Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2019 · 314
Lewis Hyden Dec 2019
Cool and refreshing. It's the American noun
For fizzy drinks, you know. A foamy relish stirs,
The bubbles rise like verbs, swirl about, and
Hiss at the surface. The faintest flavour of
An adjective, something sweet and forgiving.
Tasted like an adverb: gladly.
Jul 2019 · 227
Con Brio
Lewis Hyden Jul 2019
Lightning strikes in the distance. The winds
Howl, moons echo in faraway orbits, the wolves
Throw up their heads and scream into the night.

A gust of moonlight rushes through your focus,
Cursing your vision with faint outlines, phantoms
Of your window-sill. You think you hear the sea
But you have no blue. None but your curtains,
Flapping in the gale, raising like a crescendo

Up to the coldest stars, spread out across the sky,
Brush-stroke on canvas. Violins, the taste of coffee.
The wolves howl. Moons echo with your paintwork.
© Lewis Hyden
Written to 'The Death of Aase' by composer Edvard Grieg.
Jul 2019 · 204
Lewis Hyden Jul 2019
Open road curbs against the valley, short,
As I move to greet it. My mind wails
Into the night breeze, contentedly stirring
Over my fingers, my thoughts, numb.
Silence throughout, still beyond, but ever
The vicious cyclone whirls, stirs.

Long hours of sleeping. A glass of whiskey
And a cube of ice, cracked and harsh and
Splashed out on the road, the same colour
As lamplight. Mind, cold, ice, spirit
In my glass, rushing through quiet lanes,
Rush'd through my eyes, my veins;

Starlight swirls and washes up my shirt,
Wrought with chills. My chest wonders aloud
At the pace of my heartbeat, the short
Breaths, gasping, drinking air, soft and uniform
And empty. A sort of present nonexistence
Whirls about my skin, my mind, my tears.
© Lewis Hyden
Written to "Gymnopedies Nos. 1-3" by composer Erik Satie.
May 2019 · 304
Lewis Hyden May 2019
We hit a wall. Our vaguely sour
And broken dialogue drives us mad,
Like we can't quite finish a sentence.
Poles apart. Outside, the darkening clouds
Brood like the foul memory of
An insult, long forgiven, but
Not forgotten.

Our lines split and our words echo,
Writhing in agony, torn and bro-
Ken. Trying to form a question
On our tongues, rolling like hot oil,
Leaves raw burns in our minds. We lie
In quiet then, a rainless storm of
Unspoken fears.
© Lewis Hyden
May 2019 · 322
Star Dusting
Lewis Hyden May 2019
Dust is that from which stars are made.
A paradigm of childbirth. Blood
Swirling in a hot centrifuge
Like a vortex of fabric, played
Delicately atop the palm of a
Darling wife, motherly creature,
Denied her union. Bled of that hot
Milk, strained like a force, though never

Pulled beyond, she sits atop her
Stool, draped in the clothier's mantle,
With the hands of a craftswoman. Her eyes
Bedazzle us, distant and purposeful.
Woven from dust, these gentle threads
Are tangled and wrapped unto themselves, formed
Into the fabric of a memory
And bled out in a lattice of starlight.

Dust is that from which stars are made.
The dust of a memory, ground
Under the craftswoman's pestle. Our lights
Are distinct, cut like a crystal
And hewn into the sterling weave
Of jewels, held out like a shroud
And left to dry, as that faint light
Dreams of swirling dust.

Ever-sung stories. Melodies, music
Becomes a lattice on which our
Light is recalled. A whispered melody
Turned lyric. Into the stars our
Memories echo, ringing through
Fields of starlight. Our resonance,
Committed to its odyssey, is sent off
With a kiss on its forehead.

Wisps adrift in the void count off,
One-by-one, and softly surrender.
The message of our memory,
Held upon a star, is lastly forgot
As the shroud dissipates and forms
A veil, adored and tragic and torn out
Across the sky. Gently woven anew,
Our memories refreshed like a drop of water.
Expect revisions.
© Lewis Hyden
Apr 2019 · 854
Lewis Hyden Apr 2019
Like a river of cold tears, that gentle Autumn rain
Streams down my window. Somewhere outside
A gale caresses the trees, whirls them around,
Carrying away their leaves, like broken fragments
Of a memory.

I can't sleep, because I don't want to. That late
Summer air fills my lungs, cooling me from the
Inside. My legs tingle from sitting a little awkward,
So I lie my head back, face the curtains, and wonder
At the rain.

I couldn't have known. Beyond my roof, a few feet
From my bed, a quiet breeze would rush along
And streak past my window, blow my curtains
Aside, carrying with it the faraway sensations
Of the world below.

Alone I sat in silence. I was not to feel the cold,
Wrapped up in my little duvet. I felt only the cool
Embrace of solemnity kiss my forehead, stir past,
And disperse among the bedsheets. I wanted to cry,
But they were good tears.

I will never forget. When I am alone, my curtains
Will brush against the window-pane, thin-paced,
And the tears will come again. Good tears, I think.
When I was little, I couldn't have known;
Those were the days.
© Lewis Hyden
Apr 2019 · 246
Generation Loss
Lewis Hyden Apr 2019
It is very faint. The
Memory whirrs about
In my mind, like an
Old VHS tape. Cold

Static, drawing across
My faintest conceptions.
A grey recording of
A time past, old and

Gone. The bright screen
Under the dark sheets,
The cool August night.
That music. All of it

Faint, hewn in static,
Bleeding from decades
Of being replayed. Now
All I can do is struggle,

Struggle to remember.
© Lewis Hyden
Apr 2019 · 491
Lewis Hyden Apr 2019
'Password too weak'.
I smirk and strike my keyboard,
Add a couple of fives, a question mark
At the end. Who's weak now?
My password has been
Hitting the gym. Stronger than yours.
A small victory.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
Mar 2019 · 2.0k
Lewis Hyden Mar 2019
His new jacket,
Hot off the hot-sale shelves.
Strangely decadent - in the
Personal sense - yet straight,
Reserved, almost classy.
An honest facade, clean-cut

Hides within itself
A rich tapestry of ambiguity.
The lemur paws a jungle-vine,
From whence hangs a
Broad-winged and exotic bloom,
Rich with the complexity of a man

Whose aspect is honesty,
Simple integrity; but whose
Inner workings are ever more vivid
And complex, like the lush petals
Sewn through the lining of
His new jacket.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
Feb 2019 · 667
Lewis Hyden Feb 2019
Across the vales of sweeping grass
Beyond the summer-swept coastline,
The lines of flocking thrushes pass
Between the rocks and Scottish pines.

A whistle calls the thistle-shrub
Between the mother and her cub,
And as the bears move up the stream
She leaps, and tumbles into steam.

The waterfall's a sainted arm
Rushing through the blushing woods.
The summer breeze, with all its charm
Has never left, and never should.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
Feb 2019 · 264
The Trip
Lewis Hyden Feb 2019
We happen then. Rushed with
The sharp reel of sirens, blur past,
Smashed out through my skull,
Whirring quietly in the void of
Night-terrors. The cold sheets.

Ice in my veins. Cold gusts of hot wind
Stir through my fragile meat. The
Tall, ebony fortress, the stacked floors
Towering like a stern smack on my
Cheek. The dry taste of ash.

Rising up through volleys, raindrops
Like gunfire, shells pouring across
My matted cheeks, dry eyes, no
Sleep, the street hugging me close,
Mad with love, eating me;

Frail puddles shatter under my
Reflection, heavy with sin and shame
And guilt and longing and pity
And myself, devoted one to its own,
As if I had never been born.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
Feb 2019 · 184
A Collection Of Snowy Words
Lewis Hyden Feb 2019
White frost spread thin,
Matte snow, broad-flowing,
Veils on vales, cool-eyed,
Soft-heart, sheet-white,
Glows shy, ignite,

Sky-bright smears down,
Cross-hitch, white town,
Hand-stitched, fresh-laid,
White sheet, green jade,
Soft light, midnight,
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
Jan 2019 · 203
One Too Many
Lewis Hyden Jan 2019
Very occasionally, but only sometimes,
I can hear the noise that nobody heard.
My cold mind strikes a chord. Pavement
Slabs boiling under the lamp-light, sizzling
In the rain, torrential salty cloud-tears.

A faint whistle, gentle blowing, soft-gazed
And patient, stirs past the eighth floor,
Descends to the seventh, sixth, then five,
Falling four more down when a sharp rise
In rain, splashing, hears the impact -

Crack. Wet and purposeless. Smashing hard
Against the concrete bristles. The splash as
She slumps, back-down, in a quiet back alley
Behind the car-park, lying to rest then, asleep
In a cry that nobody heard.
© Lewis Hyden, 2019
Dec 2018 · 530
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Ramp up - still
Under pavements
And concrete roofs,
Beams of lead,
Mortar, spaces open,
Ramps leading up,
Speed-bumps, graffiti
Straining under layers of
Stairwells, asbestos,
Cold, sickness, hunger,
Tears, bitter chill, hot
Blankets, sogging, filthy,
Ramps ascending through
Exhaust fumes and tar and
Blood and sweat and smoke and

The top.
Cold. Overlooking the vile city
In all its putrid splendor.
A dream swirls in the blackness,
Then dies.
© Lewis Hyden 2019
Dec 2018 · 964
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Bright horizons rise up
Over the broad, soothing,
Pixelated mountains.
A parse in the code wakes
And shivers under the
Blazingly cold sun.

Drifting clouds, silvered with
Pixels, flowing like a
River of neon lights.
The data streams above,
Dreamy and nostalgic,
Like quiet afternoons

Inside, listening to the
Cool, pattering rain tap
Gently at the window.
Dark clouds outside, stirring
With a roll of thunder,
And a screen, the music

Chimes gently in your mind.
Hums, chords, thrums, and a quiet,
Beckoning warmth, waving
Back through the pixel clouds
Under the pixel sun.
The colours blend with

The sweet taste of cola.
Salty crisps, shaken, bagged
And popped open at lunch.
Fresh tuna sandwiches,
The click of a cassette tape.
Unwrapped magazines.

Old smells mingle on your
Cool tongue. Lavender oil,
Peppermints in Winter,
Strawberries and cream. You
Feel the pixels in your
Pockets, like loose change.

Those soft chimes return still
To the old windowsill
In the light breeze. Each leaf
Its own story, washed in
Streams of pixels, flowing
Timid through the sky.

A bird tweets. The dreams stir
And fade into the clouds.
Softly lit, glowing sun,
Bathed in warm nostalgia.
Nobody really goes
To Earth, anymore.
A poem about nostalgia.
The final poem in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Dec 2018 · 2.5k
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Cyber! Neon green, pinks,
Hair like vivid spotlights
At nightclubs, darting, sharp,
Strong-willed and persistent,
Piercing through the pale skin
Laid thinly over fog.

Shock-shock! If anarchy
Is popular, what does
It mean to rebel? Rave
Lights beam through the system
Like tracer rounds! The punks
Spin like halogen bulbs.

Steel! Plenty of plastic.
Enough to rebuild the
Eccentric walls of their
Flashy nightclubs. Above,
Sophisticated chains
Spin and drag over meat;

Pointless. A simple sort
Of mechanisation.
The music, the plastic,
The hair dye; all of it
Spits to the contrary,
Such anarchists are they.
A poem about failure.
#32 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Dec 2018 · 678
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Fire stirs gently
In the depths of my chest.
Hot rocks, rolling
The molten stones down to

My stomach. The
Ache is quelled, substitute
To flame. Piping
Cold nectar, as gold,

Drawing only the
Boldest flames, dragon-like,
From my throat, my eyes,
My thoughts,

Invoked. Strong,
Stirring-gold, brazing,
Golden flames. Quell
The pains of my

Sooth the raw burns
Of my purpose,
Or lack thereof.
A poem about alcoholism.
#31 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Dec 2018 · 2.8k
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
A pale green Siren
With fair skin, and the distant
Aroma of coffee beans...

Behind her, a broad,
White-bearded old man
Grinning, stares through my head...

And above, the dull hum
Of an apple, a single bite missing,
Penetrates me with its glare...

My eyes sting with tears.

It's almost like they need
To force us to be human.
A poem about advertising.
#30 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Dec 2018 · 5.2k
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
The end of Second Summer's day
When rain and snow have ceased to be
Will see the end of our delay
And mark the death of our decree.

Elsewhere the despondent souls
Of smoke-stacks rise up from the coals...

As plastic melts beneath the glare
And long the Dream was dashed ashore,
Then will smog-clouds light the air
And cast the fires across the moor.

... Then, far beyond, the wand'ring mirth
Will strike the land, and scorch the Earth...

Until the sky is raised in flame
We'll walk the trail of frail regrets,
And once the world glows hot with shame
Shame will then our end beget.

... And so our doing will blaze the sky
A poem about global warming.
#29 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 5.2k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A cloud of smoke and fog so toxic
They had to give it a name.
Out here, it coils around signs
And slinks up the height of buses:
Keen and watchful, like a python,
Squeezing the life from

My lungs. Heavy with ash
And tar from the cigarettes.
The fumes snake upwards,
Swirling in fog, smog,
Ashen clouds. There's a sight
For sore minds.
A poem about air pollution.
#28 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.1k
The Bus
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Sleeping commuters leave
Ghostly auras amidst
The foggy plastic windows.
They slumber through
The booming snore
Of exhaust-pipes, choking smoke.

Silence. Or closest to.
Even stopped, the Bus roars,
Patiently brooding, growling,
As a wolf in the underbrush
Watching the crimson lights, sharp
Like blood on a pavement.

A small cat, uncollared,
Sprints across the road
But is pounced upon.
The wheels creak,
Commuters stir, and the Bus
Stalks away into the night.
A poem about human carelessness.
#27 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 2.2k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Last weekend, I
Went out stargazing.

I was struck
By the cold beauty of one
Lonely star, glistening
In the inky veil,
Winking at me.

Alone in her
Frigid bedsheets, she
Gazed down, like monarchy,
To I; the one who saw
Her quiet beauty.

She winked again,
Then drifted away:
A plane in the night.
So there were no stars
That evening, after all.
A poem about stargazing.
#26 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 217
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
You sit and admire
The sky of liquid silver.
Birds twitter above.
A haiku about social media.
#25 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.1k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Echoes of sirens
Wailing a shrill melody
Scream in the cold night.
A haiku about noise.
#24 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 2.8k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A plastic bottle
Sits discarded at
The foot of a
Recycling bin.

A city bird,
Mistaking it for
Some kind of
Strange fruit, or

Perhaps a meal
Fit for a king
Descends, grasps it
With pincer'd claws,

Then carries it to
Her nest, and sits
For five minutes,
Watching, confused,

As her hatchlings
Gnaw at the label.
In bright red letters:
'Taste The Feeling.'
A poem about responsibility.
#23 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.3k
We Know What You Want
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
The other day, I
Tried to eat a
*** of yoghurt.

Lacking the tools,
I called up
To my mother:

"Mum! Where
Are the spoons?"
The fatal words.

Now, every time I
Go online, all the
Adverts are for cutlery.
A poem about advertising.
#22 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 569
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A distant gunshot
Politely reminds you that
Safety is a lie.
A haiku about urban crime.
#21 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 4.9k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Frigid buildings as those
That scrape the sky, climbing.
In a place that no-one knows,
Distant bells are chiming

To the shots and screaming,
"Stop resisting!" A rise
In terror betraying
The brittle city's brittle lies.

And for a time we hoped that they
Would never know our quiet rage,
And from the melting lights, we pray
For the silent, now upstaged.
A poem about Utopian life.
#20 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 13.2k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
About a year ago,
I quit smoking.

My counselor - a
Firm anti-smoker -
Told me, "Well done,"
And as I left

Her office, a thick cloud
Of bus-exhaust billowed
Up to the third story
Window, and seeped within.

"No smoking," the sign said;
"It's bad for your health."
A poem about air pollution.
#19 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 591
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
We are already
Cyborgs. We integrate with
Our computer screens.
A haiku about technology.
#18 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 2.8k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Do you know, the exact design
Of spikes and wires atop street-signs
And the sort, are to stop
Pigeons ******* on the top?

And yet, just the other day,
A mother pigeon - as if to say
"*******!" to the local street -
Had made her nest up, nice and neat,

Above the very spikes they laid
To stop the nest from being made.
And as I passed, I thought aloud,
"'At-a-girl! She should be proud!"
A poem about anarchy.
#17 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 313
The Poet
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Amidst the chaotic thrums
Of silence, a lone ant
Rises among the swarm.

Slowly, and with no small
Amount of huge determination,
She ascends the blade

Of grass, and stands aloft.
Overseeing the nest,
She sees nothing at all.
A poem about acknowledgement.
#16 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 683
Chant d'Honte
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Waves of smashed rubble
Lie defeated beneath
A blanket of ivy.
Broad vales of bright
Wild-blossoms embrace
The steel altars.

Trees, like temples to
Passion, ascend upwards
From tar and muck.
They grow thick with
Leaves, and bear swathes
Of gleaming fruit.

Even as the gales
And rain-storms fall in waves,
The gentle forest prevails.
It is a sort of art:
In the end, Nature comes
To reclaim us all.
A poem about nature.
#15 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 935
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Smoke rises to greet
The distant veil of storm-clouds
Over silent streets.
A haiku about a brewing storm.
#14 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.3k
The Melody
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
The blackbirds sang throughout midday
Beneath a sky of white and grey.
The people heard their gentle muse
Between the ads and evening news.

One long day bled into night
Whereby the call of the moonlight
Danced and laughed the night away
'Til nightly folks were led astray.

Along, the smoke was blown beyond
The city-smog and withered fronds
Of ravaged trees across the land
Where once the city didn't stand;

And as the sun began to rise
A distinct welling in their eyes
Told them that they weren't so wrong
For listening to the blackbirds' song.
A poem about appreciating nature.
#13 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.5k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
The cold metal door
And swings to the wall
In a thump of agony.

Lever-action. The bolt
To the hammer, before the
Brittle door-shavings

Rocket outwards in a
Metal shatters like laminate.
In a way, its like

The spirit.
A poem about erosion.
#12 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 945
Ode To Silence
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Away, the distant gales bring
The noblest trees to weeping.
Far above the valleys sweeping,
Isolated church-bells ring.

Beyond the brittle urban winds
Of cities never sleeping,
A mute and mournful nightly breezing
Sweeps the moon upon its wings.

Somewhere cold and far away.

Peace is never truly lost
It merely doesn't stay.

Raptured by the valley-frost
Into the veiled sea of grey:
Often gone, but never lost.

Simply weeping

Far away.
A sonnet on silence.
#11 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.4k
Market St.
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Neon actresses
Dance and sing in the cold night
Atop concrete domes.
A haiku about advertising.
#10 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 3.9k
Distant Dystopia
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Over on the crescent wing
The bitter gales bring waves of rain:
Listen. Frozen windows sing.
Enraptured by the searing pain
Like pestilence in hurricane.
Buildings rise up to the halls
Impenetrable planet-bane
As summer lost, and spring withal.

Then the writhing storm-clouds bring
A storm of ice and wind again:
The sun rears up, but sets during.
And past the steel-laden plane
Silver orbs first wax, then wane
Then plaster to the mighty wall
Midnight buses, lane-by-lane,
Of nature not, but city fool.

Ascended like a spiteful King
The whispers rise, then sink in shame
No sound is here, no, not a thing.
Soaking in like liquor-stains
The buildings survey their domain
Not city-life, nor life at all;
They wander in the pouring rain
Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.

Tears and laughter, much the same
All are whispers, doomed to fall.
Dystopia without a name:
Not so distant after all.
A poem about the modern age.
#9 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 513
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
There, I wipe the rain
From my glasses. "What
Is it?" I point out, and gaze
At the tune of my heart

To where the autumn trees
Fold into one another like soft
Lovers, wrapped in golden sheets,
Huddled against the wind.

Not a month later, I
Return to bid Autumn's lovers
Farewell to Winter. But they are
No longer bathed in gold;

The plastic sun, a sort of
Yellow lie, towers on a monolith
Where they once stood. And nearby,
A crude, concrete mockery

Complete with billowing smoke,
And a drive-through, stands
Hot-tempered and selfish
Like a wart on the nose of Love.
A poem about greed.
#8 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 391
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
The distant cry
Of a black-bird
Echoes up high
But is not heard.

Somewhere beneath,
A rodent nests
In tar and grief
With young in-breast.

And, in valleys,
A crushing guilt
Poisons the land
To bleed and wilt;

Pestilence is
Upon them. Not
A plague: rather,
A poem about the environment.
#7 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.5k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A spark is lit in cinders
That alights into a ball of outrage
True to the cause. "They
are at fault, this much is known,"
But is quickly forgotten. Like magpies,

Utterly self-removed, we forget
And collect more shiny things.
Women of ice dance in glass trays
As society's polite reminder:
'Be distracted, please.'
A poem about society.
#6 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.4k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Somewhere cold, a
Hot crimson balloon ascends
Amongst the concrete and rebar.

It rises to the glistening roof
Then bursts. The kids saw
It rise, but not its fall.
A poem about fame.
#5 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 4.9k
Human Nature
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Where do you see yourself in a year?

Still living here -
A tactile skyline atop pillars of smoke
Heavy with guilt
And the craftsmanship of a generation of men
To whom Earth is a rock, immortal
Untouched by the bouts of the smog which ascend
To hold up their forges?

Where that which is green must also be man-made
And an old plant-***
On an old window-sill
Is the closest to what was here before? Is it a facsimile?
Where your throat hurts,
Chemicals an ersatz flowing stream
Of purest water -
And why is rainfall the freshest you can drink?

You haven’t always been here.
Where were you before? Was it green
Or blue, or any other colour
Besides this abiding grey? Perhaps
There were rainbows and colours
And sunlight, unfiltered by smog
Or dust. Warm, purposeful.
Her fragility charmed you.

Because our Earth is not immortal. A wanderer
In space, motherly, who are we to defile her?
A species of smoke and tar turning her soft hues sour
Colours unknown to nature
Like a drop of arsenic in a stream flowing through rocks?
Do you see yourself living
In a fortress, tumultuous to its steel bones
Each day burrowing deeper into her body,
Claiming her for its own, and ruining her at the same time?

So you think about your opportunity.
This life which fills her air, pulsing and vibrant,
To restore the purity we are missing -

Because Human and Nature are as one,
Invention is necessary but we are losing our time,
Virescent leaves brushing in the wind,
Our friends are loving, laughing, living
And we realise now that we are able to do so much better.

Or does none of that matter, somehow?
We make money to spend on plastic.
We are born, we work, we breathe, we die,
But we are still yet to run out of time

So where do you see yourself in a year?
This is a spoken word poem I wrote for the short film, 'Human Nature', produced by Ethan Church. It was a semi-finalist in the Gottlieb Native Garden Green Earth Film Festival in Los Angeles and was also shown in the Arica Nativa Film Festival in Spain. The poem was read by the fantastic Gabriela Vivas, whose talents turned a semi-decent poem into a fabulous display of passion and integrity.
The film is available for free on YouTube for anybody who is interested.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.6k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
I came across a crab
Strolling on the beach,
And paused to admire
His stride:

Muscular legs held
Up a stony shell as
He marched ever onwards,
Sideways, back to the ocean.

He paused also, as if
Admiring my own gait,
And so I asked, “Mr. Crab,
Why are you walking sideways?”

Only later did I realise that,
As I asked him that question,
He must have been thinking
The exact same thing of me.
© Lewis Hyden
Nov 2018 · 19.7k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
"Getting sick of married life?
Tired of your ageing wife?
Well, you can create her face anew
With plastic skin and pink tissue!"

"Yes, in only three short days,
She'll be worthy of your praise.
Just send a cheque to this address
And trust us, friend, we'll sort the rest!"

The bill-boards scream in the night
As wolves in the canopy.
Like lasers, they seethe and cut
Through the diamonds of your wet eyes,
Convincing you all too soon that
You are not already perfect.
A poem about impossible standards.
#4 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 2.2k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Some decades back, in actual fact,
Being heard was feared.
Corded phones and dial tones
Were oft routinely cleared;

The worry was a 'wire-tap',
Domestic speech taboo.
The rumor was, in essence, that
If said, the White House knew.

Nowadays, this fear we lack,
And cheerfully obey.
Now we ask, "Hey, wire-tap,
What's the weather like today?"
A poem about technology.
#3 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 1.0k
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A wish is lost
In an instant. Outside
The street that never sleeps
Festers below sheets
Of bitter rain. Your eyes burn in

Words you cannot read.
Concrete shimmers in the
Gleam of a million tears.
The sky above is thick with years
Of tar, like an enormous pavement.

Eyes shut, but still
Blue light permeates the
Shallow barrier of your hands,
Corruptions of sin, and fear,
And silence. You try to scream, but
You do not know how.
A poem about corporate control.
#2 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Nov 2018 · 948
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
“Sir,” I ask, and raise my hand,
“Does it need to rhyme?” I chew on
My pencil with the other one.

“Oh no,” he says, “And thank
Goodness for that, else dialogue
Would be a nightmare.”
© Lewis Hyden 2019
Nov 2018 · 552
As Of Tomorrow
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
My problem with tomorrow is
Not foretold by the sky.
It’s not the Autumn morning rain
That comes, and pours, then dies.

My problem with tomorrow is
Not poverty or war.
It’s not the type of moving fear
That braver men stand for.

My problem with tomorrow is
Not quite a fear of death.
It’s not a fear of knowing which
Will be my final breath.

My problem with tomorrow is
The same as everyone’s.
My problem with tomorrow is
Tomorrow always comes.
My first attempt at written poetry.
© Lewis Hyden

— The End —