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Aug 2017 · 431
bleed flowers
Tom Orr Aug 2017
lazy    red    chocolate    forest
scream    my    summer    symp­hony
shine    a    thousand    diamond    storm s
crush    together    gorgeous ly
made using fridge magnets at home
Dec 2015 · 1.2k
Tom Orr Dec 2015
How selfless of us to call it sunset,

when the sun does not move.

How strange of us to call it riverbed,

*when rivers do not sleep.
Aug 2014 · 1.4k
Daily Mercy
Tom Orr Aug 2014
Quick sweep of the steeple's steep
staircase winding
forever reminding
of a chasm in the maze and the mess;
A House of Mirrors.
A ***** trail, left to confess.

Three hail marys and a change of tack;
A quick sin shower
gets the devil off the back.
Perpetually pious of the priest
to keep the gun beneath the sheets.
Christ is hanging on the walls
a quick look up
the burden falls.

Shattered into tiny pieces
peace re-pieced upon the altar,
by Holy ghost and ****** Mary
Be this not the day he falter.
Feb 2014 · 1.5k
Mountain's Edge
Tom Orr Feb 2014
Skyscrapers scarfed in dawn's mist,
their torsos shrouded by nature's wisps
a reminder that man made this,
that wind and the water could show it
its end.

Metropolis unharmed,
lit windows like the glints of a thousand eyes.
Unknowing and blissful.
The fog unfolds like an opened hand,
palms upwards, swaying in the boulevard.

Happ'ly I stand, upon the mountain's edge
and admire the regal coexistence
of man and its maker.
Sep 2013 · 1.4k
Winter Britain II
Tom Orr Sep 2013
Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
Spiralling upwards, it dances
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Shine beams stopped short in the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

Mittened song sheets conduct
a huddle of duffle coats
and frosted boots, rooted in the snow.
Sweet carols leave notes hanging
in tranquil harmony.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.
Edit of my original 'Winter Britain' - please let me know if you feel I've ruined it, because I'm rather partial to the poem.
Jul 2013 · 1.6k
Tom Orr Jul 2013
Failure is a haunting fear
but fear itself is worse.
A deceitful ghost
like the closed door


now a wall.
Jun 2013 · 1.7k
Tom Orr Jun 2013
The wild jazz solo of the oscillating wind,
tossing the great waters,
out-singing the sheer sighs of the unruly sea.
The clouds dressed grey, in mourning
the sun will peek
only to be swallowed by fishermen's mist.
Flickering bolts greet thunder rolling
with unchallenged prevalence,
shaking the Earth into fear.

Nature's response.
May 2013 · 2.0k
Tom Orr May 2013
Bitter cacophony, a swarm of raucous screeches
scratching against the infinite sides
of the sleeping labyrinth
desperate to be heard, to be known.
Climbing upon one another
using ladders made of lies.
Locust-like in movement
unite and disperse in detestable symphony
lazy and hollow
harrowing torment.
Shut away in a little box
and scattered amongst the open
universe of the ethereal untouched.
Never to be noticed.
Tom Orr May 2013
Through this song I am
where my mind was in a panic,
my heart was in a knot,
its drum long gone.
Fateful delirium
like unearthing a grave,
one covered with purposeful seal,
now bonded to chaos.
These pangs are the wind
of a flute, poisoning the lungs.
Heartless pandemonium,
back you go
under lock and key.
Tom Orr May 2013
going to war to prevent war

they say every man will defend
when in fact it's a means to an end
something egocentric
a valour
a glory
a small gain for uncountable loss

a crusade ethos of the government
when the governor's meant
to be a guardian of interests
yet to guard his own interests
he'd rather tear a hole
in the only things some people know

a hero, a death
a medal, a death
an honour, a death
a victory, a death
or is it the other way around? i forget

a strong-hearted media
which will only feed to you
a story to spin an election.

and I can wholeheartedly say
the only state
which I possess the mind to believe in
is that state in which you've left this crater

devil's land once called home
Apr 2013 · 1.5k
Tom Orr Apr 2013
The pigeon dove's
is my favourite sound,
the quintuple coo
not so profound
Mar 2013 · 1.9k
King of the Hill
Tom Orr Mar 2013
Once upon a dainty hill
sat old castle of a young king
not busied by ***** thrills
but in the realm, fair Muse did sing

sorry as such
to trouble you sire
but farmer, lady and great squire
are, unto you, to enquire
how it is the sun makes such fire

to this the young king
furrowed his brow
and scratched his chin
and pondered how

eight days did pass
and woe betide
the pressing question
found no bride

the elders of the castle old
let fairy tales of disorder unfold

a great dragon they say
lit the sun
after finding itself lost
and on the run
from a shadow giant
of world unseen

but the tales of course
were all but dreams.

A little voice
filled the air
with light and weightless
soulful flair

a blacksmith's girl
of simple dress

excuse me sir
i must confess
this minor stir
has caused me stress

the young king bade her speak
and with that, the child weak
stood atop a wonky box
with certain eyes and wavy locks

dear people
i now must say
that it is on this cold and fateful day
my mind has led to such dismay

as I have learned to trust none of you.
Haven't written anything on here much lately, this sprung to mind the other day. Tell me what you think it's about, I love to hear interpretations :)
Jan 2013 · 3.1k
Tom Orr Jan 2013
you say i trust to equal those in the past
whom have brought only pain and hatred
upon those in their wake?
well it's time to take a look in the mirror
my friend, no, wait, don't do that,
i wouldn't want to inflate your ego
it would come as no surprise to me if in that
mirror you would only see the eighth wonder
of the world, ever wondered if you could see
the world? i take that back, there is no sense
in snapping and losing my temper,
but all i'm doing is back tracking and
finding my self exempt of the respect that i
deserve, only you can serve to notice
the pain that you have harboured
upon the empty hearts of which now yearn
for that ever self-loving and i can only leave
you with this advice

turn around and back off
that ain't love it's idolatry.
Jan 2013 · 2.5k
Tom Orr Jan 2013
Valiant galley set sail
adrift through the  Dardanelles.
Her masts, backs straight,
composed as Venetian dames
in familiar basse danse.

Sunset floats amongst the sea mist
silhouetting the capital's skyline.
The holy dome of the Αγία Σοφία
eclipses the light.

The Lady makes port,
at the City on the Seven Hills.
Gentle entrance to the beating heart
of the bustling district.
Jan 2013 · 2.0k
One Man's Enemy
Tom Orr Jan 2013
gun unslung
hanging by his side
swaying with his step

his step thorough
leaving sand behind
floating like particles of dust

dust now forgotten
as his step imprints
upon broken glass

glass shatters more
like the cities of Israel
beneath the feet
of falsely declared gods

gods that now drive the mind
with intrepid pace
towards the unsuspecting

the unsuspecting victim
of such malice
that can only be embodied
by death

only defied by those
who can truly consider themselves
wholesome and true

and yet the truth struggles
to stop this relentless growth
of pride and self righteousness

and thus the marksman
raises the gun to his target

his breath steady
his heartbeat in his ears

a resonance that he despises
his imperfections are his enemy
And if not to be perfect then what else?

he pulls the trigger
Tom Orr Jan 2013
.Arabic in write to tried I
My mother wasn't having it
The right to left was just too much
It wasn't the squiggly lines as such
And so to her delight, I changed my mind.
"Don't worry Mum, I'll learn Dutch."
Dec 2012 · 2.8k
Tourist in his Hometown
Tom Orr Dec 2012
Glimmering lights from the powerful skyline,
reflected like jet flames in the River Thames.
Lights multiplied by the flash of a camera,
capturing beauty in it's searching lens.

I wasn't so sure of here before,
but now I know there will always be
a place in my heart for this great city.
A home, a hub for the bustling race.

Some say mind over matter,
I say heart over mind,
but my heart has learned to love
that which my mind has made a matter.
Dec 2012 · 3.4k
The Woods
Tom Orr Dec 2012
Mosséd trees stand in respect,
a moment of silence.
Still breathing
but stillness dwells.
In amongst the green
a catharsis of orangey-red shades.
The Japanese maple poised,
chest puffed,
arms elegant.
Sight unstirred.
Dec 2012 · 3.3k
Albert Camus
Tom Orr Dec 2012
"A character is never the author who created him. It is quite likely, however, that an author may be all his characters simultaneously."
Nov 2012 · 3.2k
Matchbox Tanks
Tom Orr Nov 2012
I wasn't sure what to make
of this intergalactic space war.
With flying soldiers in old tobacco tins
and bullets made out of fingers.
I took it upon myself, I suppose
to conscript to this chaos,
upon the fluffy terrain.
Some sort of tyrannous Tyrannosaurus,
with a purple top hat
had taken over the bunk bed fort.

I'd made up my mind.
The only thing for it was a straight "Neeeeee-owwwwwwww"
into the back of the villainous lizard.

My comrade in arms however,
felt I wasn't quite suited for this rampant combat.
Although, his reason I didn't quite agree with;

"You're doing it wrong" he said, rather patronisingly.

I guess my little cousin is less of the kamikaze type and more of the tactical warfare nature.
A sort of poetic commentary on what (as you get older) suddenly seems ridiculous to you, but is so normal still for every child.
Tom Orr Nov 2012
Not about love or life.
Not about sun and snow.
Not about hate or politics.
What more ought we know.

Not philosophy, psychology or history.
Nor horror, adventure or mystery.
Whether on sea or land,
it will not stand
in the vast oak court of reality.
Nov 2012 · 2.3k
Tom Orr Nov 2012
She makes the sand,
the sand seep away.
Little locket on her chest,
with her steps a gentle sway.
Though her eyes cast
a tender gaze,
her fiery heart sets the sky ablaze.

Dry rain and dry puddles,
never will she stop.
'Til she stumbles to her knees,
the dusty ground, fiercely hot.
She cries out in pain
and laughs through tears,
a withered smile
of withered years.

She sees me.

Her faces relaxes,
her lungs give out,
her limbs betray her
and with one final strain she says:
*I can't hate.
Tom Orr Nov 2012
It’s been three years since I took my last photograph. Photography had lost its appeal and there were no longer moments I wanted to capture, to freeze in time. I only wanted to move on, just to walk... Besides, my camera’s broken and I can’t for the life of me be bothered to get a new one. I’d rather spend the money on a trip to Brussels, that’s next on the list.

I suppose I’d say I have one true fear in the world and that’s staying still. My mother used to say “Oh Alfie, you’re like one of them AHDD children” and after I correcting her, I’d usually just shrug as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” It could be said that my mother was one of those people who just had no time for the world, society was not her priority. One time a member of a local charity knocked on our door asking for a donation. My mother stood there, cemented like a gargoyle and poured out a flurry of very high decibel palaver about how her husband was in the marines and how she owed the world nothing because of it. I have to admit, it was a pseudo-logic that I’ve, to this day, not quite decoded.

My father made the decision to enter the Royal Marines at the age of 19 and my mother hasn’t forgiven him for it since. Perhaps that’s why she’s so sensitive about the whole “I owe society nothing” thing. I used to argue with her about it, about how it seemed right that he made his own decision to fight on behalf of his countrymen, but part of me has always despised his decision. I’ve gradually developed a cliché, but not inaccurate, view that soldiers are merely puppets for rich men’s wars and that glorifying the armed forces is just a sickening way to try and justify ******. Of course, I never shared this view with my father, even if I had, he’d have long forgotten. Whenever he comes back from service, I’m usually in some other part of the world, sitting in an outdoor café, preferring my life. It’s thoughts like this make me feel that I'm more like my mother than I primarily thought. I suppose some may call it selfish, but I merely believe it to be good observation, and therefore an intelligent alternative to what society wants me to believe. We’ll stick with arrogant.

My excuse is that arrogance was part of my job; I had to be correct, all the time. I was in that awkward career position, where I wasn't quite high up enough to be able to fully express my own views and so I had to stick to the hard-line “everything has to be extremely left-wing” approach. Journalism: the home to those who mould the minds of the world; or the breeding ground of *******, if you will. Personally, I was lucky enough to have no permanent boss; essentially I was my own. I wrote my columns for Liberal newspapers all across Europe and they edited them at their own will. It paid the bills, but like my views on my father’s military situation, I still possessed that distaste for the immorality of it all. I still remember my first article. I was 17 at the time, the writing type, enjoyed all things politics. It was for a moderately popular newspaper/magazine company in Western France, named “La Quotidienne”. I’d written a piece on local traders not receiving fair deals for their produce and as a result, the editor had asked me if I’d like to have my own regular column. The column was named “Teen Activist”, which nowadays I deem to be relatively patronising, but it was rather humbling all the same.    

I probably ought to explain some geography. I was born in Surrey, England in 1981 and lived there until my mother decided to move us to France in 1985. The military weren't too pleased with the move, because of course, this made us spies. The whole ordeal was a bit messy, but not really worth noting. We moved to Rennes, which is where today, I would consider home; although I haven’t actually seen home for a good 5 years. I guess the important thing is where I am and where I've been, but as I said before, I’d rather concentrate now on where I'm going. To Belgium, my suitcase is packed once more and my tired passport taped like an extra vital ***** to my wrist (because despite my relentless travelling, I always manage to leave my passport in some unsuspecting hotel room by accident). Blame the occupied mind of a ceaseless traveller.
This is NOT a poem - please feel free, however, to read and comment - every opinion is valued :)
Nov 2012 · 2.5k
Urbis est
Tom Orr Nov 2012
Terrifying façade,
long and tall, overpowering
but frail.
Ready to crumble and fall.

Snide wire intertwined,
exit wounds in the concrete flesh.
Each thorn stood to attention,
unwelcoming guards of the now unwanted.

Block after block
of relentless alleyways,
like a labyrinth of colossal gravestones.
The sky opens.

Water rattles bullet-like,
upon the once majestic city walls.
The cathedral moans its last hymn
as the steeple betrays itself.

The descent prevails.
Nov 2012 · 3.5k
Winter Britain
Tom Orr Nov 2012
Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.
Tom Orr Nov 2012
Like love, know that time lies,
Heart in the day want feel away
Night make world say don't words think.

I'm mind little things light.
Don't long man face look left, right
Tell people need good soul.
Lost sun, hand place hands new pain.
Old inside smile.

Remember full sky,
God hope days cold.
Ill thing live,
tears black leave dreams.

Oh skin, air, gone past lips.
New thoughts can't far white,
Going beautiful dream.
Girl goes deep, your sleep stop.

Hail that lovely laughter juice.
I just noticed some of the words in the trending words section seemed to correspond well together, and in a way sort of made "semi-sense". Some of it I have altered, for example, words like "knew" I changed to "new", to add a little more meaning to the line.

The last line comes from a short medley of words I put together using big fridge magnets in the Tate Gallery in London. I felt it would be a suitable closing for the poem.
Nov 2012 · 3.0k
The Forgotten and the Robin
Tom Orr Nov 2012
One step forward, three steps back.
The queue shuffles,
visible breath in the winter blue.
The vendor vends,
fingerless gloves clamp the steaming mug.
Grunts and groans alike,
the warmth fills the withered corpses pale.

A gaze is cast,
into the misty nothing that inhabits the park.
A twitter is heard amongst the frosty masts.

Eyes meet with a rufescent-chested bird.

These same eyes are then met with salt,
a sorrow, a pang of jealousy.
A sheer longing for that same freedom.
Oct 2012 · 2.7k
Tom Orr Oct 2012


Lillies please,
just a handful,
keep the change.

He asked if they were for a loved one

No sir, for Benny, sir. He questioned the King.

With that I turned and left.
As I broke into the outside air,
my eyes turned to the sky.

It was no use holding back the tears.

He slept beneath the tree as his friends and family congregated

To abandon oneself to principles is really to die - and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.
Eulogy taken from a quotation by Albert Camus
Sep 2012 · 4.0k
Tom Orr Sep 2012
She took my hand and followed me
through the trees,
under the archway made of ivy
(flanked by pristinely carved hedges)
into the vast, open field
which met the ethereal red sun
on the horizon.

We sat in the fresh grass,
cool in the evening air.
All the while we stayed silent,
just admiring the untouched space.
Each blade of grass before us
swayed gently,

Time had stopped
but everything was still living.
Still moving.
As if this place were not included
in Time's perseverance.  
I didn't want it to be,
it was too important to me.

It occurred to me then
that it wasn't this place
that I valued the most at all
It was this moment.

And I captured it.
Sep 2012 · 2.2k
Da Vinci once told me...
Tom Orr Sep 2012
Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication
and that
art is never finished only abandone--
Sep 2012 · 2.4k
Little Explanation Needed
Tom Orr Sep 2012
Hills like waves, frozen in motion
Topped with bulbous trees, frantically frothing.
Homes with minimalist facades,
Bobbing like great trawlers;
Settled in the steep crevices of looming elevations.

The Countryside.
Sep 2012 · 2.0k
Tom Orr Sep 2012
Weathered, waxy layer in wind and rain,
Droplets detour, dividing on the earthy ground.
Autumn peaks - the skeletal structure begins to emerge;
Crispy, frail webs of skin become brittle and break.

Released from the branchy cage,
The voyage begins with ebb and flow,
Rocking like a pendulum -
Momentum builds ceaselessly.

Time passes, and sand seeps
Through the hourglass,
Like droplets of glassy tears,
Shattering. Salty pools percolate
Through linen sheets.

Wind whittles aimlessly through
A boulevard of undergrowth.
The robin settles and observes,
Twittering sweet hymns
Amongst the wooden cathedrals.

A new leaf is turned.
The renaissance of Autumn awaits another year.

— The End —