A Feller's Opera

She sits upon
a bracken grave
with arms like
twisted thorns,
weeping in the
undergrowth
the soprano
widow mourns,
singing
haunting melodies
portentous
and forlorn,
the dying forest
will gaze no more
on sunsets
nor misty dawns.

Her haunting voice
will echo
'tween hollow trees
she calls,
a crescendo of
crotchet splinters
over timber
acres sprawl,
to summon
silent her aria
as mighty oaks
then fall,
to rise no more
in glory,
to stand no more
so tall.

Whirring,
snapping,
crashing down
as the whip
of progress cracks,
rolling,
beating
like a drum,
carving its
gruesome track,
a tympany
of lumberjacks
wave their batons
like an axe,
to the rythmn
of a wooden heart
as the wistful
chorus hacks.

Sweet the sound
of wailing song
across the land
does sweep,
devastating
landscaped eyes
in eerie silence
shall weep,
'tis her prelude
to the end of time,
that was never hers
to keep,
she sits upon
a bracken grave
to cry herself
to sleep.

©RJVHorton2014

Albatross

Nervous sun
in random glows,
Dappled yellows
flickering,
Night or day,
no-one knows
Why the land and sea
are bickering.
Sail, the ships
of olden days
On the naïve eyes
of a child,
Sunsets setting
skies ablaze
Behind nimbus
running wild.
Balmy southern
ocean breeze
On islands
wet and warm,
Blowing
unsuspecting trees
Into the eye
of a passing storm.
Raising, surging
waters spill
Like tides tethered
to living rain,
Extinguishing
the sun at will,
The unhindered
hurricane,
Sweeping people
off the shores,
Condemning them
To the sea,
While an albatross
above them soars,
Wandering, waving
Nonchalantly.

© RJVHorton 2015

All I Own

All I own, these words, but few,
Often not, yet meant to be true,

To speak, to write, but not in vain,
I utter in silence upon my pain.

My love, my friend, my nemesis,
With all I own, this is all there is,

A poem, written, but not in ink,
Words of love, to dream, to think.

I am but shy, yet in spirit, bold
All I own, is this heart, untold,

Whisper, shall I, in your ear?
And you can know of what I hear.

These, the words, yet unspoken,
My love, my heart is surely broken,

A love poem, I have yet to write,
Is all I own of one passionate night.

© RJVHorton 2015

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

And You, My Dear, Will Fade

Ah, there you are,
How radiant you appear,
Lovers seem to be distant
As sycophants stand too near,
And you glide, as if on air,
I breathe your every move,
Omnipresent yet undefined
With simply nothing to prove.

Surely time will spoil you,
Painted smiles will decieve
The joker and the mourner
Who'll find the time to grieve.
And you, my dear, will fade
Just as your lacklustre pearls,
Tarnished by pretentious tears
Cried by all pretentious girls.

Ah, there you are,
I knew you wouldn't be far,
Delving into the dark corners
Looking for who you are,
Consuming your murky past
Like a wild ravenous flame,
Frantically erasing the faces
Of all the people you blame.

Surely they are long gone,
You're on your own from here,
Best if you don't meddle
In things that cause you fear,
And you, my dear, will fade
Like so many dreams before,
Of actually being able to love
The son you were meant to adore.

Ah, there you go
Reflecting on your sanity,
Mirrors telling their stories
Of beauty versus vanity,
Distorting sad expressions
So you always look your best
As you clutch a stillborn baby
Tight to your heaving breast.

I was suckled and then crushed
By the mother I'll never know,
Even though the wounds have healed
The scars will always show,
And you, my dear, will fade
Just as as you start to feel
And I, my dear, would love you
If only you were real.

© RJVHorton 2015

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

Broken Wing

Creature
black,
feathered kind,
stealthy,
deft,
on ledge did find,
hid in fear
behind broken wing
he did not fly
nor song did sing,
window,
sashed,
did open wide,
blackbird trembling,
brought inside,
wing did strap
with stick and lint,
that brought to eye
a grateful glint.
on wrist did sit,
tipped back head,
on bread and milk
with finger fed,
for many days
did tend him well
until he told me
how he fell,
did trap himself
in poachers snare,
meant for rabbit,
meant for hare,
his life to end
was soon to be
so broke own wing
to set self free,
in panic flew,
so high,
so fast,
did crash into
invisible glass,
could not sing
nor fly again,
did think to die
on window pane.
To blackbird said
" we built a city,
for those who fly
and crawl, no pity,
with traps and glass,
bombs and guns
to break the wings
of our little ones"
his head did drop
to cry in sadness,
to live and die
at the whim of madness,
then sat on sill
to grieve the view,
did close the window
and away he flew.

© RJVHorton

Circles Of Light

I am a circle of light,
All that I am
Is within,
All that you see
Is my colour;
I am blue.

Sometimes.....
I brighten your day,
Flood your thoughts,
Colour your dreams,
You see me;
I am bright.

Other times.....
I hide in your periphery,
You sense me,
I kiss you,
You blink
And I fade.

You are a circle of light,
All that I need
Is within,
All that I see
Is your colour;
You are yellow.

Sometimes.....
We pass in the dark,
I see your aura,
You see my aura,
We both see
Rainbows.

Then we merge
On the event horizon
Of love,
Too intense
To co-exist;
We turn black.

© RJVHorton2012

Clever Fool

Sit, you lad, upon a gate
Imagine it's a mule,
Faster faster, ride it straight
Oh, you clever fool.

If only you had a watch
You could ignore the setting sun,
As your sister plays hop-scotch
In a time when childhood was fun.

Time, when the world was more
Than the dreams you mistook,
When everything was to explore,
Not just pictures in a book.

I am sorry sweet child,
The mule is limping lame,
Nothing short of being wild
Can play a part in your game.

Sit, you lad, upon my gate,
I wish I could swing by your side,
But, my son, it is now too late
To love you now I've died.

Poor old man, tired in your bed
Dreaming of a life so cruel,
But you play as a child instead,
Oh, you clever fool.

© RJVHorton 2015

Comfortable Arrows

Lay down my friend,
lay upon a muddy pillow,

Such relief
after a hard day
playing in battle
and in fear.

Take off a limb
or two,
and slip into
something gauze,

Swathes of
poppy red fields,
crisp and clean
will embrace you.

Perhaps a little claret,
sticky,
a good nose
but not too old,

Warm,
trickling
and soothing,

Vintage,
with a bouquet
of iron,

Barbed,
with a lingering finish,

Perfect with a cigar,

Hand rolled
leaves of skin,

Toasted,
flakey,
rubbed
and lit....

Inhale,
inhale
through silver holes,

Where sparkling bullets
still ricochet,

Still smoking.....

Breath,
pause,
breathe,
pause,
pause.....

Turn down
the exploding lights,

It's only a game,

Those blazing fires
of the cannons
are far too bright
for our little lot,
for us to be brave,

To relax,
to die.

Perhaps
a little music will help,

A bugle,
a boom,
a cry,
a boom,
a whistle,
a shout,
a bugle,
a boom,

Like the rythmn
of a drum,
of a heart,
or a love song.

Close your eyes,
there's nothing more
to see,

To live for,

To feel......

It's all in your
imagination.

You will not
hurt anymore
when dying is like
being executed
by smiling friends
with childish bows
and comfortable arrows.

© RJVHorton2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Performance

The curtain rises,
Swishing its many disguises,
Every face ever worn
Ever since you were born.

When audience's show
They sit down, stand up and go,
In and out of your life
Like your mother and wife.

The music is strange
Like your costume change,
One minute a rhapsody,
The next a parody.

I wish I could pretend
The dream could never end
But the boards you tread
Are only in my head.

A little more make-up perhaps
To hide the missed lines and gaps,
Such swagger and finesse
In your childhood sequined dress.

To whom are you playing?
The crowds that are beying?
Ignore them, my dear,
Dying is only a fear.

Critics can be cruel
To such a pretentious fool,
I can't always be my best
When sincere and undressed.

They'll never know
That you've fallen or how low,
Just be what you want to be
Because I know you are me.

The curtains shut,
The audience tut tut...
"Overacting!" they shout
As we try to get out,

But hey! I'll dream some more,
Life or death for the encore?
Artists don't have to conform,
But please heart......just perform.

© RJVHorton 2015

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

https://www.amazon.co.uk/To-Be-Poet-Robert-Horton-ebook/dp/B0171RHOP8/ref=cmswemrawdopX0Ikwb1Y5R43Htt