I know you're doing just fine
I'm sure of it,
I however have been miserable :)
In your absence and all that you did to heal yourself
You tore from me, and with it have become whole
and i am left here
Blowing in the winds of perpetual unresolve
sheltered from the pelting rain of ignorance and sorrow
only by temporary fragile and weak relationships
Staggering to my own two dwindly legs
to face each day so promising with the guilt of selfishness on my back
YOU have healed...
I have Hurt,
A white rose
Crumbling to the ground
As winds blow the petals
Where memories are found
In the sacred light of dawn
Becoming souls of light
Joining to God's blessed gift
To walk along the sacred road
As newness floods the soul
Bringing cleansing fire
To burn away the pain
Where life begins
White petals fall
all along the ground
Filled with beauty and light
For us who walk along
the dark tunnels of life
Where darkness creeps
Trying to destroy what little light
the soul holds
As memories slide through my hands
Treasures fade in this old world
Leaving me yearning
for a back step door
to walk through
To reach the times and memories
spent with you.
By Weeping willow
Miss my family
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood (unleashing lashing waves
that wash the stony structures clean with radiance that laves).
Deserted streets, once draped retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with sounds of words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life ( at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls, whist buildings, tall... outside the City, dunes...
they frame a frail forgotten tale, once written carved in runes,
with symbols strung like halos hung, reflections of the moon’s.
Though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise
the City’s now a sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos still aglow.
Steel chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
The footsteps swarm the church no more (apostates that profane),
and echoes in the nave ring thin, though chalice cups retain
a taste of brine, once altar wine decaying back to rain.
No face appears with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
or pray for mercy, grace, reprieve, or beg lethean balm.
Coiled candle sticks! Their iron claws no longer loom the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since night lit up, and innocence dissolved in melted tracks.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak .
The parapets... unoccupied, with neither voice nor crier
(no cantillation, belfry bells; no Minarets inspire) –
abodes and buildings silhouette their mirthless muted choir.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness meant to slate,
while lanterns, lovely high above, in silent swinging gait,
haunt ballrooms, bars, abandoned now, with no one left to fete.
The steeple tower, stone and steel, drab dagger in the sky!
Its hallowed hall no longer calls, when breezes wander by –
for filled with dread to wake the dead, it’s ceased to sough or sigh.
Sky’s silhouettes show no regrets, neath twilight’s silver shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap their spirits seep, a clutch of clammy clouds.
No things appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
there’s only hollow emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
The sun-bleached bones of those who shone are scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains.
But plaintive tears were never shed, for no one felt the pains.
The castle clocks unwound and blocked! Their peerless speechless spokes
unfurl in black the reigning Night, by spinning off her cloaks
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now phantom things on voiceless swings, like statues made of clay,
watch graveyards groom the marbled tombs, where grievers knelt to pray.
The terrors of a conscience fraught, no longer stalk nearby
to rip the shrouds from curtained clouds, frail fabrics of the sky –
the wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.
And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she sails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow shades of misty tears on sheets of shallow gray.
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
are lying fallow, barren dust, where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.
A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane –
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein –
the fruits of all the labour... lost... ’twas truly all in vain.
No souls appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
they vanished quite a while ago, beneath a neutron bomb.
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
I wonder what Heavens like
Is it white with fluttering doves and shiny golden gates that tower 7 feet above the clouds?
Or is it outside the atmosphere where a stars twinkle is so bright its blinding?
Are you suppose to walk up an ivory stairway or fly with your feathered white angel wings?
I see Heaven as a place you go when you are loved
A place where you don't have to be good to get in or bad to get kicked out
It's where your guardian angels gather and interact among the holy gods of Allah or Our Creater himself
Heaven is the clouds passing daintly and lazily by
Caught up in the leisure winds, grinding against the azure sky
Where the demons hide beneath the entry way, laying low
Wishing they were loved like the rest of the afterlife that lives in Heaven
Trapped behind the walls
my soul is putting up a fight
a raging storm
is raising winds and waves
and it won't stop
until those walls fall apart
I set the fire and closed the door
regrets and pain
won't hold me anymore
I had enough of those aches
and no matter what it takes
I'm gonna win this war
I crave jet stream moments,
gale force winds,
moments without air.
For only there can I find solitude,
only there nobody tugs at my soul,
no expectations can be found of me,
just the will to survive,
the will to commune with gods,
and I contemplate with frozen fingers,
"Whose image am I from anyways?"
Hang your head in dissolution
We are victims of evolution.
Do you hide behind your lost ruminations?
Have you kept your heart delicately sanctioned?
Keep your words to a minimum
No ones really listening.
We are all lost in ad infinitum
With coal black souls, glistening.
Are the chains tight enough
On your scar tissue wrists?
Has the blade grown dull, the skin grown tough,
Have you lost yourself yet, to the autumn mists?
It gets cold around here
I suppose it's about that time of year
When the leaves fall, torn and halved
These winter winds could drive a man mad.
Keep watching for words
You never sought to hear
Eyes to the skies, envying the birds
For all the distance they're yet to clear.
It is always difficult to describe depression,
There are so many interpretations
That people hold,
This is my own.
You're standing on the cliffs edge,
Looking out towards the horizon of life,
Then you see the storm clouds rolling in,
The thunderous roars of trepidation
And the lightning bolts of painful reminiscence
Mirroring the silver scars on your skin,
Then the mighty winds of worthlessness
Hauls you over the edge.
The cool air brushes against your face
As you descend towards the black water below,
Every inch of you is screaming for you to stop
But you can't,
You have lost complete control and you are weak,
Amidst the whistling winds in your ears
You hear the names, the bullying,
The cries of disappointment,
The reminiscent sound of vomit against porcelain,
You hit the water and shatter the surface
And you pray that you have stopped,
Things will bet better ,
But instead you continue to sink,
Numb, cold, aching,
You want to cry but you feel so empty,
Like the bitter sting of the salty ocean
Has clinged to your skin and draws out
The last ounce of feeling you had left to hold on to,
You stare at the surface,
Wide eyes desperately searching for rescue,
The fractured refraction of a flare in the stormy sky,
A hand to plunge into the water and pull you out
And revive you.
I have been fortunate enough to be pulled from
Revived countless times
After feeling like I will spend eternity
Living in the shipwreck of my insecurities.
It is my duty to scour the world and throw a life ring
To every lost soul who deserves to be atop the
Cliffs edge where they can once again watch
Another hopeful sunrise of hope break on the
He was for long on the river sailing since sunrise
When under afternoon clouds the hamlet caught his eyes
Wearied by the sojourn to that land a faraway call
The green beckoned to rest his oars for a leisurely stroll.
He sat under a banyan to heal his limbs of pain
Darker grew the clouds the winds hinted rain
His heart too was aching the heart of a lonely man
For he had left behind his sweetheart his beloved woman.
It’s not known if clouds swelled in his dreamy eyes
His mind was too obsessed for the Empire’s rise
There he stood on the riverbank an alien on another’s soil
That he must till to build a kingdom paying with sweat of toil.
He remembered his three children their skin’s blended tan
Their rustic eyes reflecting their mother the one his woman
He reminisced under banyan shade how he fell in love with her
Only if he were a little late she would’ve been burned at the pyre.
The man loved that sleepy hamlet built there a factory
The trade post became a city earned place in history
The river still meanders laden with the tears of pity
That swelled in his eyes for the woman he saved from suttee.
He saved an Indian woman from Suttee, married her and had three children with her.
How Dare You Tell Me - What Is Literature?
When I, waking pre-8:25 alarm, from some engulfing dream
Roll out of bed, read poetry when the day has hardly dawned
The wind surges through the crack in everything
Through my window, leaning and weeping
Screaming and tearing at me in Greys
Grays I've neglected in favour of Drakes
Socialising, absorbing this post-everything
Hearing echoes of Alex Turner
Soulful Amy drowned in Wine
The Magic Mushroom experiments of my early years
My late teens, which should have come earlier
Forced to grow fast to the sounds of Lennon and Kendrick
We live in a generation of not being in love, and not being together
When I first heard 'good kid, m.A.A.d city' I was still young
Because who told me what to expect?
Who told me but the Mothers and Teachers of the 80s?
The Bleeding Hearts and Artists make their stand
So Far Gone, falling free from the wall, unhinged
Leap of faith, like washing up the first cup in a student kitchen
Lemon drizzle flow and Drizzy seeping through every artery
A modern century, reaching 21 in 21
But back to the scene set to the Ice Age
Liverpool is my hometown,
London is frozen in memory, the pressure has us crash together
Our minds blend like time, concepts, musical genres
'Blurred Lines' - Feminist uproar defines this '4th' Wave
3rd Eye: We are living in the Future, in ignorance of the present
We are Generation Y, or Z, or just a generation of terrorists
Sages, Mystics, Heroes...
Sweeping winds through my window on a dreary morn
I read 45 pages of poetry because I feel like it,
Not because I have a seminar
University's red bricks fading away for me now
I'm just staring at a man's soul,
Attaching myself, this is why I write
I reach for the ceiling, in this small room
Yawning, the stretch of a new day
Going for gold (the sun, the stars)
Going for breakfast, alone downstairs with Paul Farley
As I stretch I look out the window
See four attractive, modern girls walking
(Probably to lectures, though it seems amidst the hour)
I can lecture too, with my arrogant, contemporary voice
I think - if they see me I will smile and wave, wink maybe
(Perhaps not, I am a feminist after all...is this ironic?)
These are products of angsty teen poem generators
They don't look, but I feel it may as well have happened
(I am in such a good mood I would smile at myself)
This generation seems to lounge in apathy
Girls in beanie hats, tripping off Raider Klan (RVIDXR KLVN?)
Obey Snap Backs giving me Flash backs
I wish it was the 60s, I wish I could be happy
Trap is the new Rock and Roll, Prog-Rap is coming, sit tight
(Was this always about hip hop, girls etc?)
Am I as readable as Holden Caulfield?
Reading about John Lennon drinking Milk
I felt like Sylvia Plath on 10th February 1963
Well, I feel like Lennon on 11th February 1963
Am I even an '13 Ye?
Screaming 'R.I.P STEEZ', or 'Twist and Shout'
How far have we come now..?
When will we redefine 'Post-Modernism'
Or give this era a Literary title
Like PBR&B or Indie
Like Blues or Jazz
Like the wind that rushes through my window and my follow up 9:45 alarm telling me I need to set off