jm-klein - Hello Poetry

Snow fed spring streams, between granite peaks, Coniferous forest, Illuminated, the early morning earth, Awoken slowly, Sun rising. Upland where deer roam; Between forests and rock face. The morning air is in warming, and the light frost is in rapid retreat

0

Nov 20, 2021

Nov 20, 2021 at 6:40 PM UTC

Untitled

Snow fed spring streams, between granite peaks, Coniferous forest, Illuminated, the early morning earth, Awoken slowly, Sun rising. Upland where deer roam; Between forests and rock face. The morning air is in warming, and the light frost is in rapid retreat

12

time a lone stone mason wind willed, the dunes retreat, wave on wave eternal. let nothing be lost upon you, Keep your plans a secret. Save yourself for someone else. My rules obscure of course, I waited patiently. Doe eyed admiration. Two months or eight weeks, At ease within your orbit.

0

Nov 20, 2021

Nov 20, 2021 at 6:35 PM UTC

life

time a lone stone mason wind willed, the dunes retreat, wave on wave eternal. let nothing be lost upon you, Keep your plans a secret. Save yourself for someone else. My rules obscure of course, I waited patiently. Doe eyed admiration. Two months or eight weeks, At ease within your orbit.

12

Beneath a milky pearl For those who live away from this, it may be hard to picture the open ocean at night as a place of solace. With underlying currents and precious little hope of salvation, it's understandable people are confused by my claim. But deep into the evening, when the only natural night is reflected like a milky pearl in the murky waters a veil is lifted. Where as upon dry land, all manner of thoughts serve to distract upon the water it is remarkably different. Life is distilled significantly, hauling in lobster pots becomes all important other wise pressing issues are relegated, into mere trivialities. The distant shimmer of porch lights serves to subtly remind of why exactly, your alone in a boat three hundred meters atleast out to sea. In my opinion atleast there is has been no conflict of interest so great it could not find an amicable conclusion after a period spent discussing it upon the silent ocean. It is always worth keeping in mind, exactly how liable to change the scene is. When viewed from afar on wind smeared winter evenings, from the comfort of a living living room with loved one it's beauty laid bare for all to appreciate, it's potential for malice concealed. As swallows swoop skyward, and the temperature creeps ever higher the green August fields feel furthest, from the diminished days of winter. For me atleast this highlights well how much things are liable to change given time. In life as well as nature nothing is set in stone, for even mountains overtime will retract or rise albeit far to slowly for us mere mortals to truly appreciate. This is always best bared in mind when faced with great adversity or personal heartache, that eventually even though it may seem implausible things will change. I have often heard from all manner of people that they are envious of us, those whom make a living from the ocean. Although I've always thought there romantic image holds far more allure than reality, which at times can be far worse than a busy day at the office. I've heard before how those with jobs relating to the land, seem a little more at peace with it all. More willing to understand maybe this has always always made me think Clearly those who say such have spent little time with nature, Or just not long enough to appreciate the subtle changes which slip landscapes new seasons. The first arrival of seasonal visitors, they do not smile secretly at the sight of springs first solitary swallow, arrived from deepest Kenya.

0

Oct 3, 2016

Oct 3, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC

from Kenya with love

Beneath a milky pearl For those who live away from this, it may be hard to picture the open ocean at night as a place of solace. With underlying currents and precious little hope of salvation, it's understandable people are confused by my claim. But deep into the evening, when the only natural night is reflected like a milky pearl in the murky waters a veil is lifted. Where as upon dry land, all manner of thoughts serve to distract upon the water it is remarkably different. Life is distilled significantly, hauling in lobster pots becomes all important other wise pressing issues are relegated, into mere trivialities. The distant shimmer of porch lights serves to subtly remind of why exactly, your alone in a boat three hundred meters atleast out to sea. In my opinion atleast there is has been no conflict of interest so great it could not find an amicable conclusion after a period spent discussing it upon the silent ocean. It is always worth keeping in mind, exactly how liable to change the scene is. When viewed from afar on wind smeared winter evenings, from the comfort of a living living room with loved one it's beauty laid bare for all to appreciate, it's potential for malice concealed. As swallows swoop skyward, and the temperature creeps ever higher the green August fields feel furthest, from the diminished days of winter. For me atleast this highlights well how much things are liable to change given time. In life as well as nature nothing is set in stone, for even mountains overtime will retract or rise albeit far to slowly for us mere mortals to truly appreciate. This is always best bared in mind when faced with great adversity or personal heartache, that eventually even though it may seem implausible things will change. I have often heard from all manner of people that they are envious of us, those whom make a living from the ocean. Although I've always thought there romantic image holds far more allure than reality, which at times can be far worse than a busy day at the office. I've heard before how those with jobs relating to the land, seem a little more at peace with it all. More willing to understand maybe this has always always made me think Clearly those who say such have spent little time with nature, Or just not long enough to appreciate the subtle changes which slip landscapes new seasons. The first arrival of seasonal visitors, they do not smile secretly at the sight of springs first solitary swallow, arrived from deepest Kenya.

41

Coming up for air All manner of characters congregate in airport terminals, there's simply no scene sweeter than a lovesick twenty something staring intently at the door arrivals stroll through. A dozen red roses in hand, and a palatable sense of anticipation and to think, they say romance is dead. I would sit at my desk and watch the same stories play out at least a dozen times a week. The international student, the hopelessly devoted and but of course the people bound by babies and obligation. The spectrum of human emotions on display is by far the most attractive aspect of my occupation, I use the term occupation loosely. I enjoyed talking and asking and watching the smiling faces. If anyone tells you airports are depressing places they've clearly never spent too much time seated outside arrivals it's impossible (for me at least) to not feel lifted by another's joy, call it osmosis. To most ambitiously minded young people, there is little sense of anticipation for a life lived ordinarily, who dreams of excel spreadsheets? Who tells themselves that in fifteen years time they will pass the same faces from school in shopping centres or swimming pools without batting an eye lid. Though for the lucky few born where they can stay without fear of hunger, persecution or poverty it is hard to appreciate properly the advantages they are born with. It's easy to look past the place you call home. You spend forever thinking of distant lands with foreign food without ever really giving any time to appreciate the place you were born, the satellite town off an anonymous motorway people have traversed continents to call there new home. It always amazes me how as the people, living with the fruit of centuries worth of social progress, still yearn and complain incessantly. I suppose it's a collective cross to bare for all concerned, we who were lucky enough to be born here, take for granted the things people leave lives behind for. Technological advances have created an almost impossible situation to anyone who happened to live and did before the Internets inception. The almost instantaneous access to news and information has not expanded intelligence or fuelled fires of deep interest, a constant access to news has only served to harden us significantly to the world in which we inhabit. I think it would be short sighted and remarkably naive to say we are the first of human kind to grow complacent, admittedly it's not great but it's a lot closer than it was for anyone before us. For some it takes a flirtation with disaster, or the loss of a loved one to realise exactly how little we appreciate exactly what we have, for me at least it was a few months working in an airport.

0

Sep 29, 2016

Sep 29, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC

coming up for air

Coming up for air All manner of characters congregate in airport terminals, there's simply no scene sweeter than a lovesick twenty something staring intently at the door arrivals stroll through. A dozen red roses in hand, and a palatable sense of anticipation and to think, they say romance is dead. I would sit at my desk and watch the same stories play out at least a dozen times a week. The international student, the hopelessly devoted and but of course the people bound by babies and obligation. The spectrum of human emotions on display is by far the most attractive aspect of my occupation, I use the term occupation loosely. I enjoyed talking and asking and watching the smiling faces. If anyone tells you airports are depressing places they've clearly never spent too much time seated outside arrivals it's impossible (for me at least) to not feel lifted by another's joy, call it osmosis. To most ambitiously minded young people, there is little sense of anticipation for a life lived ordinarily, who dreams of excel spreadsheets? Who tells themselves that in fifteen years time they will pass the same faces from school in shopping centres or swimming pools without batting an eye lid. Though for the lucky few born where they can stay without fear of hunger, persecution or poverty it is hard to appreciate properly the advantages they are born with. It's easy to look past the place you call home. You spend forever thinking of distant lands with foreign food without ever really giving any time to appreciate the place you were born, the satellite town off an anonymous motorway people have traversed continents to call there new home. It always amazes me how as the people, living with the fruit of centuries worth of social progress, still yearn and complain incessantly. I suppose it's a collective cross to bare for all concerned, we who were lucky enough to be born here, take for granted the things people leave lives behind for. Technological advances have created an almost impossible situation to anyone who happened to live and did before the Internets inception. The almost instantaneous access to news and information has not expanded intelligence or fuelled fires of deep interest, a constant access to news has only served to harden us significantly to the world in which we inhabit. I think it would be short sighted and remarkably naive to say we are the first of human kind to grow complacent, admittedly it's not great but it's a lot closer than it was for anyone before us. For some it takes a flirtation with disaster, or the loss of a loved one to realise exactly how little we appreciate exactly what we have, for me at least it was a few months working in an airport.

3

all fingers and thumbs as always, I minding myself and staring, watching other people dancing. the Arabian Sea spread out, like a table, beneath a thousand tiny tea lights shimmering distant invitations. we wade in wide eyed, the waves lapping at thighs, the scene set the cliche continued all salt water and mystery, you kissed me. wading graceful, hand wrapped in hand, back to your room. the anticipation overwhelms me. No warm shower in six long, hot subcontinental weeks. I surrendered my soul to lust, and long deep meaningful kissing. fraught like war torn lovers, With a promise to keep, until over we sleep angelic blissful post ****** a blissful sleep ensues

0

Feb 10, 2016

Feb 10, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC

In January 2013...

all fingers and thumbs as always, I minding myself and staring, watching other people dancing. the Arabian Sea spread out, like a table, beneath a thousand tiny tea lights shimmering distant invitations. we wade in wide eyed, the waves lapping at thighs, the scene set the cliche continued all salt water and mystery, you kissed me. wading graceful, hand wrapped in hand, back to your room. the anticipation overwhelms me. No warm shower in six long, hot subcontinental weeks. I surrendered my soul to lust, and long deep meaningful kissing. fraught like war torn lovers, With a promise to keep, until over we sleep angelic blissful post ****** a blissful sleep ensues

24

I was opened up all unexpected, the moon and it's lunar glory laid out before me. People always passing regardless, for all of your highs and all of your lows the world will continue unaffected. Through the park passing houses waking up and eating breakfast, time waits for no man! There is certainly an allure in isolation, for three and a half years I would work the night shift, leaving for work as everyone else was sat down comfortable before football matches or soaps only to return as the last moments of dreamtime were being enjoyed only to be eroded by alarm clocks and waking obligation. In deepest midwinter between st Stephens day and the new year, when the whole world would exists (apparently) in some eternal festive stupor those lucky enough to work 9-5 jobs and enjoy there weekends will never truly appreciate everything this period is. There's no finer reminder of the carefree existence a good childhood can afford, than having to ensure on Boxing Day you drink precious little to ensure you shall be able to rise for work at 4:50 am the next day. No amount of turkey or cliche television viewing will make up for it, none whatsoever. An deep rooted bitterness forms like a pool of water on a frosty night it soon hardens, as plans are laid out in anticipation of the forthcoming festivities, no I won't be in attendance. I will not drink, I will not dance, I will not be a shoulder to cry on when all the world the world seems evil. I'll be watching the clock and silently seething, hoping above all some great misfortune falls upon all those fortunate enough to enjoy Christmas properly. A broken ankle? a premature end to relationship? I could hardly be classified as picky when it comes to planning others peril, I just want everyone to be as upset as I am. When the world weighs heaviest, and sleepless evenings are standard I often walk. Without anything of worth I can walk for hours in any direction. The road at night affords reflection, I've always been a sucker for romance and well really is there anywhere which can offer more romance than the open road? I've always felt personally a deep attachment to the horizon, all that promise. I remember as a child staring upon it with a sense of reverent awe, between the high rise flats a hill. Matterhorn it ain't but who is anyone to define beauty anyway? I would often find myself gravitating toward the golf course in the darkness contrary to popular belief (in my opinion atleast) dark parks are the safest place at night. You become an unknown entity, it's a simple logic who would be brave enough to walk in the park at night? who would approach or engage with a solo walker in the evening in the park? It's quite simply a risk not worth taking for most . Is there no greater reminder of eternity than the M25? to stare upon it is a subtle reminder that no matter what happens people will still be going somewhere and for me atleast that beats standing still. A line of white lights stretching out deep into the distance shining bright forever and always.

0

Jan 29, 2016

Jan 29, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC

New Year's Eve - Reflections

I was opened up all unexpected, the moon and it's lunar glory laid out before me. People always passing regardless, for all of your highs and all of your lows the world will continue unaffected. Through the park passing houses waking up and eating breakfast, time waits for no man! There is certainly an allure in isolation, for three and a half years I would work the night shift, leaving for work as everyone else was sat down comfortable before football matches or soaps only to return as the last moments of dreamtime were being enjoyed only to be eroded by alarm clocks and waking obligation. In deepest midwinter between st Stephens day and the new year, when the whole world would exists (apparently) in some eternal festive stupor those lucky enough to work 9-5 jobs and enjoy there weekends will never truly appreciate everything this period is. There's no finer reminder of the carefree existence a good childhood can afford, than having to ensure on Boxing Day you drink precious little to ensure you shall be able to rise for work at 4:50 am the next day. No amount of turkey or cliche television viewing will make up for it, none whatsoever. An deep rooted bitterness forms like a pool of water on a frosty night it soon hardens, as plans are laid out in anticipation of the forthcoming festivities, no I won't be in attendance. I will not drink, I will not dance, I will not be a shoulder to cry on when all the world the world seems evil. I'll be watching the clock and silently seething, hoping above all some great misfortune falls upon all those fortunate enough to enjoy Christmas properly. A broken ankle? a premature end to relationship? I could hardly be classified as picky when it comes to planning others peril, I just want everyone to be as upset as I am. When the world weighs heaviest, and sleepless evenings are standard I often walk. Without anything of worth I can walk for hours in any direction. The road at night affords reflection, I've always been a sucker for romance and well really is there anywhere which can offer more romance than the open road? I've always felt personally a deep attachment to the horizon, all that promise. I remember as a child staring upon it with a sense of reverent awe, between the high rise flats a hill. Matterhorn it ain't but who is anyone to define beauty anyway? I would often find myself gravitating toward the golf course in the darkness contrary to popular belief (in my opinion atleast) dark parks are the safest place at night. You become an unknown entity, it's a simple logic who would be brave enough to walk in the park at night? who would approach or engage with a solo walker in the evening in the park? It's quite simply a risk not worth taking for most . Is there no greater reminder of eternity than the M25? to stare upon it is a subtle reminder that no matter what happens people will still be going somewhere and for me atleast that beats standing still. A line of white lights stretching out deep into the distance shining bright forever and always.

5

atop an azure ocean old Polynesian pearl Omnipresent Overwhelming. Illuminating all before it, Waves glow soft, pushed and pulled by lunar cycles. Once the sun slumps dormant, the evening air a world away from a swollen summer afternoon. Leave me in stone! Quartz or Marble. I've never been fussy, Anything to ensure, my name remains mentioned when my bones are only barely there. The bayeux tapestry. Crafted by artisans Pulled by times tide Eternity echoed in cloth. Faces faded expression empty Tales told only so long Swordsman standing ready, Baying for blood forever. Wild joy when stared upon, replaced by dull admiration Oh how things change! The tactician. The tactician casts his able gaze, upon his silent subject. All manner of analysis ensues, there are many factors to consider. This he knows more than most.

0

Jul 7, 2014

Jul 7, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC

collected writing 2014

atop an azure ocean old Polynesian pearl Omnipresent Overwhelming. Illuminating all before it, Waves glow soft, pushed and pulled by lunar cycles. Once the sun slumps dormant, the evening air a world away from a swollen summer afternoon. Leave me in stone! Quartz or Marble. I've never been fussy, Anything to ensure, my name remains mentioned when my bones are only barely there. The bayeux tapestry. Crafted by artisans Pulled by times tide Eternity echoed in cloth. Faces faded expression empty Tales told only so long Swordsman standing ready, Baying for blood forever. Wild joy when stared upon, replaced by dull admiration Oh how things change! The tactician. The tactician casts his able gaze, upon his silent subject. All manner of analysis ensues, there are many factors to consider. This he knows more than most.

33

The tempest Fear not the beasts ire, with indiscriminate will to harm. you have precious little chance of swurving unseen agonies. Embrace as if far out to sea, Propelled by unseen currents, With highs comes lows come love and loss. Embrace action eternally, like former war torn lovers. Reunited we remain inseparable He tells me, arms crossed confident gentle unseen advisor -/-----------/---------/------//-----///---- paranoid You may well think I'm unaware of secret wicked intentions. You may well have me down, as dull and uninspired. Well I regret to inform you, your assumptions are misplaced. I know all about you, and the plans you forge when I am not around. I've seen it, I promise Your body language betrays Your subconscious intentions. All the smiles in all the world, will never win me over. I've made up my mind I've changed my plea

0

Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC

collection II

The tempest Fear not the beasts ire, with indiscriminate will to harm. you have precious little chance of swurving unseen agonies. Embrace as if far out to sea, Propelled by unseen currents, With highs comes lows come love and loss. Embrace action eternally, like former war torn lovers. Reunited we remain inseparable He tells me, arms crossed confident gentle unseen advisor -/-----------/---------/------//-----///---- paranoid You may well think I'm unaware of secret wicked intentions. You may well have me down, as dull and uninspired. Well I regret to inform you, your assumptions are misplaced. I know all about you, and the plans you forge when I am not around. I've seen it, I promise Your body language betrays Your subconscious intentions. All the smiles in all the world, will never win me over. I've made up my mind I've changed my plea

33

a river fish filled between snow capped summits. Brown bear stares. solitary salmon travelled to respawn, across an open ocean nearly there now. and once the task completed? time to lie down dead. ---------------------------------------------- a history of people passed. face shapes long gone, drawn by memory's gravity apparently once close now so far away. ----------------------------------------- the sunlight slumped on square shoulders. Ever the Adonis testament to a love unlike any other -------———-----——-----——

0

Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC

nature poems

a river fish filled between snow capped summits. Brown bear stares. solitary salmon travelled to respawn, across an open ocean nearly there now. and once the task completed? time to lie down dead. ---------------------------------------------- a history of people passed. face shapes long gone, drawn by memory's gravity apparently once close now so far away. ----------------------------------------- the sunlight slumped on square shoulders. Ever the Adonis testament to a love unlike any other -------———-----——-----——

24

on the pier the fog was always my favourite, sun shine penetrating barely. I'd always wake up as early as I could and walk down the to sea with a camera. You'd be surprised the faces you see making your way down there. The ever present left overs of last nights festivities, walking home shoulders slumped stilettos in hand. The could've should've would've, well at least I got to know her better kinda guys. I'd always pace out ciggarettes, smoking or trying when I could see the ocean swell. This particular morning was the tail end of October, and didn't we all just know it, the schools had broken up and town was filled with holiday makers. A milk cart made it's way up the hill past infinite terrace housing, stopping occasionally as the driver scrambled out. I'd seen him a hundred times at least, red faced and over worked delivering orange juice and full fat milk. I'd always make some smart comment when I passed him although today I didn't bother, twenty meters or so away I raised my camera and took a photo. Recently I'd seen a friend, down from London who'd recently completed his masters in photography and well what can I say? I'm easily influenced. I made my way down through town, past Georgian architecture and the neon lights of B&Bs;, reaching in deep I pulled out my last ciggarette, ******* hard with shut eyes by the the zebra crossing. Normally I'd have to pay to enter the pier although, at this time there was no one to make me pay. The fog was unrelenting and only allowed vision fifteen meters or so into the distance, I should've been nervous. Common sense dictated with my injury I should've spent the whole time staring over my shoulder although, I found solace in my status as a stranger in town. Two years or two hundred for me at least this could never be home, running to the inevitable end of my tab, I hurled it into the grey salt sea. In the distance a lamp shone at the very end of the pier, it slowly drifted further and further into my field of vision until I was at the old black railings at the end. Untill my dying day, I'll never be sure precisely what compelled me to stare so sullen into the waves. There's a certain allure to the ever lapping waves of the English Channel, I can't remember precisely which although it's rare I feel compelled as I did that day. My temporary fixation flirted with obsession, seemingly for no reason until it drifted into view. At first I denied it, it couldn't be rational thought dictated it never would be. Not in a nice seaside town such as this, whoever would the body of another be floating and at this time. I must confess I was not particularly shaken as the body floated ever closer, and underneath the pier. My only regret is that I did not take a picture of the deceased, my thinking was that there was no way anyone would chastise me for not reporting it to the proper authorities, and besides it looked so peaceful. Pulled and pushed by unseen forces a suitable representation of the life we all lead I can only suppose. Face down with a a mane of long black hair, atop stocky shoulders and a well built frame. Like some old roman soldier I suppose, with a puffer jacket and blue jeans the archetypical person essentially. Immediately my imagination compelled me with images of this poor soul thrown overboard somewhere or maybe dumped? probably dumped either way now he was at peace, a drift beyond the shingle in the morning air. Breathing a deep signs heavy with the realisation that I too would be lucky to inspire someone so much in death as he had, I left the pier and returned home.

0

Nov 4, 2013

Nov 4, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC

waves

on the pier the fog was always my favourite, sun shine penetrating barely. I'd always wake up as early as I could and walk down the to sea with a camera. You'd be surprised the faces you see making your way down there. The ever present left overs of last nights festivities, walking home shoulders slumped stilettos in hand. The could've should've would've, well at least I got to know her better kinda guys. I'd always pace out ciggarettes, smoking or trying when I could see the ocean swell. This particular morning was the tail end of October, and didn't we all just know it, the schools had broken up and town was filled with holiday makers. A milk cart made it's way up the hill past infinite terrace housing, stopping occasionally as the driver scrambled out. I'd seen him a hundred times at least, red faced and over worked delivering orange juice and full fat milk. I'd always make some smart comment when I passed him although today I didn't bother, twenty meters or so away I raised my camera and took a photo. Recently I'd seen a friend, down from London who'd recently completed his masters in photography and well what can I say? I'm easily influenced. I made my way down through town, past Georgian architecture and the neon lights of B&Bs;, reaching in deep I pulled out my last ciggarette, ******* hard with shut eyes by the the zebra crossing. Normally I'd have to pay to enter the pier although, at this time there was no one to make me pay. The fog was unrelenting and only allowed vision fifteen meters or so into the distance, I should've been nervous. Common sense dictated with my injury I should've spent the whole time staring over my shoulder although, I found solace in my status as a stranger in town. Two years or two hundred for me at least this could never be home, running to the inevitable end of my tab, I hurled it into the grey salt sea. In the distance a lamp shone at the very end of the pier, it slowly drifted further and further into my field of vision until I was at the old black railings at the end. Untill my dying day, I'll never be sure precisely what compelled me to stare so sullen into the waves. There's a certain allure to the ever lapping waves of the English Channel, I can't remember precisely which although it's rare I feel compelled as I did that day. My temporary fixation flirted with obsession, seemingly for no reason until it drifted into view. At first I denied it, it couldn't be rational thought dictated it never would be. Not in a nice seaside town such as this, whoever would the body of another be floating and at this time. I must confess I was not particularly shaken as the body floated ever closer, and underneath the pier. My only regret is that I did not take a picture of the deceased, my thinking was that there was no way anyone would chastise me for not reporting it to the proper authorities, and besides it looked so peaceful. Pulled and pushed by unseen forces a suitable representation of the life we all lead I can only suppose. Face down with a a mane of long black hair, atop stocky shoulders and a well built frame. Like some old roman soldier I suppose, with a puffer jacket and blue jeans the archetypical person essentially. Immediately my imagination compelled me with images of this poor soul thrown overboard somewhere or maybe dumped? probably dumped either way now he was at peace, a drift beyond the shingle in the morning air. Breathing a deep signs heavy with the realisation that I too would be lucky to inspire someone so much in death as he had, I left the pier and returned home.

5