Silence held firm in the rising tides of chaos,
on this last day - Humanity but a theory
scribbled across a burning horizon, incomplete,
smothered in confusion - Darkness reigned.
Enveloping the last evening, amidst the austerity,
of light. Here sat Humanity, no flash to savor,
the ruination of thoughts - belief in hope,
the last resort of the soulfully challenged.
An' so here rests the Poet, abundant with wordy,
resource, in times so pensive, we dream,
we breath, we spin a comforting web - helpless,
As the last minutes tick softly, calming the flame.
As the last minutes of the last evening soak into this last day.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
The importance of new life so easily forgotten,
Common sense, family, friends hurriedly lost,
Never did he offer simple respect they deserved,
“…how conceited it was to think of just me,
This angel, now gone, I just..failed to swerve,
Too late, teasing my ego with stolen youth,
Selfish pleasure – my starter, sickly dessert,
My main course, served cold an’ breathless,
This image, this perfect life, this Innocent,
Head bowed, my remorse is too little, too late,
My daughter alone, tired of waiting, asleep,
A kind, faultless wife – unaware of the horror,
Hand-cuffed an’ charged with manslaughter,
My eyes forever tearful, I now see in my mind,
The grief of the mother in this shameful theft,
Haunting me through the past and the future,
The darkness I have left, the unknown space,
I am so sorry, I was drunk and driving too fast,
Numb in what I am for the childish careless fun,
I am a father now to have realised - I have taken,
I will never forget, for she will never be gone,
That I, John Cassidy, have caused this death…”
The remorseless will always be quiet, alone,
To their pain, their old acquaintance until an end,
Love lost, hurt forever loaned from the senseless.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Am why be come
I does me back
Writing my or? to
**** mind is haunt
Or chatter this and
Thinking so? All teach
Out can my me
Loud? it past why?
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
Such a pity it is to see,
With one’s own eye to such degree,
Alone she walks – baby asleep,
With tired eyes of those who weep,
The nights and days of simple youth,
To ‘Single Mum’ from ‘Really Cute’,
Has taken all she used to know,
All pale from an innocence glow,
She looks ahead with hopeful gaze,
“A gorgeous child” a person says,
She smiles and asks the lady ‘How are…? ’,
The baby cries – ‘It doesn’t matter…’
‘Don’t mind him he’s always like this’
“The crying of babies I won’t miss”,
The woman states; and walks away,
The girl she wishes that she would stay,
She scowls ‘Why’d you ruin it for me? ’
‘All is wanted is some company’
It’s up and down the path for now,
Straight toward the familiar town,
Where people stare and pass remark,
And wonder where their cars can park,
Pushing on, head up, turns to look,
Not too long unless she’ll be stuck,
Facing sniffs from unwanted nose,
Comments on “babies matching clothes”,
Running through her mind as she walks,
Adopted mothers with their spiteful talks,
“You must do this and not do that”
“You must work off, girl, all this fat! ”
Life’s hard enough without ‘advice’,
‘You do that as I’ve made my choice’
Finally past - into the store,
Not to listen to anymore,
“Concentrate girl! ” ‘Oh! What to buy? ’
Fumble for change, tear in her eye,
Pizza frozen and baby food,
Back home, for now, in a worse mood,
‘Lonely I may be – not like them,
I have this child – a costly gem’.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
This is time – a mans enemy
Stalking like silence
There is woman – a mans answer
Looking for patience
There is nothing – a mans excuse
Talking of grievance
This is time – a mans enemy
A misery indeed.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
It's the centenary of the proclamation – we shall lift our glasses,
not to Guinness or to Arthur Diageo's dream of the Emerald Isle,
distracted, appeased, quelled an' ****** on the tainted black stuff,
designed to keep us inferior, pig-carriers - at arms with ourselves,
but of Irish craft, guile an' the rising of Irish spirits, the creation,
of a dream long suffered for, long wished for, celebrated in private
for shame of the austere reflection of a country and its people lost,
We shall lift our glasses to the beginning of todays sour ending,
A'sure twas' a good Easter that year.
Hand shakes warm, clean an' orchestrated with restrained sincerity,
A Kingdom reborn, a Republic divided by the maths of peace-makers,
The brave sacrificed for the sneering survival of these eels of politics,
Landowners who owned more than just land - the people's will,
Testament to this abortion of values, morals, history and desire,
is the wholesale pawning of the Irish coast – to support our captors,
the constant glance over our shoulders with panic in our quiet eyes,
as the money men, smug with irresponsibility laugh safely inside,
A'sure twas' a good Take that year.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
People are essentially cowards.
Push them to their apathetic limits,
Through the ‘meh’ an’ sighs,
To the over-exaggerations,
Do it not for dramatic effect,
Polite nods, scattered sarcasm,
False recognition, Luke warm,
Greetings!
Trust me, Believe in me,
I could be…
These internalisations of thought,
Of what, whit, all I have,
Are without sponsored hope,
As we are exposed to the unknown,
Take it easy on the way down,
To the ladder’s first step,
You’ll bow to the friend,
Who at first you skipped.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
As I smoke on more,
As the moon rose, a thought arose in me,
Of what one wants an’ how to get it.
This life pondered through a yellowing ****
Of a familial failure – this nervous trait,
Left to consider a stinging punch line,
Misuse of sincerity for the ease of hate,
Stuttered confidence in displaced harmony,
In time, smoking this from that an’ those,
Essentially to have an essence of an answer,
Rising from rambling, vacant empty prose.
As I decide,
As decisions go, I must resolve for me,
An’ find out where and when to get it.
These ‘internalisations’ of thought,
Torrentially pouring mind an’ heart,
Where to start - for pain; how to end,
Over-exposed, drifting in the known,
So I drag on another – four minutes lost,
Beguiled by the chokingly humid question,
Fooled I am, laid bare an’ decidedly unaware,
To lucid memory an’ casual resurrection.
As I stand,
As the truth riddles, the fear it strikes in me,
I know not what to get or how to get it.
I know,
Now.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
His Small Dark Man; our minds lovingly serenaded,
through the warmth - the faint buzz from the downy
salubrity of a brain to which no bird ever flew on one wing!
An’ so clarity, somewhat vague, paid for by a sorehead,
Leaves us a solid truth; that men are forever at war with women,
Forever being defeated and accepting this defeat as Victory,
Minute wheels spin endlessly yet happiness is static,
Measured out to the minutest drop – never increased,
Never depleted – Unchangeable in all lives; Men or Cabbages!
Simple visions of a life less extraordinary with faith in the ability,
To bid farewell – a gesture that had in it a fine dignity,
And yet a terrible finality; I must speak to Maurice more.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
This seems a playful satire on the mighty Saltire
prewritten amidst a highland lowland silence.
In the hand of the wise-to Queen, or St. Andrew,
eternally akin to this 4-piece jigsaw'd island.
The actors publicly casted, professional amateurs,
notably despised an' yet a country's finest.
The setting old an' knew, new an' known, with
a neglected audience primed for mass evasion.
An' piecemeal parliaments, scrolls nor parchments,
have no place in this covert-of-sorts invasion.
For the stage be set with indebted goodwill,
through empty words in empty declarations.
The plot is thickening quick to a household broth,
of misdirection, miseducation an' artificial lie.
That binds the truth as if truth could be told,
of national strength safe in obvious disguise.
Common wealth paid for by the oblivious poor
man's pocket, pulling loose a threadbare tie.
Nae t'shakespeare'd lines, no to broken records,
No to smug derision of the true an' earnest,
Yes to insincerities that make you sober or worse,
that shine up their last of royal seal varnish.
No to sticky-finger-printed brass doorknobs,
of which for Scots to knuckle down an' burnish.
No to pious voices calling to brothers in arms,
leave this pound of flesh in vacuous debate.
Yes to monopolies of endless fields an' wind,
an' guards sat on a wall which have no gate.
Alas freedom remembered, stamped an' framed,
was never a win but loss to sovereign'd hate.
Left to aged members of past an' proven fable,
to cry the Nae's an' Yay's of a borrowed tongue,
to the masses still confused, still right thinking,
of who to believe an' who to defile. Now hung
out to dry the many years of engineered deflation,
left alone with answers still evolving, still young.
A year from now a collusive conclusion made,
to this ending – the poet an' playwrights success.
Devolving the ever-changing, deceptive blurbs,
to inveigh a reasoned No with a passionate Yes.
Leaves me mawkish for my country as it devolves,
An' I the fraternal gambler with only a flighty guess.
Recognise your flesh. Recognise the life you have.
Recognise the absurd use of this bargaining chip.
Social norms which press you heavy, all the time,
be they Catholic, Protestant, Tory, Liberal or hip,
Recognise you can discard them, this very moment,
An' become a leader of this Clydebank anchored ship.
Let no acid be sprayed unless to sting open the eyes
of the blind. Let no more our words become unseen.
Let no more the voices of hatred speak. An' so leave
conflict where it belongs, for crowing minds to preen,
In the past for histrionics. No more of them an' us.
Step into freedom. Free, as you always have been.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC