dan-gilbert - Hello Poetry

To my dark scar, my black mark, The shadowy spectre that follows, you have constantly fought me down. But know - I will not stand for it anymore. I will reduce you to lower than anonymity you are less than a stranger or an enemy I will stare straight through you you are not even nothing to me. I no longer believe the lie that I need you I will deny you the attention that feeds you You are no more my inspiration or my muse instead I choose to see things differently. You will not be beautified or elevated, You will not be derided or hated, I won't dignify you with a single thought, but, from now on - I will stand above you. I am greater than the pin ***** of your existence my heart beats with strength and persistence You will not longer be the fear that lies in me I will see the truth shining behind your darkness You have tried to take my living breath but I have already hit the depth of depths and you can do me no more pain - time and time again I will find my feet and though you may bring me to tears and poke my imagination with a thousand fears I will not bow to you, my eyes are fixed on something higher, and I will be wholeheartedly blinkered. I will be me and that will be good enough I won't measure myself by any of your should'ves I will not blindly pursue an expectation of emptiness instead I will profess my own self worth I will see all of my differences - indifferently they are beautiful and flawed but are unique to me The rights to this story are paid for and they are mine and I vow to myself that I will hold onto my pride And when you rise up in me and begin whispering when you are sat upon my shoulder - I won't be listening I will block you out, I will sing above you I will sing unashamedly because my voice is mine and you will no longer dictate my course. And when you are the brick wall standing in my way And you try to cause my reason and my sanity to sway I will rush you, I will break you and I will crush you You will be no more than the dust beneath my feet And I will run faster and stronger than before And I know it won't be the last time I say this But this will be my statement of intent and I will believe in it And so right now, right at this moment It ends.

0

Sep 7, 2016

Sep 7, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC

Letter to A

To my dark scar, my black mark, The shadowy spectre that follows, you have constantly fought me down. But know - I will not stand for it anymore. I will reduce you to lower than anonymity you are less than a stranger or an enemy I will stare straight through you you are not even nothing to me. I no longer believe the lie that I need you I will deny you the attention that feeds you You are no more my inspiration or my muse instead I choose to see things differently. You will not be beautified or elevated, You will not be derided or hated, I won't dignify you with a single thought, but, from now on - I will stand above you. I am greater than the pin ***** of your existence my heart beats with strength and persistence You will not longer be the fear that lies in me I will see the truth shining behind your darkness You have tried to take my living breath but I have already hit the depth of depths and you can do me no more pain - time and time again I will find my feet and though you may bring me to tears and poke my imagination with a thousand fears I will not bow to you, my eyes are fixed on something higher, and I will be wholeheartedly blinkered. I will be me and that will be good enough I won't measure myself by any of your should'ves I will not blindly pursue an expectation of emptiness instead I will profess my own self worth I will see all of my differences - indifferently they are beautiful and flawed but are unique to me The rights to this story are paid for and they are mine and I vow to myself that I will hold onto my pride And when you rise up in me and begin whispering when you are sat upon my shoulder - I won't be listening I will block you out, I will sing above you I will sing unashamedly because my voice is mine and you will no longer dictate my course. And when you are the brick wall standing in my way And you try to cause my reason and my sanity to sway I will rush you, I will break you and I will crush you You will be no more than the dust beneath my feet And I will run faster and stronger than before And I know it won't be the last time I say this But this will be my statement of intent and I will believe in it And so right now, right at this moment It ends.

50

This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me This is all of me

0

Jul 11, 2016

Jul 11, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC

Photocopier

42

Nothing has meaning. Everything is pointless, an inane transient cloud. A single breath of smoke. Think of all the blood and tears that you pour into your work. What do you actually gain from any of your labouring? Generations flourish then fade each one replacing another that passes, leaving no sign they were ever there, only the dirt that fell from their feet. The dawn sun drags itself into the sky then falls back down as dusk comes, repeating its dreary cycle over and over with the same numbing certainty. The wind gusts towards the south then changes and rushes north, mindlessly blowing one way then another, constant in its confused and erratic pursuits. Every drop of water ends in the ocean but the seas are never satiated and so the rivers and streams keep flowing, repeating their tedious cycles again. Every aspect of life inspires apathy and is filled with indescribable monotony. Each dull thing bores the eyes blind and deafens the ears with mundanity. All that has once been will be again. Every single thing that takes place is merely an imitation of another. There is nothing original on earth. Some people might claim or insist that they have something new to offer, but you can guarantee that all it will be is a rehashed and repackaged cliché. All that man achieves will pass away and the supposedly great things that will be accomplished in the future, will also fade into nothingness.

0

Jul 11, 2016

Jul 11, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC

Nothing Has Meaning (Ecclesiastes 1)

Nothing has meaning. Everything is pointless, an inane transient cloud. A single breath of smoke. Think of all the blood and tears that you pour into your work. What do you actually gain from any of your labouring? Generations flourish then fade each one replacing another that passes, leaving no sign they were ever there, only the dirt that fell from their feet. The dawn sun drags itself into the sky then falls back down as dusk comes, repeating its dreary cycle over and over with the same numbing certainty. The wind gusts towards the south then changes and rushes north, mindlessly blowing one way then another, constant in its confused and erratic pursuits. Every drop of water ends in the ocean but the seas are never satiated and so the rivers and streams keep flowing, repeating their tedious cycles again. Every aspect of life inspires apathy and is filled with indescribable monotony. Each dull thing bores the eyes blind and deafens the ears with mundanity. All that has once been will be again. Every single thing that takes place is merely an imitation of another. There is nothing original on earth. Some people might claim or insist that they have something new to offer, but you can guarantee that all it will be is a rehashed and repackaged cliché. All that man achieves will pass away and the supposedly great things that will be accomplished in the future, will also fade into nothingness.

40

He holds it comfortably in his mouth Like a boiled sweet or a segment of orange And when he says it , the sound is natural. As if worn leather or turned wood could speak, It sounds homely like a crackling log fire But is also jarring like a metal nail being dragged across a piece of slate.

0

Jul 6, 2016

Jul 6, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC

F Word

He holds it comfortably in his mouth Like a boiled sweet or a segment of orange And when he says it , the sound is natural. As if worn leather or turned wood could speak, It sounds homely like a crackling log fire But is also jarring like a metal nail being dragged across a piece of slate.

7

I do not want an old man God sat in a throne, Judging from afar with sceptre and gold riding on a cloud, sombre and haloed, stern faced, woolly warm beard stroking, Michelangelo-esque nighty clad, run of the mill deity. I do not want a Sunday morning liturgy reference God, inhabiting musty buildings, documented within dusty books, out dated, out rated, out of duty once a week (twice if you include the mid-week bible study), appeasing a sick relative, reluctant, habit God. I do not want a jolly nodding head back shelf of the car job, kitsch icon, only when it suits me, pocket amenity, fashion accessory, hobby gimmick God; a God modelled from routine and agenda and TV evangelism, a convenience style digestible man made allusion. I don’t want a controlling egomaniac parent God, bent on setting us unattainable goals and tasks then throwing a tantrum when the model train set breaks; or a God who is distant, self-righteous, passive and out of touch, an elusive, reclusive, exclusive God, I want an ‘I Am who I Am’ God, whose boundaries are so immense that to trace them would destroy you. A God who is completely indefinable, that every brushstroke put to canvas, every conceivable melody whistled, that every imaginable word uttered, would barely compare. I want a God who to stand before would burn my eyes out, make my heart explode; that I would be totally devastated. Yet, a God who is approachable and approaches, a God who is in the here and now, surrounding, dumbfounding, astounding, a God with promise and hope you can taste. A God who breaks all the boundaries and exceeds every human expectation and limitation, a God who hears and feels every longing, every desire and creates opportunity, empowering the heart that cries out, stilling the soul when it aches, a God of promise and hope and deliverance. I want a God unlike any parent, friend, lover, sovereign, reckless in compassion and filthy with goodness, available and ever there. So dangerously loving, so excessively wise and firm, yet tender, knowing, emotive, compassionate, A God who takes my grief. A God asking to be found and worth being sought.

0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC

In the beginning

I do not want an old man God sat in a throne, Judging from afar with sceptre and gold riding on a cloud, sombre and haloed, stern faced, woolly warm beard stroking, Michelangelo-esque nighty clad, run of the mill deity. I do not want a Sunday morning liturgy reference God, inhabiting musty buildings, documented within dusty books, out dated, out rated, out of duty once a week (twice if you include the mid-week bible study), appeasing a sick relative, reluctant, habit God. I do not want a jolly nodding head back shelf of the car job, kitsch icon, only when it suits me, pocket amenity, fashion accessory, hobby gimmick God; a God modelled from routine and agenda and TV evangelism, a convenience style digestible man made allusion. I don’t want a controlling egomaniac parent God, bent on setting us unattainable goals and tasks then throwing a tantrum when the model train set breaks; or a God who is distant, self-righteous, passive and out of touch, an elusive, reclusive, exclusive God, I want an ‘I Am who I Am’ God, whose boundaries are so immense that to trace them would destroy you. A God who is completely indefinable, that every brushstroke put to canvas, every conceivable melody whistled, that every imaginable word uttered, would barely compare. I want a God who to stand before would burn my eyes out, make my heart explode; that I would be totally devastated. Yet, a God who is approachable and approaches, a God who is in the here and now, surrounding, dumbfounding, astounding, a God with promise and hope you can taste. A God who breaks all the boundaries and exceeds every human expectation and limitation, a God who hears and feels every longing, every desire and creates opportunity, empowering the heart that cries out, stilling the soul when it aches, a God of promise and hope and deliverance. I want a God unlike any parent, friend, lover, sovereign, reckless in compassion and filthy with goodness, available and ever there. So dangerously loving, so excessively wise and firm, yet tender, knowing, emotive, compassionate, A God who takes my grief. A God asking to be found and worth being sought.

27

It’s been twenty one months And the last kiss I had Was hasty and cruel And sour with the taste of lip gloss, And it was impatient and open eyed. That was the last time I saw her, Walking away from the station.

0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC

Twenty One Months

It’s been twenty one months And the last kiss I had Was hasty and cruel And sour with the taste of lip gloss, And it was impatient and open eyed. That was the last time I saw her, Walking away from the station.

7

The cherry tree outside thatches its delicate fingers into a mesh of pink petal sea, fathomless to the eye. The window frames it, a perfect picture untarnished by brushstroke, pencil or pastel. Each line crisp, each colour full The wind tosses the branches into waves that break pink spray into the breeze. The blossom snows down like a springtime blizzard. Soon the branches will be bare, like bones stripped of flesh.

0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC

Cherry Blossom

The cherry tree outside thatches its delicate fingers into a mesh of pink petal sea, fathomless to the eye. The window frames it, a perfect picture untarnished by brushstroke, pencil or pastel. Each line crisp, each colour full The wind tosses the branches into waves that break pink spray into the breeze. The blossom snows down like a springtime blizzard. Soon the branches will be bare, like bones stripped of flesh.

14

The train is a mechanical snake, its hiss occasionally scrawled above the grating of its own movement as it cuts through the smear of graffiti and concrete and waste and dry bracken. A single voice, “she was the third fastest girl at the gala, yeah she was really pleased”, the voice enveloped by the drone once again. The train entering the tunnel. The Financial Times lies on the plastic table, the pages loose from bored ********* bears the headline: sacrifices required for ambitious goal. Eyes trace the same paragraph over and over, drawing nothing from the coldness of the type script. I think about conversation but my tongue lulls in my mouth, dry, and my mind wanders between small talk and meagre pleasantries. I stare at the man across from me for what seems like minutes, knowing that he knows I watch him, analyse him, but there is no fight or pretence, only the tired apathy and reluctance I know. his arms cross. His eyes close with half sleep.

0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC

7:23 am (journey)

The train is a mechanical snake, its hiss occasionally scrawled above the grating of its own movement as it cuts through the smear of graffiti and concrete and waste and dry bracken. A single voice, “she was the third fastest girl at the gala, yeah she was really pleased”, the voice enveloped by the drone once again. The train entering the tunnel. The Financial Times lies on the plastic table, the pages loose from bored ********* bears the headline: sacrifices required for ambitious goal. Eyes trace the same paragraph over and over, drawing nothing from the coldness of the type script. I think about conversation but my tongue lulls in my mouth, dry, and my mind wanders between small talk and meagre pleasantries. I stare at the man across from me for what seems like minutes, knowing that he knows I watch him, analyse him, but there is no fight or pretence, only the tired apathy and reluctance I know. his arms cross. His eyes close with half sleep.

29

Television glows blue upon my skin. My head lies on the static of radio and the electric of the streetlights blaring through my window keeps me awake. The red digits of my alarm clock grow less vibrant as the grey sun stirs to the accompaniment of the jubilant birds with their repetitive song which hangs like these vacant walls, holding me.

0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC

5:52 am (bedroom)

Television glows blue upon my skin. My head lies on the static of radio and the electric of the streetlights blaring through my window keeps me awake. The red digits of my alarm clock grow less vibrant as the grey sun stirs to the accompaniment of the jubilant birds with their repetitive song which hangs like these vacant walls, holding me.

18

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0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC

Computer’s first binary sonnet

0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 1 1 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 1 1 1

14