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Jan 2014 · 445
The Cape of Hope.
Peter Cullen Jan 2014
Standing in a queue that never moves.
Where people while away there time
and queerhawks always sing the blues.
Songs they churn like echoes in the wind.
About ghost-ships lost without a course
that never should have sailed.
Never should have ventured
out past the Cape of Hope.
As the Sun that lit the way went out
to watch the Moon and Stars elope.
Dec 2013 · 804
The Meek Man
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
He nervously played with the gun in his hand,
as the flashing images kidnapped his broken thoughts.
The way the never ending waves seem to kidnap the shore.
Again and again and again.................
There were times when it wasn't so bad
he reasoned to himself.
Days in his memory that seemed to belong to someone else now.
Someone who could smile who could laugh.
Over and over and over...................

But that fool was dead, he ****** it away.
That feeling inside he chose to betray.
So what for him now.
Alone with the night.
The pain and the guilt,
and all that's not right.
A man without hope, without maybe guts?
What for the meek man,
who they say is nuts.

Who wants a meek man that they just cant trust?





Over and over and over...................
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
The Rabbit and the Shrew.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
The moon was in the sky and the sun was long since dead,
when the shrew said to the rabbit, "I don't think its time for bed."
So they garnered all their energy and set themselves a route,
along the way with natures sway,
went searching for the truth.
They happened upon the lights of life and at a river drank.
But when they heard the hunters call,
their hearts they quickly sank.
It sounded like the last call to a drunkard at the bar,
as the shrew said to the rabbit, " do you think we've come to far."
The lights went out around them,
they just sat and laughed in turns.
Even though the fear was there,
they had remembered what was learned.
Amongst the trees and barley fields and rivers that run free.
For this is where they grew to learn,
that what will be will be.
Dec 2013 · 785
Blue Lights.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
He lay there panting,
gorging on every bit of oxygen his clapped out lungs
would allow him to take.
His faced pushed hard against the chewing gum stained concrete.
The blue lights smothering every thought,
every hope he thought he had.
But this man was a dreamer.
This man was never really bad.

And as he tried to gather reason,
he couldn't help but laugh.
He should have seen it coming.
Like headlights on a darkened lonely road.
For if it wasn't for bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.
If it wasn't for those reasons,
he may have skipped the fall.

He pondered, was it karma,
or just plain dumb bad luck.
What if he hadn't ran with panic?.
Would he have pulled it off with some charming monologue
from the recesses of his panicked mind?.
Or was this always gonna be,
the kinda life he was to find.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
It happened in the blink
of a weary old eye.
The flutter of an admirals wings.
It was never remembered,
but never to die.
Like rain that falls
to the grace of the sea.

It was when he took shore leave in Java.
Under tropical skies and thunderous clouds.
When the Devil brushed passed his shoulder,
then melted away back into the crowd.

He knew he'd been touched by evil.
As the hairs on his neck stood like soldiers in line.
Ready for their execution.
Ready for their turn to return to light.
And as he stood there frozen,
not sure where to turn, not sure what to do.
A whisper he heard beside him,
"Cursed young soul, I have something for you."

"Your path has been crossed by dark forces,
yes darker than night and blacker than coal.
But I have always been waiting,
to show you the light, to deliver your soul."

"There's been times in your life when you've faltered.
I'm not here to judge, as every man falls.
But this is when evil tries alter,
all our desires, our one true call.
It sows the seeds of doubt and fear,
and mixes it with hate.
But now's the time to listen child,
for this is not your fate."

"Now's the time to listen child,
before now is too late."
Dec 2013 · 483
Lovers Touch.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
****** there's nothing I could ever sing to you.
You're like that ghostly lost line in a song
that slowly fades to blue.
And you who hides your face so well.
A phantom in the night.
A killer with a lovers touch.
That makes it feel alright.
Dec 2013 · 1.0k
The Sickle and the Plough.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
Up on the hill the fire roars,
hisses and spits out sparks that reach to the skies.
Dancing away from the flames like souls from a battlefield.
One by one by one they fly.

Amongst all the chaos there's someone.
Sitting back from the heckling crowd.
A man who fears no man or evil
nor any a soul in the clouds.
His reasons long tempered by living.
Long days with the sickle and plough.
If it wasn't for hard work forgiving.
He wonders if he'd be here now.
Dec 2013 · 676
The Whispering Wind.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
The whispering wind that would not rescind,
spoke nothing of love,
nor mutter of sin.
To strong to be breezy, but never a gale.
The whispering wind is sailing away.
Out on a wave with moonlight above,
the whispering wind spoke nothing of love.
No chatter of joy,
nor mutter of pain.
The whispering wind has nothing to gain
Dec 2013 · 482
The Pikehole.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
Down by the river,
not far along there,
lies the weir,
round stones,
a hope and a care.
Down by the Pikehole
where deep water lies.
The sun breaks the trees
where the fisherman ties.
Flies of all colour.
Magenta and green.
Down in the meadows
where he's never seen.
Dec 2013 · 2.8k
The Number 7.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
Feeling faint a lonely saint
makes his way to heaven.
At the bus-stop on his own,
waits for the number 7.

And as the minutes pass away
he thinks about his final day,
when the bus comes drawing near,
in his eye there rests a tear.
He wonders has his work been done,
was his life a battle won.
Shall it be his final time?,
is this soul truly divine?

Now the bus is heading west,
the saint will sleep, its time to rest.
And as the sun begins to set,
there's nothing that this saint regrets
Dec 2013 · 772
Cinders.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
He would walk there in the evening,
alone, and happy to be so for a while.
Wandering the beach and his mind,
kicking the useless flotsam aside.

Wandering still through the flotsam in his head.
Picking through what's useful and not.
Remembering the things he thought forgot,
remembering the words wished never said.
And then the wash of the waves would invoke a balance,
as if he was washing parts of the day away.
The sound of the sea would be calming,
like something his mother would simply say.

There were parts of his soul that were tired,
he knew, because he felt it reach deep down inside.
Down where the soul is on fire,
washing away with the advancing tide.
His eyes would lock on the lighthouse,
illuminating his face every once in a turn.
Sand would fall through his fingers,
he looked at the flames and all of the cinders.
Trying to gauge what could not be learned.
Just trying to gauge what could not be heard.
Dec 2013 · 1.3k
The Fairy From Yonder.
Peter Cullen Dec 2013
The fairy from yonder at night she would wander
under sparkling skies, the lush milkyway.
Skipped over bridges and ancient old ridges
along with the night and natures soft sway.
Till she came upon pixies sat loftly in ditches
who told her, "you'll soon see the cold light of day."
The fairy from yonder just laughed as she pondered,
something with light and love worth to say.
She gathered them round behind the old mound,
its said where the masters once knelt
and once prayed.
She told them the secrets
and shared natures trinkets,
and laughed as they all saw the cold light of day.
Laughed as they rejoiced the cold light of day.
Peter Cullen Nov 2013
Lets trace the moments
lost inside our heads.
When we had the energy
to get out of the bed.
All those days just wandering
trying to find our way.
Comfortably silently pondering
upon a winters day.
Sharing thoughts
sharing hopes
using the same bar of soap.

You and me kissing in the snow.
Lost inside the feelings that we show.
Nov 2013 · 848
That Old Shell
Peter Cullen Nov 2013
"Put this shell to your ear and listen,
tell me what you hear."
I tell him "its the ocean",
even though it's nowhere near.
My young head filled with wonder,
as the waves flow through my mind.
How is it that I hear it now?,
so far from Ballyheigue.
Those Sundays spilling ice-cream
in the back of your old car.
I drink coke and he drinks porter,
well worked fingers stained with tar.
Telling tales of saints n scoundrels,
men who worked the coast.
Its when I hold that old shell now,
I think I miss you most.

— The End —