My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the category “Poetry”

Gabbiano

Svuotare la testa
liberarsi dei pensieri
qualsiasi;
positivi, negativi,
esistono i pensieri neutrali?
Non credo
Quindi se non credo in qualcosa è un pensiero negativo?
 
Respira l’aria del mare
guarda le onde
senti il rumore
e voli come un gabbiano.
 
Voli e voli in alto
voli in alto e voli lungo,
lontano, finché puoi.
Nessuno ti può frenare;
solo te.
 
Gabbiano.  Senza gabbia.
Voli.
 

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Motion

Headstrong,
falling headlong,
falling over,
a stumble,
a tumble,
forward momentum.
Look ma, no brakes!
Just my hands in front of me.

That push over the edge
that fall from the ledge
that push down the slide.

Gravitational pull
always down; unstoppable.
No skin left on my palms,
red raw and racing to ruin,
or reward:
or just racing, really,
directionless
but movement is movement, after all.

Time (oh, how it passes)

The days pass
and time is passing,
another day has passed into night.

Time ticks on. Time ticks by.
The clock strikes. The bells chime.
The sun rises. The sun sets.

Always rushing, I’m buffeted by time
like the wash of air from a speeding truck,
carving lines on my face, like sea over sand
yet what is the significance of these lines
within the grand significance of time?

Time was. Time is. Time will always be.
Time. Oh, how it passes.

A muse

A muse, to amuse me
to use, abuse
to choose words for me.

A muse, to confuse me
to effuse ideas
and be abstruse for me.

Amuse, to ruse me
who eschews my views
but enthuses me.

A muse, to refuse me
to peruse my work
and then contuse me.

A muse.

Don’t talk to me

Don’t talk to me about the weather
when I can see and feel the sun,
the rain, the snow and the frost.
We have weathermen for that, anyway.
 
Don’t talk to me about your politics
when I have ears and hear the bullshit,
the lies, the promises; mostly broken.
We have newspapers for that, anyway.
 
Don’t talk to me about love
and how they say it is blind.  It isn’t.
We jump in with eyes wide open.
We have hearts for that, anyway.
 
Don’t talk to me about death
when it’s the guaranteed end of everyone.
I know I can only be at peace with myself.
We have priests and undertakers for that, anyway.

Back to that old chestnut

Sleep no longer came around so often;

it shied away like some embarassed first date,

or a cat that slinks away under a moonlit sky,

or the thief leaving the scene of the crime.

Ah, fuck it!

There are still a million words to write.

Breathless

Treadmill mind
moving, always moving
but going nowhere
The clanking machinery of daily existence
steam hammer blows
and sharpened scythes
hacking, chopping and cutting.
The tink, tink, tink of machines cooling
and the whir of motors humming
and wind in the sails;
there she blows, boys!
and the slosh of the hull in the water
while some dancing, gyrating compass
leads us to the world’s end.
Pull back, you’ll fall off!
No captain, there’s an iceberg ahead
cliff tall and cliff white.
Don’t stop me, don’t stop me
and look, there’s land ahoy
I see smoke and fumes rising
as big business beats its big drum
and the machines a-clattering
and toxic clouds lay like quilts over everything,
and everything’s changed,
touched by the hooked finger,
a stab in the chest like a stab in the dark
and light’s reflection on steel
beaten by a hammer
as the sparks fly
and molten liquid steams in the mould
as another of man’s design pops from the die
and then lapped up by we who wait
with paper and plastic in our hands;
but clean hands at that
although our nails are chewed.
The nails, nails, nails
beaten down into submission
but don’t forget to remove your thumb.
Look out!
The whites of the hospital
the whites of our eyes
always peering around the corner
because you don’t know what’s going to hit you
unless you see it coming
Like a jack hammer to the face
beating, beating, beating; pulse like
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Can you hear it?
It’s life: talking

English teacher (with writer’s block)

My day is filled with verbs and tenses
clauses, phrases, words and sentences
grammatical structures
quantifiers and determiners

My past participle participated and departed
my present continuous continues to continue
while my future simple
will be far from simple

I’m conditioned by my conditionals
and positioned by my prepositions

I’m an English teacher who wants to write
my language is my day
but when I put that pen in my hand
I’ve nothing left to say

Nightly battles #3

The lines were drawn
the enemy position made clear
I was becoming surrounded
but was surrender an option?
Really?
Was I to give my all,
myself to myself
like a Pagan sacrifice to knowledge?
What did I learn?

But the enemy retreated
and I slept the sleep of a clear conscious
(it is)
and I slept the sleep of an innocent soul
(it is)
and I slept the sleep of a hard day’s toil
(it was)
and I slept the sleep of a body and mind broken
(they were)
and so, finally,
I slept the sleep.

Nightly battles #2

I thought black was black
as in: the night was pitch black
but when I close the windows
and pull down the shades
I see shades
of black:
pure black,
light black,
eerie black and
rich black
which is not pitch black;
the night tattooed on my mind
With my eyes closed
I see black
With my eyes open
I see black
As I wait to see
the grey of day

Sinner

To the hero’s end they ride,

once death by sword tip.

Now, just take your pick.

Blood, so much blood

and shed for what?

Belief, possession and gain.

Where’s your faith my son?

It’s my holy one against yours (if you have one)

I believe my belief is believable

and you’d better believe it.

(So I look him in the eye, and I say)

Show me a miracle of your faith

and I’ll show you someone out to profit

Show me the forgiveness you preach

and I’ll show you someone out to stop it

Show me your ten commandments

and I’ll show you ten twisted sinners

Ask me if I’ve sinned

and I’ll show you the world.

He turned

and walked away.

Symphony and scream

The air is filled with the symphony of a thousand broken hearts shattered into a thousand pieces while the remaining void is alive with the anonymous scream of a thousand voices, cried bloody and hoarse.

Symphony and scream

 

Midsummer crow

Aaaarrrkkk!!!
Crow the black
cawing in the morning
from his lofty perch;
this Summer Solstice
is his alone.
 
Harbinger of doom
Picker of corpses
Guide to lost souls
Friend to Pagans
 
Raven’s little brother
descended from Thought and Memory;
who sit upon the shoulders
of the one-eyed god.
They see all
and tell him everything.
 

Song of the sea

I want to write a poem of the sea
and watch the gulls,
wind-blown and free
and feel the breeze caress my face

I want to hear the story of the sea,
to feel the sun
burn and scorch me,
in the salt spray of the breaking waves

I want to sing the song of the sea,
the siren’s call,
the fisherman’s plea,
as the storm clouds gather on the horizon.

I want to feel the anger of the sea
The pebble rattle
on the shore lee
as the waves beat upon the strand

I want to give myself to the sea
at the end of my time,
and let my body
be taken in the longship’s flames

 

Song of the morning

In the dark,
a candlelight in my head
as I’m pulled from infinite dreams
(of what?)

Eyes closed but the mind
opened to a thousand possibilities
in the coming dawn
(at least I hope it is)

I want to hear the morning’s chatter
among the birds
and their song of the morning

Valkyrie

She walks
in a rainbow shimmer
under a blue-black sky
 
Thunder
announces her entrance
drum roll accompanies her
 
Lightning
illuminates her path
ecstatic in static
 
The dead
strewn on the battlefield
She takes her time, and chooses

The silent scream of pain

Tortuous night
in pain, in the dark.
Piano wire nerves scream
in a white-heat silence,
searing through me,
blazing as I lie
longing for the morning
to bathe me in light
and chase away
this tortuous night.

The pain and pleasure cycle

An intermittent intermission
while life melts in fission.
Fused and confused.
A pause for breath,
like death
but not so long
or so final
or so primal.
As each beginning is an end
in a cycle which contends with us
and renders us with reality bites.
Slights and fights,
while in the sand we bury our heads
and look for the treasure
of pleasure.
Delectable and delightful…
Any place to leave the pain.

Another notebook

I did it again, without thinking. I went to the shop to buy something for the lesson I was about to take when I saw a new line of notebooks at a pinch of a price. Well, I’m sure many of you will understand me…I just had to.

______________________________________________________

Another notebook;
another notebook from a noted store
of a noteworthy purveyor of notebooks.

Another notebook;
bought with the notable intention of
making notes and taking notes.

Another notebook;
Noting acts of notability
and of notable notoriety.

Another notebook;
I have to take notice if I take notes,
if not; how can I note what I’ve noticed?

It’s easy to write about writer’s block

No words can express my…

non-expression.

The blank page remains blank.

Lines to be read between

have yet to be written between.

In my hand, my Waterman,

that might as well be made of, well,

water, man.

It would drip faster than any words I could write.

Reaper

Give me a scythe
but make it sharp;
so I can reap what’s been sown,
so I can gather what’s been grown.
The good.
The bad.
All lying in the sun,
drying in the sun,
dying in the sun.
My hands will blister
in this;
the hardest of harvests.

Night rain

I am the night rain,
float with me
 
I am the night rain
washing away
the day’s sins
from the shoes
of every sinner
 
I am the wet road
that will cause you
to slip, lose grip
as you grope the wheel
and slide
 
I am the oil that runs,
in colours
and streams.
Swirling, mixing
mesmerising
 
I am the lights’ reflection
broken and shattered
by each raindrop
 
I am the night rain:
drown with me.

Brass

Pavements,
spat on.
Statues,
shat on.

Marble and metal heavyweights,
like huge paperweights
Tributes to persons from another age:
forgotten,
except by the pigeons
and their stained reminders
as a burger wrapper takes to the air
and tumbles down the street
in a rustle
amid the bustle
of a city on the move.

In contrast to the statue:
a memory given permanence;
an old campaigner prominence.

But soon it will rain
and extricate it from the excrement
of the ignorant pigeons;
and the crapping crows.

Black

How black is the soul

that shrinks from the radiance

of the night?

Grains of sand

A thousand grains of sand couldn’t grate on me as you do,
she said.
I winced.
Only a thousand? 
You can count them on a dessert spoon.
Is that all?

I must try harder.

Dark morning

Morning
Dark, dark morning
If you were an emotion
you’d be despair
If you were a state of body
you’d be fatigue
If you were a state of mind
you’d be confusion
At this hour my brainwaves
should be delta or theta
but I’m full-blown conscious
brainwave beta
If you were a book
you’d be Skeleton crew
because we that walk the corridors of night
are few
If you were a song
you’d be The Sound of Silence:
Hello darkness, my old friend.

Oblivion

Ambles, shambles
from the bench to the bin
Brain craves for meths
as body cries “no more!”

His brain rules his body
and he rolls the remains
of dog-ends from the bin
and begins
the day’s lonely spiral
to oblivion.

Oblivious
to my observation
but I observe
and offer a coin.

Each to his own end.

Mon stylo

My pen
is a stranger to me,
estranged from me.
L’etranger.

My pen
has sat for weeks,
idle, spent, silent.
Oublié.

My pen
turns in my fingers,
once a part of me.
Perdu.

My pen
welcome back, great
to see you again.
Ça va mon ami?

Spotlight

Hanging in the air
in spectral suspension,
in anticipation.
Then, animation:
a slow sweep,
a bob, a curtsey,
a pirouette.

Framed in light,
a dancer’s spotlight.
I get up from my chair
and in the slant of sunlight
through the Venetian blind
a million others go dancing.
Dust.

Hand in hand

Hand in hand: like pen and paper.  Oil and gasoline.  Plant and Page.  Ying and Yang.
69. Yes, like 69.
Hand in hand: like Bukowski and a drink.  Hemingway and a fight.  King and the silver spine shiver that makes you turn and check the darkened window for a face you don’t want to see there; especially on the 14th floor.  Definitely not the 14th floor.
There’s more.
I could carry on.
Hand in hand: like governments and dishonesty.  Money and corruption.  Lies and more lies.  Lies breed lies. They lay us down and suck us up.  We believe.
To the noose, to the chair, to Medusa’s lair we go, hand in hand.

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