All 10 entries tagged Poem
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September 17, 2014
Darren in Darien
Like stout Cortez
He will not fall
On Darien’s high peaks and hills
In valleys he will walk until
He hears the sound of Scotland’s call
No more will he hear Big Ben toll
Out on the land where workers toil
In run-down houses and degraded soil
In vain for fifty years or more
Under iron fists and broken laws
By the Thames they shout and squeal
And promise there’ll be no more meals
They bang their fists and shake their heads
But he wrings his hands; he’s made his bed
“They’re only ever words of fear
In time they’ll fade and disappear
So raise your hands and drink your beer
Our sweetest-hearts and mother’s dear
Are the only ones who have our ears
It may be true, our day is here,
Though frightening; it may appear
The chance is there for us to seize
We’ll ride our luck, as Ulysses
Made his own way on stormy seas
The sun is out and the lilac’s blooming
The shadow of the past is brooding
Phantom-like in darkened corners
Lets rid the past of would-be mourners!”
His shout cries out but all alone
He finds himself on rugged stone
Volcanic lava that once was molten
Dead as granite, and only frozen
He stands a shadow on barren crag,
A dim sea beside him as feeling lags
That he’s still to seek that name he lacks
With no place to sleep and his bedrooms taxed
His health is weak and the wind is strong
It knocks the breath from weakened lungs
The voice they carry, lost in the throng
Of fearful waves against the rock
That beat in time with London’s clock
– A city t’would be painted gold
If only it weren’t already sold
At vast expense, they had been told
But no one dare to speak out bold
And question: with that great expense
Could they bring back some common sense?
“Greatest hopes that had been placed
Now drift away as the margin fades
Men fight fire with only fire,
Though the need is great and warnings dire
To do much else just leaves them tired”
The tide turns as his mother chides him
She nods his head when he says ‘they’re lying’,
They often do, those men in power
They smoke cigars in phallic towers
And compensate for small endowments
“Our chance can come again,” she said,
“Not on ballot paper, but in our heads,
And in our minds; so if you please
Go live your life to the lees
They cannot take what they cannot see.”
August 21, 2014
Loosely jacketed against the frost bite
In the air, tight on the skin and in the strands
Of hair follicles. Beneath the swarming stars
On the dais of the earth, circling in the dark,
No light falling on them but only around them,
On a high prairie, chalk stone on the horizon,
They heard horses, jaunty, in the distance,
Though coming to that place finding no trace
That a herd ever had crossed it. And thinking the
Light from those stars may have carried them up
And borne them from the dark earth,
The electricity of night about them and
Walking through a myriad of different
They came at once to an ancient orchard
Where the fruit was of their own making.
Though it was cold, they stole like thieves
Loosed from a chain-gang and stumbling
Upon a treasure trove of different worlds
Ten thousand universes and futures ahead of them
And infinite possibility abounding like the swarming stars
There and always there for their choosing
Though until this night always just out of reach.
July 02, 2014
Studying the prickling heat on his skin,
Imagining each spot of pain to be spider bites,
Pricking flesh and spilling not quite blood
but a liquid coloured at the edge of it.
He felt no appetite, for there were no apples
Like those apples he tasted that afternoon,
He had never tasted apples like those.
Not before nor since.
There were never apples like that again
And the sun beats down on his forgetfulness
And memory seems shattered:
The smell of rain, fresh on the stone
Of paving slabs and steps beside the lawn
Where he ran on the wet grass and fell:
He fell more than he should
but it did not matter.
June 16, 2013
Merry father's day!
Not much of a poet, but I'm just gonna say,
I couldn't get you any moet* (they were sold out I'm afraid)
But inspite of all the Hallmark commercialism,
I just wanna thank you for your loving paternalism,
Yeah, there are so many words than end with ism,
But I don't want to talk about Marxism or extremism,
Just incase those folks at Prism are listenin'
So I'll rap this short poem up,
By saying you are very loved,
Now enough of all that pansy stuff,
I'm gonna go do some manly press ups.
Happy Fathers day!
* for the purposes of this poem, Moet is pronounced like Poet. Nice & gruff, none of this Frenchy wordy stuff
July 17, 2011
This is the silence that comes from paying back debt,
I’m indebted to you, we’re all in this together, One for all
And one for each other, Well I’ve slept long enough in this
Facade of a dream world in this real world where my feet crunch
Over dollar bills on cobbled streets where rivers meet,
Stirred by sleet they rise and swell against these
Bastian walls, only time will tell etcetera
cliched phrase, etcetera
Well we were part of this star trek generation which assumed
Beings from all nations and across the universe spoke Anglais.
Now I’m afraid if we were ever speaking from the same language;
The same page, then we’ve underestimated how poor we are at
Understanding this riskier business they call banking
But seems more like a free for all, an unregulated brawl
In a tavern where the landlord sits and takes tabs.
Sometimes I wake as if I've fallen through the looking glass,
Found myself in wonderland, a never, never land,
Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, mere commodities to sell,
And those who found themselves here, deviated course and
Now live, underrated making pornographic films, in
These dust bowl cities, circling those cataclysms of foreclosure
Where catastrophe is creeping into the streets, sleeping
Next to those whose homes were on the edge of the bubble,
The trouble is this watermarked catastrophe has crawled into bed
And is snoring next to the government, Ignoring the
Sub-prime by watching prime-time television soap operas.
If they put onus on home ownership why won’t they own up
Like grown ups won’t own up to their kids when they make mistakes.
Now I haven’t been to Baltimore, but I’m sure if I did,
I’d feel bad for having grown up in a home
That wasn’t threatened with repossession,
And that my parent’s divorce was the closest I came to ever feeling remorse,
Well that might not be true of course but true apology is hard to come by these days.
April 12, 2011
When I am old and still the same inside.
I’ve buried you.
In the sands which washed us,
Too full of imagination.
Closed in by water marks.
Cut off what I can.
To take this, solitude.
You astonish me.
In every place I’ve been,
I’ve buried you.
This, heroic act,
The denouement of Achilles.
The sting of rain,
Embittered and recreated by the
Fingers of the violinist.
Rest in my shaking hands.
These hands that cannot draw.
February 10, 2011
Eat your dinner silently as
you stare at each other without seeing
what you saw in each other.
scrape your leftovers into the red bin
Oh shit you’re supposed to put food in the blue bin!
Now she’s gonna be mad. Maybe if you
get that kitchen towel and scrape it
from one bin to the other?
too late she’s in the room she’s seen
what you’ve done and she’s
screaming again but she’s not
screaming with anger she’s just
screaming because you’ve both forgotten how you
to be able to talk to each other softly after making love,
lying in your cramped single bed with the
light’s on after shagging each other with your clothes on.
You take out the green bin. The green bin is safe.
can’t go wrong with a bit of recycling
eco-friendly dave, that’s you, conscientious you
care about whales and lions and even krill cos
even though it’s not documented, krill have a rough time of it too.
Out in the yard outside the front of the house you
knew was just a temporary thing before you
got your big break
then came matrimony and lying and fucking your secretary soon became
making love to your secretary
and soon you were standing under moonlight in Paris
and the moon was dripping down your back
and Mary was crying after the meal
and you didn’t put your arm around her.
Glass bottles for bottling your liquid aggression
and cans full of corporate thought
you look over at the neighbours bins and their
recycling bin is empty,
why is it empty? are they on holiday?
Their audiis are outside, both of them, one green and one red.
You look to your left and your right and there’s
no one in sight so you leap as a fox
an urban fox in the dark
over their stone wall barrier
and you open their black garbage bin
and tear open the bin liner and out spills
Arseholes fucking arseholes man they’re killing the world their killing the environment
fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck them
Don’t they know there are starving children in Ethiopia?
This is the end of the line
you’re tired of letting people slide into this middle class individualism
selfish selfish selfish selfish
Let them eat fire
let them eat petrol
let them drink their fill of smoke
who knew that rags and fuel could fuel a vendetta against the riches
the fire crackles behind the glass
glorious recyclable glass
do they know their house is on fire?
let them sleep in the fire
let them warm their hearts
oh shit man there was a dog inside and the dog
man it’s going fucking mental it won’t stop barking
it won’t stop barking
it won’t stop barking
head back inside to the cupboard by the stairs
take the extinguisher out. She
watches you but she doesn’t say anything she just
watches you leave with the red extinguisher
you’ve never used one before so she’s going to
watch you struggle
watch as you try to stop the flames
fuck man this is a carbon dioxide extinguisher!
you’re fueling global warming you idiot
but the dog won’t stop barking
maybe you can get to the shops and buy a new water extinguisher?
shops probably sell extinguishers.
now their’s this
screaming. Is it her? Is it one of the neighbours? This
screaming is getting closer and louder and it’s filling your brain with
screaming man it won’t go away.
and there are blue lights in your eyes and the red of the fire
is melting into your retinas
blue, red and green...
...and the grey of the police cell.
Will Mary remember to sort out the recycling?
April 12, 2010
Where we're going we don't need titles
Compartmentalise your minds
And leave behind you all the things
That time could not remind you of.
Because you see it’s easy enough
Even though some people may say it’s tough
That’s just because their attempts are feeble
And they aren’t trying hard enough.
Because all you’re doing is allowing yourself
To forget and move on
And since – as yet – this method has
Not been undisputedly set to rest
It seems a shame not to make the best out of
What we can do with our thoughts.
It’s not like they can be bought
Or exchanged like a cheap engagement;
And although they might not yet be all the rage
They aren’t something I would bet against
In fact since one’s thoughts can be one’s ideals
And because ideals are generally ideal
I think we should make a deal with ourselves
That we will not put our ideals on the shelf
They will not be stacked away out of sight
Only to wake us in the dead of night
As we remember we chose not to fight the fight
For what we want and what we need.
Because if we do that all we’ll lose is our self esteem
It’s not like we have a team to let down
Because as it happens there is an ‘I’ in ideal
- And also one in intoxication (but let’s not think about that) –
So what should we think about, well as a matter of fact I have an idea myself.
February 14, 2010
Letter from Prince Charming.
Gave up reading the lovely old Faerie Queene to write this - I think it might have been all the talk of Knights and ladies in waiting that brought this on, but who knows?
Anyway here it is:-
This is a letter from Prince Charming,
To the girls in all the lands,
Do not think I will come charging,
With my white steed to lend my hand
To you and carry you away,
For all your thoughts of yearning
Let I, Prince Charming say;
That those hopes will be unyielding,
And unlikely to come to pass,
For all your dreams of gallant deeds,
Are foolish, dumb and crass.
I’m sorry to say that the need
Has come, to tell you all the truth,
There is no shining armour
Stowed away beneath this suit.
I am simply an idealist’s paramour;
No secret agent come to save the day,
And I’m afraid I do not have the money
To wipe your debts away.
You see, to me, it’s kind of funny
The thoughts inside your minds;
That there’s a land of make-believe
Which remains somewhere in time
And space, or else hidden in between
The reality of this real life,
And the insanity of your thoughts.
So let me now end your strife
By stating how you have bought
Into this capitalist idealist
Fundamentally backward state of
And a desire for the fake consumer-led
Request for a Prince Charming
From North Somerset.
February 07, 2010
Sunday Morning Poetry
Not sure what to do with this, just wrote it in a semi-conscious stupor a moment ago. Anyway without further fuss here it is:
We’re caught in the time flow so lets watch the grass grow,
We can watch in the past and see what’s meant to be,
When we recite lost poems over cups of tea,
And we chat about us, each other and you and me,
I can see it’s easy to see the way the two of us make three,
When we look at it like that, well it’s simply
The case that we’re caught in a time trap. So
What’s the rest of us to do,
When all the talk is of me and you,
We can sit on horizons and watch the setting sun sink low,
Vicariously into the voluptuous mesmeric tones,
Enveloping us in the cold hearted palisade,
Time warps and we’re caught in an air-raid,
Blitzkrieg bombs are falling you know there’s one for you,
One for myself if I look closely,
But mostly I’ll just sit and watch the outside shake,
Think about it all because I find it hard to take,
All the gourmet passions have become just ‘so-so’,
And now our questions have answers but they’re only yes or no,
Our reality is closing in and we’re calling this real life fake,
There is no more feeling in this forsaken state
Of elemental desire. For pity’s sake
Have a little heart.