are looked upon as trash.
But don't throw them away,
recycling needs some sorting;
for every sorry state we find a use
with the right supporting.
See a can? Pick it up!
Put it where it belongs -
we should be looking for the good we can do,
not ignoring all that's wrong.

Monday, 1 May 2017

The Rat

The rat willed for refuge
from the chambers in the sewers,
crowded everywhere that it went.
Away from the refuse
and negativity that skewers
all of the time it has spent.

So it indecisively sought
a solitary space of its own,
but not one single section could it find.
Instead it was caught
by the reality that was thrown
that it was trapped in the tunnels of its mind.

Thursday, 27 April 2017

Sea Legs

I gazed as your saliferous hair
slapped upon the sunset rocks
of a sangria sea.

From out of the mist 
my searchlight came
seeking your signal
to close in on the cooling evening.


Yet the waters are too rough,
I am dehydrated
and I have lost my sea legs.

Saturday, 22 April 2017

Upkeep

There's a higher thing
in hyacinths
sprinkled on the lawn.
They remind me of
my love for you;
how it threatened to be overgrown.

How the upkeep would
distress the neighbourhood
if not picked and pruned.
Yet my blistered hands
can no longer stand
to aggravate the wound.

A Terrible Death

I fear not
how it would feel to die
but to lack feeling,
yet I'm self aware
that I'm terribly self aware
and so terrible.

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

Escaping my Sepulchre

Removing the boulder of your body,
I escaped my sepulchre sequestered,
solivagant against the subterfuge
and the sins and ill will that had festered.

Renascent against the apostasy
in animus that made me ascetic,
I cursed not the boulder that had held me
but rather found forgiveness analgetic.

And such reflections found me less reticent;
regret receded with ruminations
'til I found the ataraxic axiom;
I was thankful for your testing creations

This realisation rendered me removed
from a sorry world that had never improved.

Sunday, 2 April 2017

Shower

A jet of afflatus
in my epicurean contemplation of life
as I compose poetry in the shower,
trying to get the perfect balance
of hot and cold,
my fingers webbing from staying in
one spot for too long.

My memory of the words
is swept away in lachryform beads
by the coarse towel's kiss;
grating against horripilated and
humbled flesh,
lost forever with those ephemeral easing
moments of enlightenment.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Schiamachy

I studied my shadow's sapient subterfuge
as she sequestered in a selenic delight,
somewhere I've never gone, in the dead of the night—
though I wished that I might.

Her swasivious sweven was fleeting and false
as she distracted me from my supine routines,
in a fickle frisson of Freud's wish-fulfilling dreams—
she is not what she seems.

I wonder where tomorrow takes my shadow, and
why can't I too show the silence that she displays,
and if I stray from the sun can I go away—
can I leave with the day?

Sunday, 12 March 2017

Her Horticulture

The lifeless tendrils of her faded amaranth abate
in vicissitude of the verdure found within her Spring.
All plucked are her petals, as their douceur dissipates
and left is an unbloomed knosp of a madness enate.

Still those truculent turbid tendrils tangle around my chest
and try to feed on my tacit and altruistic manner.
Internecine and intransigent, I sometimes detest
those sciophilous, shady seeds that ever began her.

I shudder to think of poisons injected by her thorns
or the injury that one would endure from ingestion.
The vesuviation of variegation is forlorn,
revealing the verisimilitude behind beauty's deception.

There's a torpid tabefaction in this tryst of turgid shoots
and I'm wary of tatonnement in the tawdry tangles of Spring.
I will avoid the plants bearing the serpent's ripest fruits
and, like weeds, rip them up from their once roseate roots.

Friday, 3 March 2017

Dinosaurs in School!

A pterodactyl's gliding in the hall,
we're all terrified and trying to sing.
We all really hope that it will not fall
but I spotted some Blu-Tac stuck to its wing.

A T-Rex is terrorising the loo 
and its arms are too short to wash its hands.
I don't know what this carnivore will do;
can it sit on the toilet or does it stand?

A triceratops is catching some hoops
that it found outside with its three horned face.
The teachers are trying to read with groups
but children are running all over the place.

A stegosaurus' plates rattle the office,
letters and envelopes fly everywhere.
It whips its tail and spills all of the coffees
onto the computer, the desk and the chair.

A brachiosaurus is sat crying in class,
rifling through all of the children's trays.
It's trying to find some nice tasty grass
on which this poor hungry herbivore can graze.

And finally we find a diplodocus
sat on the carpet talking to his friends...
suddenly the teachers and children are raucous
Friday's loudest roar as the school day ends!

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

The Fortitude of Fallen Foliage

Often is winter's arrival mourned
as an icy season of bitter death
but I find it rather a time adorned
with the opportunity for fresh breath.

The solstice is dark and hard to endure
and it represents the pessimist's peak,
but after that those dark days are fewer
and the skies steadily appear less bleak.

So do not mourn the fallen rusted leaf
separated from the embrace of the tree
but rather take solace in the belief
that it will benefit from flying free.

The fallen leaves, once so solemn, stir
from the comforting pick-up in the air.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

A Cold and Lonely Embrace

Nothing stirred the
empty flaking seat; -
not even the leaves cast
off of tall pines
dared to take spot from the empty chest
that waited for its missing piece to come.

And so they waited, taking half the bench
and watching the frail hands of the watch tick
steadily ahead to disappointment
and to empty arms resting on cold knees

As the shadows of the trees slowly grew
the face of the watch shined in the sunset,
the hours opening the metal arms
as if to console the teary-eyed soul.

Crying into a Coffee Cop

He gazed at his vacuous visage
in the treacled reflection of black coffee,
as its steadiness is displaced by his laboured breath
from his own brooding reflections.
A gulp goes down, to ease his burning throat
and then another displacement
as the tear weaves from his gossamer lash
into the bullseye of the cup.


Sunday, 29 January 2017

In Chase of the Roadrunner

I am the coyote that can fly
but only so long as I think
I am the touching the ground.
I will look down to see
nothing but air
and my predicament will realise
itself.

Wren

A wren springs
from his seeded seat
on to the branchlet,
which wobbles
 from his slight weight.
A wren flutters
his tiny panicked wings,
plummeting to the floor
in stuttering glide
before flying away.

It strikes me how even
the most fragile birds
make errors of judgement.

It strikes me how only humans
let pride prevent us from moving on.

We are the ones who forgot how to fly away.

A Blue Fire

The moonless midnight
is ignited by a spark;
engulfing the dark
and capturing my heart.

But the same heart knows
only sorrows can transpire
from this wild fire
that I've allowed to start.

And yet, although I wince,
I can't convince myself to dowse the flame
nor let it tame,
but only to bask in its heat.

Her name was taken by the wind,
a rescind of that spark
now taken by dark;
the promise of Heaven in wistful retreat.

Saturday, 21 January 2017

Dharma Initiative

Sulphurous mist

gives it's purgatory judgement

whilst others take the iridescent youthful souls for their virtues.

Existential paranoia and needs to follow a system

and the rhetoric of what would happen if we didn't execute the orders precisely.

We all await a release from the isolation that occurs in our own minds, and ultimately, the only rescue is the salvation of our intertwined past sins.

Thursday, 22 December 2016

Wisp in Wonder

The wisp of smoke
dances towards the sky,
reaching from your dying cigarette
that litters your light fingertips
buring into the overcast troposphere,
resigned to the thickening fate
that the once dainty effluvium has.

I wonder if it is envious
of the smoke that is reserved
to be graced by the touch
of your full, fleshy lips
exhaled softly into the overcast troposphere,
dancing elegantly into the dense sky
savouring its farewell kiss.

I realise that whether by lips or fingertips
the smoke's time in your presence
is ephemeral and all smoke
must eventually join the clouds;
if I was that blissfully endowed smoke
my last action would be to hover
a halo around the crown of your hallowed head.

Saturday, 3 December 2016

A High Street in December

The middle-aged mother meanders merrily,
marveling at carefully arranged window displays,
taking the stretch of pavement with her
life-long bags full of wrapping paper, socks, wine
and the latest toys advertised on Saturday morning television;
there's even a little something for herself
clutched in her right hand, the handles of that particular bag
now ingraining red lines into her frost kissed skin.

Meanwhile morose man moodily make an attempt
to move past the moderate pace of the myopic mother,
making a play to dart in the road where
there's a window of opportunity to squeeze past,
however the 4x4 vehicle puts a stop to that, the driver
making an awful attempt at parallel parking into a space
which, in honesty, is large enough to fit a whole squadron of sleighs;
the man sighs, glancing at his watch, resigned to the fact his train has gone.

The children in the back of the oversized car squabble
over the song choice on their shared music device,
making no attempt to put it away as their father had asked
although in honesty the father would much rather put on a song himself
which reminds him of when Christmas used to mean something to him;
something that might tear away the tedium of sitting
on a cheap plastic faux-leather sofa in the changing rooms
of a budget fashion chain as he gives as small nod of acknowledgement
to the men who share his plight, tapping their feet as wives desperately search
for the garments that might let them reclaim their youth.

Meanwhile, the beggar attempts to benefit from
the well documented "Christmas Spirit", shaking his twenty pence pieces
in his coffee cup, hoping that the charitable might fund
his next meal as they plan their extended family's feast,
but he doesn't count on their short, impatient temperaments
wanting to endure this annual task as efficiently as possible,
so they pointedly avert his pleading gaze,
looking down at their phones or up to the billboards;
anywhere but into his eyes.
All of the citizens floating along in their own snowflaked bubbles.

Friday, 25 November 2016

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,
steamy windows and steamy china cups
as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,
and though he knows that he should focus
on the plot that is being dictated to him
by the seemingly omniscient narrator
he can't help but get drawn into the words
that resonate with his morose soul,
looking blankly at the hot tar
that swirls around in his clammy hands,
avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;
how the year has provided proof that the future
seems almost completely bleak
-though life would still go on believe me-
there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,
not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.
Without that glimmer of purpose
that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...
-what good would livin' do me?-
he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty
than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.
Cold to the world, he makes for the door,
resolute in his plunge.
And a stranger holds the door open,
motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out
and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away
[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]
as his darkness is replaced by
an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.
-God only knows what I'd be without you-

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

X Axis

Each year pulls me further to the left,
and I wonder if my standpoint
is an x-axis
and that I am therefore
growing more and more negative
or that it is in fact spherical
and I will come full circle.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,
and ripples disperse around it;
Crossing over one another as the tree's
lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos
crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,
unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,
they stretched out like wings to whisper against
the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach
tonight, if I was to die and leave.
The world would turn no slower
and the sun would shine no darker.
I'll pass under the bellies of ducks
an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple

Enfolded

Enfolding my breath
into subtle shapes, I cherish
watching them float away silently
as if coerced by a gentle magnetism
into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable
how could we act with pragmatism
while cascading down violently
into the earth we perish
enfolded in death.