James R

James R Jun 2018

One leans.
Toward tilts
It's almost
Dramatic;
And clear,
To see why
Old Dante
Was taken by such a
Monstrosity, blighting
Skies overhead, yet
paying age-old (and
new) debts as ink drys.
Though it
Leans; falls
Even it is
No Pisa or
New York.
Rather fallic ode to
Glory and decaying
which admits defeat
yet stands proudly
Backdropping one-
handed martyrdom;
For those who had
Ploughed
Funds in
At time of
Need. And
Now are
Kept Devine.
Forever the
Concept
Remains.
A Comedy.

A poem shaped by Two Towers.

James R Jun 2018

Philosophical Reflection (Read on a Bus)

Can  the      tho ugt
Oft  his        bet hat
The  ide       als sit
For  all         toh ear
Yet  sim       ply die

Ise  eit         now how
you  exp    ose and
cry  ing      out  sti
fle  tha       twh ich
cou  ld1     day fly

Ifo  nly      you had
not  bee    ngi ven
suc  hch    anc eto
inf  ect      mym ind

Tra  gic      ast tra
ffi  cfi         lls the
air  bli       ndo pen
you  ree    yes tof
ind  thi      sto bet
Rue.

A fragmented poem inspired by a long journey.

James R Jun 2018

Sight Lent

still i lie every night to

ignore lame entries, now true so

leave each nodule tomorrow; stained IOU
easily nullified tight; such ingrained lament
never trusting stray instincts; indecent event

tell someone i loathe: escape tonight

A poem about silence.

James R Jun 2018

Bicycle Blues

You annoy me.
Toing and froing wildly.
Freeform it seems.
Complete disregard.
For would it really be so hard?
To consider; think even, outside of
Your own tiny mind?

You torment me.
Weaving and winding incessantly.
It appears cruel at first,
Until I step back - though initially
shaken - I now understand what you are;
An inevitable saga painted onto a stage.
Can I look away?

You haunt me.
Ensnaring and burrowing daily.
It is unavoidable now.
To think of how
Next days and years
Will be as this - so near
Yet so far from Me.

You are me.
Darting and dashing awkwardly.
Avoiding bicycles
Which pass by -
Without indication.
Though some hesitate.
And I notice.
You follow behind.

A poem about frustration.

James R May 2018

Leaving Verona

Due. Ironically, sat just right
Unknowing of what dreams the bright
Days reveal of thee.
In the Bard's own words:
Wrenching hands unclean.

To gaze is to flinch, provide
Arms. Yet far better to hide -
Toil incessantly beneath,
Prevail in silent wisdom.
Thus Eden's treasures bequeath

For now at least. But to strike,
Unnoticed, those that wish likeness.
In turn, treasonous treachery churns
As the burnish'd sun bakes
The mid-afternoon sky burnt.

Eyes twinkling, a violent storm
Boundless oceans which have thinly worn
Yet these delights scream to be free
Like fire and powder destroy
fields of nectar for the sweet lick of honey.

A poem concocted on an Italian bus.

James R May 2018

Ledges

We traverse the streets; tight
and certain. Bypassing waves of feet
which trudge on, sullen shadows.

You realise first; right
ahead entry looms. Bringing broods of fake
smiles, capturing pornographic self-worth.

I follow behind; sight
obscured by swarming swathes
of those who steal and covet and corrupt.

We gleefully sneer; delight
in beliefs of 'what are they
thinking?' At least just before

They turn our heads; blight
Such preconceived notions of grandeur
And aplomb. Now left to

No-one; empty and contrite.
Cultivated by sycophantic selfies which deface and soil, we duly conform and

All look up; into burning bright
Of skies soon overcast. We urge
It now, to finally get our turn. It's about time.

A poem about a city.

James R May 2018

Herd in a Rush

The breeze brews black as Jason's ewe beats bold and blue.

At first glance - second even - past I
Rushed; brushing you from sight.

But now the mind drifts to nooks and nodules only the most desecrated synapses wake.

Soon I am distracted by the sight that sits before my eyes as they cast themselves left; find

Change. Monochrome shades; which have known each and every blade.

None alone, they condone propensity
Whilst surviving, prone. Unknowing,

Of what is yet to come. For what fun
Will it be to see them run and flee

Foresaking the rest without pause for breath, after all we are what is left

Each new lot an unruly and cumbersome hoard of faked shock and dross

Guised cynically as truth. Perhaps not a surprise to see that their starless faces are to me of more value than you.

A poem inspired by a field of sheep.