Raggedy Mules
Ghosts of the past
on their raggedy mules,
Clichéd and typecast
as infidels and fools,
Travelling nearby
in their caravans of woe
And in the blink of an eye
know what we know.
All that we fear
and all that we yearn,
They see and hear
as they twist and turn,
Through love and hate,
beyond life or death,
The journey of fate
lies on laboured breath.
On a wing and a prayer
we wallow in doubt,
Grasping at thin air
trying to get out,
But how pitiful we are
with our ifs and buts,
Never getting very far
as each door shuts.
Stranded in the void
between Heaven and Earth
We seek out the paranoid
to confirm our birth,
And they stand in line
pretending to be friends,
And on our souls they dine
when our journey ends.
Foolishly, we follow
with all emotion spent,
In perpetual sorrow,
waiting to be sent
To the archives of insanity
dressed as ghouls,
Where we escape humanity
on raggedy mules.
© RJVHorton2015
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Throw Me A Bone
When I'm alone
and out on the street
Throw me a bone
where the vagrants meet,
Shake your heads
and walk away
Back to your beds,
in comfort, lay,
And say of me
"It's his own **** fault!"
See what you want to see
of the fight I fought,
Against myself
and against my past,
Battling with my health
and dreams too vast,
Dreams of repairing
all that was wrong,
Dreams of sharing
somewhere to belong
Yet the dreams have burst
in a shower of regrets,
And I am sure to be first
to face their debts.
The battles still rage
in the memories I meet
As loneliness and old age
secure my defeat,
The desire for peace
is a mere illusion,
A faded pastiche,
an unwanted intrusion.
I will bear no grudge
nor shall I blame
Jury and the judge
who imprisoned my name,
Nor the sun, the moon,
the land or sea,
But to dance to the tune
that is wholly me,
And when I am dying
I will bow not grieve,
And if I start crying
I will take my leave,
And if I catch your eye
or you hear a faint groan,
Please don't walk by,
throw me a bone.
© RJVHorton2015
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
The House On The Hill
Bleak, the naked
windswept lanes,
Lashing skin,
unforgiving rains
Drenching tatty,
flapping drapes
In a flurry
of flightless capes.
And aged eyes
of darts and stares
Catch new lovers
unawares,
Flitting from sky
to window frame,
Dashing with
their hearts aflame.
Inside, outside
and under eaves,
Upturned collars
and soaken sleeves,
Seeking shelter
from heaven's spill,
Beckoned by
the house on the hill.
Warmly wafts
to welcome them
With lamplit porch
and lacey hem,
Wry smiles
and buttered toast,
Courtesy of
the resident ghost.
Old lady, with your
heart that bleeds,
Dweller in your
loveless needs,
Lonely in your
shadowy niche,
What trickery will your
soul unleash?
Jealous shadows,
creaking floors
Opening windows
and slamming doors,
Trapped young hearts
lay at your feet,
To beat no more
their wreckless beat.
Seething, writhing,
crimson drips,
Sweetly tasted
on bitter lips,
Beside their lifeless
essence rise
With mouths aghast
and fading eyes.
The clock ticks,
the hours pass,
Silence befalls,
in dreams, at last,
No murderous widow,
their lives, could take
Nor break their hearts
before they wake.
Stretching limbs
and sunkissed yawn
A sigh of relief,
a welcomed dawn,
To wander life
as wise old fools,
To knock death's door
before death calls.
Frail, in cumbersome,
aging skin,
Where no more passion
beats within
A little old couple,
with time to ****
Make their home
in the house on the hill.
© RJVHorton2015
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
As If I Were A Stone
Sometimes the night is silent
as if I were alone,
And as heavy as a sinking cloud
as if I were a stone.
Crushing feelings, not seeming real
as if they were a dream,
And as frightening as a nightmare
goading me to scream.
Sometimes the morning taunts me
as if I were a child,
Shining bright as a funny clown
as if he always smiled,
Playing tricks with my sanity
as if I were a fool,
Yet as loving as a reluctant friend
kicking like a mule.
Sometimes the day judges me
as if I were the accused,
People come and people go
as if they were confused,
Ignoring me with their scrutiny
as if I could avoid
A million eyes nailing me down
keeping me paranoid.
Sometimes my life seems normal
as if I were the sky,
Drifting by like a summer cloud
as if a cloud could fly,
But sinking like the coming darkness
as if I were a stone
Plunging me into silent sleep
where I will weep alone.
Sometimes the night is silent........
© RJVHorton2015
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:37 AM UTC
https://www.amazon.co.uk/To-Be-Poet-Robert-Horton-ebook/dp/B0171RHOP8/ref=cm_sw_em_r_awdop_X0Ikwb1Y5R43H_tt
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
All My Days
Suddenly,
another morning,
Swishes the curtains
without warning.
Portentous,
with its ifs and buts,
It slashes my dreams
like a million cuts.
Scarring
my already scarred skin
Yet barely containing
my nakedness within.
Apparently,
I am disorientated,
Wandering, fumbling
and discombobulated.
Trance-like,
I carve out a window
To look out at a life
lost in limbo.
Flitting
from one person to another,
Wanting to be loved
by somebody elses mother.
Same old, same old,
a hand in face,
The lonely spectator
of a strangers embrace.
Sunshine
that I just can't see,
Perhaps the days
were not meant for me.
Peevishly,
I seek the shade,
It is a darkness
that I, myself, have made.
Comforting,
like all my hideaways,
Yet I cannot hide
from all my days.
Reluctantly,
I put on my disguise
And smile at the sun
that dared to rise.
Incognito,
I pretend I'm the light
Waiting, without a reflection,
for the night.
© RJVHorton2015
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
Shenanigans
Ridiculously unusual
This familiar face,
Peering out of a photograph
Into an empty space,
With the eyes of a child
Where my life began,
Yet with the aging skin
Of a dying man.
Grotesquely beautiful,
This gaping wound,
Oozing its mischief,
Honed and fine tuned,
Perfectly imperfect,
Crafted yet shoddy,
Just a few broken fragments
Where there should be a body.
Extraordinarily ordinary,
I am an unknown name,
Written on a stone
Where all stones look the same,
Where the dreams of strangers
Are too vivid to save,
Archived in a memory,
Concealed in a grave.
Unutterable shenanigans
Of lovers and old friends
Pretentious well-wishers
As my life-force ends,
And kneeling at a headstone
Between photographs aflame
Is me, as a child,
Chiselling my name.
© RJVHorton2015
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
Hall Of Blank Portraits
To my father,
I paint you as the sea,
Ebbing and flowing
In my memory.
Drifting in the doldrums
Immortal and serene,
Sleeping forever
In blues and green,
I sit on the shore
And dip my feet,
Fearing your portrait
Will remain incomplete.
To my mother,
I sketch you in chalk,
Across a torn canvas
Where my demons walk,
Every brushstroke
Dusty and smudged,
Devoid of the colours
You have always begrudged,
I kneel in the nothingness
Cold and dank,
Praying your portrait
Will always remain blank.
To my wife
I paint a pastiche,
The detail and shading
A masterpiece,
Some of the hues
I will need to borrow
From the darker years
And the times of sorrow,
Today I blend them
Into the colours of your face
Tomorrow your portrait
Will take pride of place.
To my son
I create a collage,
An abstract of shapes
You can sabotage,
Rearranging the pieces
In the chaos of your mind,
Forming some kind of sense
From the images you find,
I watch you methodically
Cut and paste,
Your portrait will never
Be worked on in haste.
To my daughter,
I colour in pastel shades,
Subtle white lace
And multicoloured brocades,
Basking in the sunlight
That lights up your face
Where you'll always pretend
You're in a better place,
I stand on the edge,
Distant and alone,
Your portrait is only one
I will never own.
To my siblings,
I draw you as trees,
Rigid in stature,
Defying the breeze,
The roots are tangled
In crumbling rock,
The branches separate
Where they should interlock,
I stand in the forest
Alone and lost
Selling your portraits
At little or no cost.
To my friends,
I etch you in gold
So the creases that define you
Can never unfold,
The plaque will be small
But the lines true,
The faces I will polish
Will be but a few,
I reflect in the image
Blurred and a folly,
I will frame your portraits
With melancholy.
To my lovers,
I depict you weeping,
Washed in watercolours
Bleeding and seeping,
And on your tears
I will always sip
As off the parchment
You slowly drip,
I will mop your faces
Until the paper is dry,
I will keep your portraits
Until I die.
To my life,
I charcoal in greys,
Layer upon layer
For the rest of my days,
Eventually the blackness
Of sadness and rage
Will become solid layers
On a liquid page,
I will live in my comfort zone
In an empty hall
And hang blank portraits
On a forgotten wall.
©RJVHorton2014
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
The End Is Nigh
Of life, I am
a foolish child
With scythes
and pretty things,
Out there, somewhere,
running wild
Adorned in
angels wings,
Naïvely cutting
down my peers
Before they have a
chance to grow,
Dressing them
in my favourite fears
And an unstable
status quo.
Superficial hugs
and kisses
Ensure that
I survive,
Despite you all
and near misses
Perchance
I am still alive.
Of death, l am
a wise old fool
With poems
and sound advice,
In there, somewhere,
losing my cool,
Stripped down
to things not nice,
Mocking dreams
and lifelong friends
Before they get
too real,
But it's too late
to make amends
Or change
the way I feel,
I need the love
I once denied
And still,
I don't know why,
I only know
the voices inside
Are telling me
the end is nigh.
© RJVHorton 2015
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
Corpses And Fools
I watch her move
Like an eel,
Slithering, smooth,
Wet to the feel,
Thrashing shallow pools
Midst the deathly cries
Of corpses and fools
That splash my eyes.
She watches me on her shore
Like a crane,
Peering, strutting, sure
Of her pain,
Long, slender neck as sublime
As a sharpened spike,
Rising and falling in time
Waiting to strike.
Our eyes meet in the night
Like fireflies,
Flitting, bright,
Two lover's in disguise,
A struggle, a frenzied ******
She oozes in the affray
In a flourish of lust
Then slithers silently away.
© RJVHorton2014
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC