Poetry

Mist

As I sleep I breathe in a dreamer’s dream
 To seek rapture in uncharted pathways
 And make pilgrimage to the forest of Arden
 Against the wits of winter’s end
 And find solace in the golden world.
 Here, I am guided like the ink written on a blank page
 Driven by the hand that holds the pen.
 Eyes open at the first dawn of today
 And grey mist holds the sun’s rays to ransom;
 Suspending breath across the world’s stage.

The Angry Socialist – Part 1

I walk through a cobbled town
To hear the klaxon howl the echo.
Revealing relic remnants of the old Victorian philanthropy sound,
That gave rise to the ideals of social responsibility,
But now a hollow distant memory
Shackled by the irons of the privatised trickle down economy.
Peabody estates,
Cadbury’s workers’ village,
Scattered garden cities;
All once held the promise of a society
To encompass the poorer communities.
Now they lay waste to myth and urban legend
Cascading amidst a daydreamers vision;
A landslide of Utopian ideas
Found in alien derivative alternative dimensions.
27 years surfing rapid rapids declining local skylines
Of working class young adults.
Forced out of London’s
Mathematical formulaic enclosed price brackets.
Eclipsing our stars and the sun and renting out
Cardboard box rooms to gaze at the moon on pay per view.
Honest conversations with dishonest hands
Watch with itching fingers to pull socialist triggers,
That rough the winds to shake false foundations.
Inhibition takes flight and lands on the stage dressed in moonlight.
Place my heart to rest with the anarchists, bandits and thieves.
I remain pacified with a book of prose and verse instead –
These scriptures write better truth
Than the parliament of owls pecking at borderline, bottom-line threads.

 


Time

 Time is a deceiving song;
Manacled constructs that constrict the flow of the now.
I cannot perceive the past or future;
It is unfathomable when living moment to moment,
Hand to mouth,
On a knife’s edge;
My thoughts are consumed by an unceasing melody.
I live life like a musician, who composes a song which falls on deaf ears.
I write by the stream of consciousness
Like a bird who scours the heavens for food and shelter.
The power of my conviction,
My will to create shares the same forces
As the tides of the sea’s tempest.
I am an enclave of soul and rhythm.
My poetry is improvised jazz that stirs to orchestrate
Hidden universes residing in the cerebellum.
Aligning your spine and opening the third eye
To see what affronts your internal remedy.
I don’t know truth but I do know the art of lies.
I can dress a beautiful lie and sew golden laces
And fabricate fiction if that’s what you want to hear.
I cannot strip day to day truth; it remains hidden from view.
Time is a deceiving song,
But now is my gift to you.


Displaced

Sudden flash of brightness beaming down in deliberate, violent certainty.
Father Sun expelling his anger in torment, in rhythmic provocative melody
Scorching the face of Mother Earth, scarring her epithelial surface randomly.
Such mutiny upon her being renders a brewing almighty fury!
Her children wild and displaced,
Consciousness feasting on their mother’s disgrace
Running in all directions unravelling, searching desperately for a common united space.
Watch them as they run fear stricken
Flocking west to major cities who decree they will take no one.


Dancing Leaves

It was whilst I was walking I noticed a community of leaves strewn across my path. They neither laid flat nor lifeless; their colours exalted a ray of hues in shades of yellow, green and warm red to name a few. It was not their colours that peaked my interest, but their movement. The wind cupped them in her hands and swayed with them across the concrete path as if in a dance. I stared captivated by this performance and remarked to myself how spellbinding to see such theatre amidst nature – just by chance.


The Wall

This wall is not merely bricks and mortar:
A thousand hands, flesh and bone, aches and cries, son and daughter
Reside pressed against this towering intruder.
Their fingerprints mark like signatures
Embossed across his cloak in blood red torture.
Leaving traces of souls unable to penetrate his formidable armour.



Before I go

Before I go and delve into the ocean
Of time lost and time forgotten
Sink into the unknown depths of unsound mind
Cast adrift in vague untamed commotion.

Before I go and wander
Through the twists and turns of lanes
Like veins of my aged hands-
A wild and organic maze-
Each boulder, each ridge, each line
Marks the lands of memory’s haze.
I gaze at this foreign landscape uncertain… dismayed.

I Wait

Before I go against the desert storm
That disperses each grain of sand
Trespassing thought with unwavering command.
Lost in meandering internal discourse
My thoughts drive the insurgent waves;
A tsunami of scattered and convoluted connections.

I stare

Wide eyed at my unfamiliar surroundings:
Unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar boundaries.
Where am I? Who am I? That is the unrelenting question.

I remain

In my room I examine trinkets, pictures and books to reawaken
Perhaps this will rouse the promise of adventures once taken.
I hope for that one single revelation.

Before I go, scrutinise this frail faced canvas once more.
Does this worn portrait express my life’s score?
The passages of time imprint upon the surface
Marking days of raucous laughter
Days of frantic and wild resolve
Days of hardship and tales of woe.

Before I go
Know that I was
Know that I am
Still here
Remember this before I go.