The Prints of a Pony

New stage, same jumps;

but am I a

one trick pony

or a pony

living in a

one field planet?

Concinnity

Looking down at my empty glass

I note how quickly hours have passed

without any event of note.

My window has been painted black

whilst my eyelids are growing slack

and there’s a hard lump in my throat.

I have no source of elation

but for music’s reverberation;

the sound’s my only company.

Slumped in a soft seat in the shade

I’m living the lyrics being played

as if the songs were written for me.

In the albums dying seconds

I realise my bed beckons,

where it gives me space to think.

but before I go to slumber

I put on another number

and pour myself another drink…

Sidesteps on the Sidewalk

It is only on the blood stained curb

where you realise

that people are inherently selfish,

when they get on with their empty activities,

hurriedly avoiding your blackened eyes

as they struggle to avoid their own guilt.

The taciturn are not any less culpable

than the perpetrators of violence, and

more nefarious yet

are the ones who bask in the harm

and find delight in destruction.

Standing over you like ominous mountains,

they point their jagged fingers in your direction.

Yet there is still the saving grace of humanity;

The ones who stop, dust you off and pick you up,

the ones who show real concern for your welfare,

the people who genuinely care.

On both sides of the pavement

is clear proof of good and evil;

it is up to us which path we choose to take.

Death Is A Victory March

This is a funeral,

commemorating a death

which has happened some time ago.

I won’t dig up your body

and try to breathe life back

into your rotting corpse.

I won’t throw dust into your open grave

as I don’t even have that

 left to give.

I won’t wear black

when the light

has already long left my heart.

I won’t mourn the death

of something which was once beautiful

when life would only make you suffer.

I may shed a tear

but this is missing the absence of the past

rather than the absence of a future.

It has been a long and fulfilling life

but now it has run its course

and it is time to move on…

This is a funeral,

commemorating a death

which has happened some time ago.

Morning Thanks

Only when we

wake from our dreams

do we really

appreciate

reality.

Following the Hollow Path

Is hollow

a state of being

or a mindset?

If I follow

an empty path

will it lead to substance,

or will my empty stance

send me into a black hole?

I'm in control;

my mind's set.

If I don't really know

I'll just sit here and wait

until something fills the void.

Leave Me Floating

I've caught the last wave

on a piece of driftwood.

Now I'm wondering

if you'll catch my drift

or wave goodbye

and cast me away.

Wearing the Keys Away

My back-

space button has had more

wear

than my enter;

but at least I'm leaving

my fingerprint.

Occupied by Anxiety

Anxiety occupies

the jaded, stultified mind;

so is it better

to be active with worries

or to be bored with freedom?

The reality is that

I miss the times when I struggle;

for when I can rest

I long to be weary:

enjoyment is tiresome work.

Window Shopping

There is something strangely satisfying

in going to try on a new attire.

I am not shopping for necessity

but my wardrobe is becoming tired.

For so long this shirt clung to me so well

but now its grip is becoming too tight.

I still dwell in nostalgic memory

when its colours complimented my sight.

I hold no allegiance to my aging clothes

and should feel no guilt at trying something new

but when I have worn these clothes for so long

I still have prangs that I need to subdue.

For the meantime I’ll be window shopping

until I have the money to lay down,

and when I can afford to modernize

I hope that I’m happy with my new gown.

Floods of Thoughts

Gracefully falling in plummeting pours

the perspiring skies are pounding the ground

until the deserts are resembling the shores

and the world is drowned in pattering sound.

Let us undress and live underwater

in a new Atlantis so secluded

and should the falling rain ever falter

at least the grey skies would be eluded.

Fill my lungs and submerge my aging brain,

keep my pumping engine lubricated,

overwhelm my strength with your falling rain

until my old self has been mutilated.

I want the rain to wash away mistakes

so that my barren wastelands are flowing lakes.

Overgrowth

My life is becoming exponential

and so these feelings cannot stop growing

but when a thought exceeds its potential

I would rather have sentiments slowing.

I shear the excess out onto the page

but it spurts back though my veins to my heart

so that words become obsolete and aged

and are just as naïve as at the start.

So shall I leave the growth to manifest

and let myself become a natural mess

or do I feel that trimming is best

and let the waste weigh my weary heart less?

To make a decision I must be bold;

from now on my words shall be less controlled.

Distortion and Drizzle

This dissonant distortion

is distancing my focus

in uneven proportions

and I'm losing my locus.

This constant dismal drizzle

is dowsing my drowning thoughts

until my production fizzles

and my sunshine has been for naught.

Snowflakes at a Funeral

Snowflakes plummet in slow motion slumbers

with such a sombre and solemn descent

which saddens in exponential numbers

until the sky's soft mourning clouds are spent.

The 'drops fall into the freshly dug hole

and occupy where the soil once sat,

covering the body which the skies stole

the snow evens out 'til the earth is flat.

But that dugout will always be hollow,

the earth can never be even again

until another blizzard should follow

and my body is claimed by the rain.

Snow offers a burial holy and right

so let us mourn in an attire of white.

Bitter with Amnesia

I'm bitter with amnesia.

I wish memory loss would last

for life would be much easier

if I'd forget about the past.

But soon after when I forget

my daunting demons are dragged back,

slyly whispering of regret

their cursed tongues scathingly attack.

I want to unhear those voices

who have my heart in a seizure,

I want to undo your choices

and forget about amnesia.

Nautical Nostalgia

You tell me to talk when in turmoil

but my tongue is tethered to my teeth

for when your actions have made me recoil

it's up to you to find what lies beneath.

Anger sweeps in as curling roaring waves

but I manage to keep my storm at bay

considering the lives that silence saves

I try to shoo all my grey clouds away.

This 'ship will never endure the dark night

if the captain keeps looking back to the shore

without keeping the miles ahead in sight,

his map is filled with how he longs for more.

But then, at last, he untethered his tongue

and it soon became clear that not much was wrong.

Garden of Commons

The view from the window looks sinister,

with our gardens overrunning with weeds

and plant pots emptied in administration.

We need to bury the Prime Minister

for all his soily deals and dirty deeds

that have put us in this situation.

We don't want to be your discarded tools

so don't take me to be an utter spade;

it is time to chop and crop away excess

and tug away the fake flowers of fools

tat make us overworked and underpaid

and leave our garden in such a mess.

Approaching harvest it's time the weeds went

or we'll suffer a winter of discontent.

Something In Comfort

Draw the curtains and don't let the light escape

through the exposed window just to your right.

Lock away the darkness and prying eyes,

leave the busybodies to the dark of night.

Close the doors softly before the wind slams

when they are left blowing slightly ajar.

Lock in the sound of soothing melody

and block out the shrill voices from afar.

In your private cage, you are now unbound,

locked in your mind and locked out of the world.

and should chance arise for you to escape,

you'd lie in your cell, contentedly curled.

These bars that surround are your own designs

but there's something in comfort that confines.

Disappointed by the Postman

The rattle of the letterbox,

the barking of the rattled dog,

the drum roll of anxious steps;

the sounds of the early morning round.

The tearing of the envelope,

the scrunching of discarded junk,

the sighing towards this months bills,

and yet that golden ticket waits.

Disappointed by the postman,

you're left lingering by the door

and that thing that you're waiting for

will have to arrive another day.

The cycle continues all week,

we expect the things which won't come

but one day I will get good news;

I'm still waiting for that day to come.

Middle Ground

Between the garish and the taciturn

are those of cultivated tact and taste

who only seek the pleasures which they earn

and let no privilege go to waste.

But sometimes it is better to be brash

and be covetous for things that you'd like

for fortune can sometimes favour the rash

and stones are cast to those who make first strike.

There is also reasoning with restraint

when your desire goes past necessity,

without scathing tongues and without complaint,

finding no loneliness or asperity.

Between the pragmatic and profligate

lies the middle ground that I wish to take.

Treacherous Roads

The roads that I travel are filled with holes,

worn and weathered from both tread and time.

Their unstable surfaces take their toll

but now I must endure their final climb.

My engine falters at the highest peak

but kicks back into life after a brief stall.

My view from the top is beautiful but bleak,

knowing I must encounter the next haul.

After a consultation with my map

I resign myself to make the descent,

praying that my brake cables will not snap

and that my fuel gauge is not void and spent.

I managed to return safe and unharmed

but each mile left me more scared and alarmed.

Corridors

I am worn out by this incessant corridor,

narrow and dark, with no hope of escape.

With each step I take I encounter an obstacle

that I must pass to carry on,

and with each impediment I pass

I feel a bone break,

so that I’m rapidly shattering away

until I cannot walk any longer.

With each snap I take a look back

and wish I never embarked upon this journey,

but now I am too far gone to consider going back,

and I am resigned to the fact

that I cannot resign.

I am scared of the prospect

of being trapped in this tube,

unable to carry on or return to the beginning.

I know that I must face this test,

and I know I am able.

I know that I must face the next,

and I will still be able.

But how long can I carry on taking these steps

with no sign of reward?

When I do reach the finish line,

will I want to celebrate my freedom

and use the life which I have earned

or will I just want to sleep in my spacious earthy bed

and stop walking, stop worrying, stop breathing?

Shower

The shower can be such a soothing place

when the water washes worries away.

Hot water pounds against my frowning face

and drowns my sorrows in a scolding spray.

In this solitary booth life is plain

I’ve left used thoughts in a pile with used clothes

and as the mind’s murk trickles down the drain

a cleanliness of thought can now compose.

I’d stand in this spot ‘til the water chills

but I know I must return to the world

where I cannot afford to chase my thrills

lest my efforts be stained and unfurled.

They say a shower hides when someone cries

but what happens next when the water dries?