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Part I

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
Mayst hear the merry din.’

He holds him with his skinny hand,
“There was a ship,” quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
Eftsoons his hand dropped he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

“The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—”
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

“And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And foward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white moonshine.”

‘God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends that plague thee thus!—
Why look’st thou so?’—”With my crossbow
I shot the Albatross.”

Part II

“The sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners’ hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down,
’Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The ****** sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.

And some in dreams assured were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.”

Part III

“There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye—
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a mist;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I ****** the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame,
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the sun.

And straight the sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the sun,
Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that Woman’s mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper o’er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horned moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,—
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my crossbow!”

Part IV

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.’—
“Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropped not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie;
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the ***** like pulses beat;
Forthe sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.

The moving moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
Like April ****-frost spread;
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.”

Part V

“Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the moon
The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up blew;
The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother’s son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.”

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’
“Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
’Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their corses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the skylark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!

And now ’twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel’s song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe;
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid: and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.

The sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean:
But in a minute she ‘gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion—
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound:
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.

‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man?
By him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.’

The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.’

Part VI

First Voice

But tell me, tell me! speak again,
Thy soft response renewing—
What makes that ship drive on so fast?
What is the ocean doing?

Second Voice

Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.

First Voice

But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?

Second Voice

The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner’s trance is abated.

“I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
’Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapped: once more
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen—

Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The lighthouse top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own country?

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned my eyes upon the deck—
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the Pilot’s cheer;
My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord i
Maggie Emmett Jul 2015
PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
Edward Coles Oct 2014
The old man paints seashells
for all of the women he has loved.
He takes his husky for walks
along the beach, returning with
a bag of **** and a collection
of spirals and fans, still pregnant
with the whispers of the ocean.

By the window, he licks his brush
and steadies his nervous hands.
He will share a steak with the dog,
and wonder when the best company
became inanimate or at most; unspeaking.
He had long turned his back on Dylan
and Cohen, in favour of empty sound

and the rain hitting the tarp
in the garden. He recalls Diane
and the green of life in her poetry.
Louise, the blue of her moods and the sea.
Each woman had coloured his life
in hopeful hues, oh, and what a mess
he was in their absence.
(even the dog wouldn't sleep beside him)

The old man drew his last breath
when the silence became deafening.
When he realised he could not reclaim
memories through art, or through
the patient analysis of nature.
There was no shape or colour
that had not been created before.
c
Amanda May 2014
Sometimes I dream I'm floating
Weightless throughout space
With this thought my heart beat steadies
It dark up here in outer space
I don't know how to get back home
but that's ok
It's cold up here in outer space
So cold it makes my skin turn grey
my hair comes out here in outer space?
Something's not adding up
It's supposed to be lovely in outer space
I’m far from home and i am cold
This isn't peace
This isn't beautiful
This is prison
This is hell
This is an eating disorder
I don't know if this makes sense
Robert G Page Apr 2013
by
rgpage


it’d been a few years since the music died
i was a senior **** hard as a rock.
yep for buddy, jp and richie we sighed
when ever we listened to S and J’s “sleep walk.”

back in the days of crisp clean air
the colors of fall and new school year.
still living at home with nary a care
just thinking of sports and the crowd’s wild cheer.

gone in a flash the summer past
we lived so fast life couldn’t keep up.
trips to the lake, two bucks for gas
saturday night’s dance and dragging the gut.

this was our life most all that we knew
we didn’t see where our futures would lie.
our harvest jobs got our new clothes for school
while our parents pitched in for the car’s we’d drive.

first day of school we checked out the class
all with their bronze summer tans.
that’s when I saw this cute texas lass
with the very strange name, jimmie-lynn.

a few of my buddies had steadies you see
they never had to want for a date.
but getting a girl was much harder for me
for shy and unskilled I accepted my fate.

we went undefeated three weeks in the season
for the schools pride I was good at the game.
as the team’s co-captain there wasn’t a reason
that for jimmie-lynn’s heart I’d turn up so lame.

then with the help of a friend’s girl friend
i got to meet this girl of my dreams.
i felt so nervous I wanted to run
not knowing then I was the end in her scheme.

seems that she’d seen me the first day of school
with my curly blonde hair and dark brown eyes.
she couldn’t understand why I didn’t have a girl
and she really couldn’t see why I was so shy.

she was warm and friendly, and I soon felt at ease
word’s leaped from my mouth I’d never before used
like “whatcha doin’ after the game friday night,”
and “wanna go for pizza” or “what ever you choose.”

the days flew by and friday night came
the night air was cold and the crowd was wild.
and playing for jim I had my best game
with skill and speed and fierceness unbridled.

after the game a quick shower and change
into my chevy reaching under the seat.
my trusty jade east for the dance at the grange
and off to chick’s drive in, my jimmie to meet.

my home town was small didn’t have far to drive
the place was hoppin’ and inside was packed.
take a minute, calm down, and spot jimmie I thought
but with a hero’s welcome  couldn’t  help but be jacked.

we soon found ourselves off and alone
we just sat and talked three hours on end.
then jimmie told me she had to get home
she’d be going home with her sister and friends.

i asked her to the movies for the following night,
with yes she leaned in and gave me a kiss.
it was short but sweet. this was all that I knew,
not knowing before just what I had missed.

it’s been fourty some years since that october night
a lot of life’s river’s passed over the falls.
and though we’ve long since gone each our own way
i’ll think of that sixty third fall most of all.
AD Mullin Sep 2014
A single helical strand twists randomly in the wind
All that steadies the twisting are the aetheric strings
Connected to base pairs...adenine...thymine...
Those strings steady the storms
But where do they lead
Where any path leads of course
And our destination is always our Self
That's how we know when we've arrived
We mirror back to our other Self exactly what We are
Adenine's other self is thymine
We live in duality
Until we're ready to leave that duality and become...
who we are
Non-dual
Citizens
of
Gaia
The Terry Tree Oct 2014
A master magician at hiding
While running and gallantly striding
Your message is strong, you gallop along
With spirit continually guiding

Independent you move with the group
Making headway you learn to recoup
Ready to bolt, to rebel and revolt
If your light should get caught in a loop

Your harmony steadies in trouble
A clean break away from all struggle
Lessons are taught, even when you're distraught
As you truly embrace them and juggle

When problems arise in the east skies
You remember the sun also dies
And though it falls down, it comes back around
To greet us the next day with bright eyes

Spirit Zebra be with us to find
Let our strength and our courage unwind
Into all of the holes, deep in our souls
That we carry throughout our lifetime

Teach us patience to love every side
So that we may enjoy how we ride
Some days we will glow, some days will be low
Love will teach us to rise not subside

To see everything, just as it is
To live the truth of this regardless
Return stronger yet, from any upset
With a chance for new growth and progress

You teach us to seek balance and truth
Till the end of our days from our youth
Standing confidently, strong as can be
Building skills that will calm us and soothe

With every step forward we've taken
Your wisdom unfolds and awakens
All of our needs, teach us how to succeed
Good or bad, we shall not be mistaken

We are shifting between light and dark
We are always igniting the spark
A few steps gone back, will put us on track
With pure faith we will soon disembark

tHE tERRY tREE

Photo | Google Images | Poetic Form | Gwawdodyn
Poetic Form | Gwawdodyn
cozyjune Sep 2018
Chills coursing through my body. The crickets are giving the eulogy to my passion for you. You are the only one who can **** me but keep the blood running like ice through my veins. You are the only one who can drive off and leave in the dead of night and I'll stay right where you left me. I'll stay and I'll wait. I'm waiting. I'm right here. Physically im gone, I went in the house and am faking a smile for my friends, telling them you were too tired to stay out any longer, lying on behalf of my hope for us to survive. Mentally there's a pile of my bones made out of all of our hopes and dreams, lying on the sidewalk right where you left me. I stuck them there with the thick glue made up of all of your lies to me, all of the broken promises. So there my spirit is, stuck in that spot, shivering and blurry eyed from ***** infused tear drops. You tell me that's just not how it is anymore, not how you feel. But when you look at me, lighting, it's a storm coming in over the horizon and the moon is screaming through the clouds and the trees are ripping in the wind and there we are, just in a bubble, floating through this nightmare. And you take my hand, and put it over your heart. Your heart beat steadies mine. Just one look my love, one look. One look silences the noise and calms my heart. That is not past love, that is not lost feelings. That is a ******* forest fire spreading through your veins, that is me.
was all true, written years ago
Frankie Apr 2012
When I think back to the past, my memories seem to blur together as if I have spent twenty one years on a non-stop merry-go-round. Ups and downs, too much to take in at once, the people you love only a splotch in your spinning, ever-changing field of vision. You wonder how long they’ll stay, leaning over the metal railing separating them from you; you wonder if they’ll call out to you until they become hoarse…but no one stays for long.
You think it’s fun and harmless until the carousel stops and you realize you’re the only one left. You clamber off the platform in a drunken stagger and wait for your mind, still caught up in the whimsical whir of charisma and carelessness, to catch up with reality. Eventually your thoughts slow and your vision steadies. Everything comes into focus. It seems eerily quiet compared to the cacophony of conversation and carnival music that was swirling and intertwining in the air just minutes ago.
Now there’s silence and you’re left to contemplate your past…and your future. This is the reality check, the wakeup call that sends so many adolescents into a panic; an early mid-life crisis if you will. Twenty one years spent so quickly, so carelessly…only eighty more to go.
And you can only wonder, “How will I waste those?”
Alysha L Scott Aug 2012
Sil
Faster, gambling
rambling Mother, glides
Laughing, Africa sailing smooth
Jazz lips, spit gold
Gorgeous.

I told you so.

Sil, never leaning, *******
his last basket of fire, Glitzy ****
box of matches, ashes
crowd and birth
Saturday nights, street
lights scattering a
boy sullen, smiles
rolling across faces

Another line down
dust flailing tubes of tissue,
The mirror steadies the
marrow, bones breaking
gums, blow another
let a little light
shine through, and he'll watch
himself

stone the silence of
Jazz and all that jazz
and laugh it off until
the sun illuminates
what god gave, *** and
sleep and smoke and sin

Every night, a gun explodes
and I've got to smile, I've
got a little white witch
swallowing, brass eyes to
the West, gold-- this has never
been so hot

Not like thighs lingering
for another second, pass
her around until we're
giggling and crossing our
legs as young ladies do

but, I'll save that
for Sunday morning.
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.

Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.

Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
Never to see home once more.

Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The ***** that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.

Europe’s Jews gained a respite
From ******’s hate and krystalnacht
Yet soon the surging Moslem tide
May again erupt in genocide

My grandson helps me to my feet.
and steadies me with his strong arm.
The campaign ribbons on my chest
belongs, in truth, to these who rest.
Solitaire Archer Jan 2010
These I Call

I reach, my feet toes digging into
the soft damp earth
this is the power of Body,
clay and sand and rock
this is the Grounding Point
This is the point of Calm of Rest
I Call North
I entreat the Earth
I acknowledge the Power of My Body
I throw my hands high reaching, yearning
the wind wends my skirt round my staff in Freedom
This is the point of Reason
This is Zephyr and Breeze and Gale
I call East
I entreat The Air
I acknowledge the Power of My Mind
Now I pull my Power
from deep in my core
call and play until it dances over my fingers
This is the point of healing Fire
This is the Power of My Actions
The crack of lightning and the snap of Fire
I call South
I Entreat Fire
I Acknowledge the Power of My Actions
Now I flow in not out
engulfed, enfolded warm and safe
as the day before breath
This is the point of Feeling of
comfort both given and received
I call West
I entreat Water
I Acknowledge the Power of My Feelings
Upward pulled with Luna Joined
With Sky and Moon I am rapt in a star filled bowl
This is the place of Consciousness
I Call a Sacred Place
This is Galaxy, Moon, and Stars
I call Up
I Entreat The Cosmos
I acknowledge The Power of my Consciousness
Through my mind and my core
Through that which makes me Witch
Through legs into Earth
Through crust and deeper yet
Slower it steadies and my heartbeat slows ,
and matches that which sustains us
I Call Down
I entreat The Core , This Sacred Place
I Acknowledge The Greater Life and Web of all Being
Mother Earth
From within now come Soul Spirit
Essence of Life
This is where My Lady waits
Goddess , Ancestors , Guides and Companions

I Call The Center
I Entreat The Spirit
I Acknowledge the inner ways and song and dance
Visions Quests and Dream Times
and Shadoewalkers

These I Entreat and Invite
These I Honor and would learn from
These are gifts to me
from My Sweet Lady
Among these I will wait
In this Sacred Place

Solita@2008
- From And The Circle Cast
like icebergs
we keep floating
through our lives
   tops in the present
   bulky bodies in the past

what lies unseen below the surface
steadies our course

above
we take it as it comes
sun, rain, and snow & ice & wind

sometimes it melts us down a bit
but overall
it makes the bulks of our bodies grow

the new weighs heavily and
pushes what was new before
   downward
day by long day

until
in balmy southern waters
we slim down
and then
   one day
a final ache splits
upward from the bottom
through the consolidated matter
    of all years

and we drown

* *
Ziggy Zibrowski May 2010
the passage through time is quite uneasy
imbedded in concrete; consciousness dreamy
faces skewing, anemic monsters
intricate patterns, enhances, obscures
repetition, repetition, repetition, repetition,
incomprehension, incomprehension
i can't continue, can't vacate
i'm only human, my souls to take
i discovered what it means to be
when you can truly see
the epiphany of heavenly monstrosity
visions of a black hole theory
i've seen all of time in one moment
the future, the past, times of atonement
lucid and frightful
enlightening and grateful
heartbeat steadies
i think i'm ready
to explore the world from a different standpoint
and fully know this is not an endpoint
it's forever changing
and we're made for adapting
our primal nature's to live
i will never be held captive
copyrighted February 2010.
William A Poppen Jul 2015
He remembers auburn hair

like the color
flickering before him

along Hwy 261.
Thoughts of yesterday

fill his mind 
on this journey.

Roan Mountain fades

as he steadies the wheel

beside the constant stream
of white hyphens
on the blacktop.

Flashes of her

blend into the mountains.
He dwells on her

and their daughter
who now flaunts ringlets

bright as the autumn patches

among the forest display.

While he’s driving
the rear view mirror
reflects 
his creased forehead

like his mother grew
from her many worries.

Travel grants him time 

to think of them.
“Mistakes were made.”

A cop-out rests in that thought:

he made mistakes.
He broods

when he’s in the driver’s seat.
M P Hill Mar 2012
I've basked in your sunshine
More potent than any artificial
Euphoria could ever produce

Bliss released: my strung out
Breathing steadies in your oxygen
I find myself in molecular clarity

Drinking thankful of your waters
Watching deeply all the skylines
Cities laced with shining jewels

Wind whistles its way to my ears
The sound of creation scours
Rustles through the trees

Down drops fruit by my feet
I collect them for the starving

I only eat what is needed...

To sustain
Catrina Sparrow Mar 2015
i wish i were a sea shell

a perfect spiral fit to be cradled in your palm
something for you to focus on
when the noise you've spent so long focusing on
becomes too much to interpret

i wish i were a sea shell

a direct line between you and the cosmos
the etherial red phone
you press to your ear to hear what your heart already knows your brain needs reminded of
     the swish of blood and grey matter
that steadies your flippant pulse

i wish i were a sea shell
deemed too relevant upon your moment of discovery
to leave at rest with the other detritus
exposed at low-tide
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
as a usual Saturday, a sniff of whiskey left
from the previous night -
that'll do - it's not much, but it steadies
the nerves and handshakes with ghosts
of dead writers and poets -
but then the paranoia kicks in -
this isn't the same utensil as a fork, or a typewriter -
this keyboard is attached to a matrix -
it extends far and wide,
i don't know... you can get paranoid
after writing at the height of your drinking
the previous day and wake up the next day
and consider it as nothing more
than diluted prose - which it is, a snapshot
of Joycean ergonomics - but you then
by accident hit the F5 button, yep, the one just
above the 5% button: are there poets
out there, still writing as if they are holding
quills and their fingers have ink stains
and they're airing their frustrations at a blank page?
seriously? i freaked out for a minute having
pressed the F5 button, panic! sheer panic!
panic is worse than fear, i thought for a splinter
second that the government was trying to
censor me... that i was somehow in deep ****,
writing propaganda for some obscure government
that allows 12 year old children perform public
executions by shooting culprits in the back of the head...
what does the F5 button do?
it freezes / blocks / denies the laptop mouse -
a rectangle mat and two buttons incorporated into
the actual laptop - for those few seconds
i felt monitored - standard paranoia of the 21st
poet / writer / whoever, but not quiet enough
for a spy novel... just bog standard feelings... which
are very much linked to printed book materials...
e.g. **** deus: a brief history of tomorrow by
yuval harari - about how we're getting dumber
because someone smarter programmed something
and we weren't given the manual...
funny... they started selling computers like they
were selling hammers... they said: easy, easiest
thing to operate... i'm well chuffed (i guess i use
that word to replace being surprised - local
ingredient - how they bang on about organic
locally grown potatoes and beef, same thing,
only with local vocab) - but they don't sell computers
with instruction manuals - so obviously
the smartest kids these days get on the app. rather than
the mortgage ladder - but **** me! you
could have at least included a little booklet that tells you
what F5 does... i never use it! i'm one of the few
lucky ones, i have some literacy in this department,
but i'm not a techno-philiac as such -
i'm one of those people that says: well, so much
for the building, but you have to put something
meaningful and human in it for the building
to be worth something... not what it is, but:
what it's about - i once learned to use Excel...
****! gone, not coming back. i once learned to
code and build a website... ****! gone, not coming
back, goldfish syndrome due to excess drinking...
but what bothers me is finding something
interesting in that book review... the invention of
humanism as a religion in the 17th century (
funny how Nietzsche criticised Christianity when
as an academic he would have known about
humanism, but dumbly persisted to criticise
what was already being replaced... unless...
he was anticipating American Evangelism,
which might be true) - so i'm trying to look for humanism,
and i come across Copernicus and Galileo -
because, apparently, (as already mentioned)
'Christianity was gradually dislodged by a belief
in the scared status of every individual's feelings
and judgement; we became the centre of the universe,
placing our trust in an unease alliance between
science and moral instinct.'
so there me thinking: so this goes back
to what we're experiencing now, heliocentric humanism
and geocentric humanism -
like i already mentioned, what's west for
nautical calculations past the moon and where's up
or north? it's still flat, the earth, if you're
trying to get from A (Lisbon) to Rio (B) -
so it's happening now, the great schism in humanism,
one side demeaning, angry, frustrated,
the other optimistic - heliocentric humanism
suggest that humans have all the great answers,
that we're all little Louis XIVs, about to dream big
about sorting hunger with spaghetti with a chance of
meatballs machines lodged in our head...
cure for cancer, etc. but then the geocentric humanism
movement is also strong: carbon footprints being
more important than carbon dating, global warming,
you know, typical ****.
still, the F5 paranoia was great,
writing this with an unlit roll-up cigarette was even
better, puckering that luxury before
the last word, and Houston: we have lift-off.
Frank Ruland Jan 2016
Never did I imagine myself sitting on an observation table in front of a one-way mirror, looking into my eyes while somebody is undoubtedly doing the same. However, I'm certain they don't see anything close to what I do. Beyond these "windows to my soul," lies a mausoleum where my sanity has been laid to rest. Typically I hate being stared at, but I am calmed by the steady, constant hum of the florescent lights above. It's nice to know that in a world of chaos and uncertainty, I can rely on something as simple as light fixtures to reassure me that not everything is madness. I can only hope that the florescent bulb in my head maintains its steady flicker, and not go out completely. THe shaddd  ows it casTS have Ben mmmy l-only frENDS 4 so lllooonnnggg, but they are no stubSTItute for you, my Love is SO overrated, don't you think, folks? Well, have I an offer for you! For only the the low, low price of your amygdala, we can scramble the pesky part of your brain that hurts you the most with a shiny, surgical drill! Isn't madness wonderf--
     I shake my head as my hallucinations break away from me, dissipating into thin air like so many real things in life. Things and people I thought were real, anyhow. It hard to be certain what reality consists of nowadays when what's most dear to you becomes another negative on the number line of my life. Please, divide me by zero so I may be one with the rest of my life's errors in the infinity known as Purgatory. Eye deadn't know REALity was so   f  a  r   from Beezl---beaten-- er, BEING real. What s there 2 rHEALly be cHURTIN of in a place where my Angel left me to burn in HELLO operator, give me number nine. My wrists are being bled, and if this girl don't pick up the phone, we both might wind up... Deadbolt all the doors, cause this time you can't quit. I'll set the house on fire; I'm sick of all your... Shut the bathtub faucet off; throw the toaster in. The voices think they can beat me, BUT I WON'T LET THEM WIN.
     A sharp chill shoots up my spine that fries the monitor in my brain, killing the images im once again forced to watch. The regularly scheduled programming I call,"Life," returns and the florescent lights steadies my heartbeat. They're getting stronger... Or am I just getting weaker. I don't have much strength left in these bones, but I suppose it's because I gave you everything, save what little I needed to get me up and to the nearest source of caffeine every morning. I miss you. You don't know how badly that with every passing day, my sanity wanes because you were the part keeping me together. I've said some things I didn't mean, and I'm sorry. But, there was too much blank space between us and it allowed for all this insanity to slip in and consume me. I hope that one day you come back, let alone hold me. I don't know how much longer eye have before the boy you fHELL in l... lo... Love with is gone. I just want to tell you that no matter what, this was--Breaking news coming to you straight from Frank's damaged psyche. Reports are flooding into the conscious mind of a possible hostage situation involving Frank's sanity. Introspection indicates that the threat of this situation has been very real for awhile now, but there was little to nothing anybody could do about it, save for heavy medication or a medically induced coma. We believe that the victim may be afflicted with both PTSD as well as Stockholm Syndrome, and that the Devil himself may very well be responsible. Other sources speculate that Frank's sanity was simply overwhelmed and is merely holing itself up, away from those who have promised rescue. No demands have been made, and there are signs that this will very well end tragically. We can only hope if such is true, that the demise of his sanity is swift and merciful. Coming up next: is bashing your head repeatedly into a hot stovetop a healthier alternative to reality television? Stay tuned and find out.
     A deep, sharp throb resonates in my skull, evacuating me from myself, and not a moment too soon. It's been too long since I could concentrate long enough to make sense of anything. I can feel an anxiety attack coming on when a click sounds directly to my left. The door opens and a doctor dressed in all white and wearing a surgeons' mask steps forth and looks at me with piercing black eyes. He stands there for a moment, as if analyzing me, and then speaks. "I'm Doctor Natas, are you ready for your frontal lobotomy, Mr. Ruland," he asks in a husky voice. He smells of fire and sulfur as his presence begins to fill the room, causing me to wrap my arms around myself. "Yes, I'm ready," I say, standing up. He opens the door revealing an intense, almost burning white light. "Right this way," he says, guiding me through the door.
This is based off of one of my favorite comics: "Carnage: What a Wonderful Life," enjoy.
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2017
Pull in the sheets,
trim the tiller,
shifting to the other rail,
light airs prevail, the
sails they luff.

Seeking the wind,
Cat's paws to Starboard
Hard-a-lee tacking to Port,
the breeze she comes,
boom shifts, helm heels
over, sails crack and fill.
Reef in the Jib, slack off the main.
She digs in, laying her rail
into the water, riding on the
seas thin knifes edge again,
the keel rises, steadies her passage.
We fly!

Ah, fair winds, sailors delight,
pleasant sailing, safe harbor ahead.
No greater joy than to sail and muck
about in boats on blue water.

Freedom achieved, intensely felt.
Audrey Frost Dec 2014
Big open spaces, big open spaces.
This chant spills from taut lips
hanging on constrained breath.

It’s not real, it’s not real.
This chant sends hands to cover eyes
wide in fear of still blank spaces.

He can’t hurt me anymore, he can’t.
This chant brings arms up to cover
once bruised faces fresh with phantom pain.

Don’t look down, don’t look down.
This chant steadies trembling feet
walking over fears now conquered.

It has to get better, it has to.
This chant loosens the noose
wrapped tight around the jugular.

I’m still here, I’m still here.
This chant is whispered when
the water recedes and the sun returns.
Awkward Penguin Nov 2013
Moments drift like the wind,
The memories locked in our hearts.
Endearing laughter, tender smiles,
The reminiscent days we cherish.

The youthful days of contentment,
We ran amongst the sea of people,
Lost in our own world,
Where nothing seems to matter.

Days have passed,
The future is almost within our grasp.
The unknown draws only fear,
Emotions begin to overflow.

The weight of expectations,
Just a burden carried on our shoulders.
The anxiety, the inability to breathe,
Clouds our enamoured souls.

Close your eyes and listen,
As your breathing steadies.
The world is ours to rewrite,
The place where we belong.
Penne Feb 2019
Sheets.
Beds.
Lay you
You, scent of miracle
Queen of purple
Dive with you
The lullness
The sweetness
The clouds
The home
Yet also the sting
Juice of youth sing
Not loud
Entangles me in waves
Indulge in the deluxe nature rave
Cool, mingling flame
Soothes my dame
As the mauve movement
Keep getting effervescent
The miss
The kiss
The mist
The rest
They dance and giggle freely
Fleetingly and sheepishly
Blushing as it brush against my flock of sheep
A sight of a paradox
A splash of silver fox
Comfy as its manes
Steadies my slumber
Even on a rocking lumber
With the breath of September
Keep making us enchanted under your spell
All will be swell
Thousand familiar but welcoming smell
To you I stay
We sway to heaven's way
May it turn us gay
Your nursing
Your care
Your play
It is our day
To blanket in your fields of saint
Hound-dog swallowing poly-coated pills, filling up, bloated, falling off stage, and into a more permanent and lasting Graceland, to be surrounded by another’s verse.

I only enjoy what comes from my own head, a modern Samuel Johnson, no matter what happenstance brought about to be said, a cage free Bronson. Hearing false verse through a syllable count, hoisted onto adverbs easy to mount. Congratulate a lesser mind, reaching commonalities most could find. Ease in creation, opens floodgate doors, distributing specs of grace through misworded spores. Life, love, and the pursuit of vanity, leaves simplified lumps of prosperous thought riddled with anonymity. The invention of despair overwhelms those ungifted, and leaves them erecting stale forgeries they grifted.

In the wee small hours of escaping light, a crooner steadies his hands as he falsifies his originality, reading off the music from another’s sheet.

A change in topic is something to hold as worthy, though in a modern context of prosaic prose, such good fortune can be exceptionally elusive. Broken hearted symptoms shared through a hash-tag, rerouted and worded, to fit an illiterate youth’s lesser diction, reposted to approach validity, only to be called forth as an original soul, one to revere, and hold as an entitled fraction of logic.

The piano man knocks out a tune, hit in stride with vocal conduct, inspired and laid in pen by a lesser man propelled by better wording, given up for another’s career.

Market’s over-saturated with teenage sonnets, weeping over cut wrists, ended (Victorian inspired) trysts, refreshed and brought back around until sentimentality vomits. Themes used to run rampant with fresh ingenuity, made extinct, occurred in a blink; now every poem has some congruency.

The grapevine got entangled, getting involved with a troublemaker, providing the soundtrack, using another’s words.
Kittridge James Apr 2013
He lustily wraps his
Unforgiving tendrils
'Round my willing mind
Here he comes again,
His tongue silver, cunning

He is my vice
He seduces my urges,
And encourages me,
To indulge in his
Hazy poison

Why are you being like this?
I can't explain to her
How he steadies
My freight train heart
And my fragile mind

His bite is all too
Familiar and comforting
Reminding me of
Bittersweet times,
Dwelling on the bitter

But something in me still
Just doesn't want to let him go
My little silver tongued- menace
I just can't stop
Letting his ghost

Gradually and damagingly,
Into my weakened lungs.
Chloe London Dec 2012
The sweet silence of the suddenly subtle atmosphere steadies my heartbeat,
The tender muscle of his heart beats into the cup of my left hand as I lay next to him,
His Eyes, glassy and calm,
His Hair, tousled and soft,

The heavenly smell of his sultry scent begins to drift under my nose,
Causing my eyes to spring open,
and look deep into his beautiful ocean blue eyes,
Then, parting my lips slightly, I  lean in towards him,
yielding to the soft strength of his kiss, that is engulfing me,
gaining in strength until i find myself wrapped up in him,
body,
heart,
and soul.

Leaving his luscious lips,
We both lay slouched down against the headboard of my brown leather bed,
My head on his shoulder,
wrapped in to his arms,
Both of our hands clasped together,
"This man means the world to me", I repeat in my head over and over,

He takes one small gaze at me,
Before he can say one thing,
I begin to speak the words...
"I love you... forever and ever baby."
The Dedpoet Jun 2016
Bridle of desires,
Wing above the storms,
He that steadies the Current,
Lord of my life
Gather me unto You
That these words may be holy
And worthy to praise thee,
Christ, God of my life.
King of Kings
With Your perfection in wisdom
Who rejoices in the little children,
He that is the Word,
Heavenly Shepard
That forms the stars and the skies
With a gesture
Saving those from
The darkness that looms,
Guide me into the Life
As I follow the immortal light,
Merciful One,
Jesus Christ
Distiller of men
Allow me to praise you
Son of God,
Savior of my life.
Nichole777 Jan 2010
inner struggles
heart so true
how could it not be
You
am I a fool

pulse races
lingering thoughts
whatever you want
how we enjoy the taunt

breathing steadies
surrender wins
how do I begin
when its going to sting

stronger than ever
lost in your essence
if only t'was a permenant presence

taking what is
for thats all there is to give
releasing the sin
living now from within
S S Feb 2016
I watch you watch me gliding by
Your joy worn on your sleeve
You hold me close, meld into me
My frayed veins you deftly weave.

A creeping line across an egg
Your face cracks into a smile
As silver syrup of moonlight seeps
Beem from your eyes, beguile.

I watch you pour love into me
Drops wetting parched dry heart
Words of satin, silken smooth
Bathe my restless wounds in art.

I believe that you ache when I ache
Edge of your world starts crumpling in
But tall you stand, hands on my ears
Muting out my shrieking din.

I believe you when you say you'll stay
Through my journey fraught with blades
Strong grip steadies my perilous walk
Gnashing jaws 'neath tightrope fades.

You shield yourself with arms aflexed
Marked with scars of self defense
Yet you kiss my Jekyll and my Hyde
You bore through my vile pretence.

I know not how our tale will end
The greys fragment into more shades
Know that your marrow fills my bones
You're the reason my life still parades.
My saviour.
KatieM Mar 2013
Her hands shake.

She's terrified of this person she's become.

It was never meant to be this way.

One time,

she swore.

One more,

she promised again.

Once a month

once a week

once a day

whenever she got a chance.

She never thought she'd be this way.

An addict.

When did it happen?

Why did it happen?

How?

It started way back when,

when life was kicking her ***.

She was drowning,

couldn't keep her head above water.

She struggled.

Kicking and screaming,

she powered on.

Tried

so **** hard.

She made promises

to herself

her friends

her Savior.

She promised

she'd be ok.

She swore she wouldn't

fall victim

like so many before her.

But she's never been good

at keeping her promises.

(Never been good at much,

actually.)

One time

turned to

many

many

many

more.

That night

an addiction started.

And she hates herself for it.

Hates her friends

for never opening

their ******* eyes.

Hates one in particular

for never asking the questions

she should.

Hates another

that she loves

for leaving.

Because that's what it was.

Excuses for unreplied texts

missed calls.

Two months.

She left.

That's what happened.

(Deny it all you want,

but you know for a fact

you stopped caring

when I went batshit.

You know.)

Hates her parents

for pushing

so **** hard.

(Why?

Maybe if I

had actually felt like

the words you say

were true

I wouldn't be here.)

But mostly she hates herself

for succumbing to

an idea

a notion

that never should have been

entertained.

But she did.

Now she's failing at recovery.

Failing being herself.

Failing life in general.

Failing living.

Failing

falling.

Sinking into old habits.

Old addictions.

Her hands shake,

holding the weapon

in this war of self destruction.

It touches her skin,

and she shivers.

****.

She wishes she could stop,

that she could be ok.

But she can't.

So she steadies her hands.

Pull.

****!

Blood drips,

and her mind is gone.

Such is the life

of an addict.
DieingEmbers Feb 2012
Come in the coffees on
remove your shoes
curl your toes
relax...

here upon my lap
where workday worries melt
softly away
as you lay your head against my heart.

Can you hear it whisper
softly your name?

Your breathing steadies into rhtymn
with my own
your hand rests gently on my shoulder
mouthing I love you

you sleep...

I inhale your hair
relaxing
into our nightly routine
of comfort
and coffee beans.
light scrunched, a crouched shadow.
eyes discern heaviness of
ordinary places into various flows
   of gutted fish.

this world gives away a weathered image:
its wraith comes unannounced

lovelessly drags the stooping gait
of walls, obscenely expires
   a small clearing

this mundane home gives way
to a restless flow of other dimensions.

bird of the afternoon
reaches far beyond extensions.
discombobulated tendril of light
   flashes its fullness
to a bedrock of reality.

the kitchenwares start to falter
but all for the way, where once
gray hair graced this table,
her vividly tremulous hand steadies
  a fixed touch on bedspread —

on the wet back of freshly bathed fruits,
  a metonymy that continues to bruise.

morning's watery hands part to meet
the mist of departures;

quietly as we all are, seldom imposed
an overhung dark, and as quiet as you,

                                                do not go.
Jeffrey Pua Jun 2012
I travel in your fair thoughts
As though to travel in your world.
Sometimes, I try to understand
Why your eyes cannot reach me.
Sometimes, I do not know you but--
But still I want to linger
Like I truly know you.                  

Shyly, I intend to blanket you with my palms
As if I can cocoon a butterfly back
Into its gentle sleep.
I am absorbed at it and I cannot disengage.

You bring hope and needed refuge to a wandering soul.
Cluelessly, your blue warmth caresses,
And it opens for me
Like an afternoon:
My rest from tough day's work.
Because of you I can somehow get by
With this life.

Love,
You're my north star,
And another,
And a few hundreds more.
I intend to walk and follow
My disregard for my longing heart.
But still, at night, you form for me
A constellation, a guiding invitation
Just to love again.

And how I need to lean on you,
Like a book leaning to another.
But at times, when I can see you reaching out,
It is my hand that readily un-fists and steadies,
Worried for which its not accountable of.

Because of you I can only imagine--
How immense would re-birthing
Drowned islands be inside your heart,
As I wonder at a far-off shore
How to get there, how to know you.

'Cause maybe
Just like me,
You are finding someone new.

© 2010 J.S.P.
spiral-whirl Mar 2018
the walls they close in,
my breath seems to quicken,
my thoughts began to whirl,
i can't breath- i can't seem to grasp it,
did i forget?
i'm not forgetful,
am i?
ah, i can't think straight,
things began to slow down,
i can hear them yelling,
but i can't,
its drain out from my own breath,
the sirens blare loudly in my ears but they seem so distant,
my eyes began to close as i drift,
my breath steadies,
it slows,
then stops.
Terricka Tyndell Feb 2012
He fondled the lines on my palm with tips of his fingers

Convinced the heavier with a gentle urge to seek out moonlight

Suggested to the thinner to inch upward as if it had lost its way

Pressing lips softly against skin unhinging secrets onto landscapes

that scream tears, whispering with gazing fingers, secrets unspoken.

Holding there the traces of his lips caught beneath a scar on my shoulder.

He steadies, pushing breath against body.  Somehow, somewhere lost inside

And searches for me where he loves to hide.

Burning prints on skin as the rhythm of his words fill me.

The rough and the swollen seeking light and answers with skin.

A thumbnails half moon moves across my thigh quietly to his sense of Grace

and he is back inside waiting in the black that surround him warm and wet,

sweetly anchored as he softly strains for light—until…

a stretch of skin,

a pull of flesh

is known-

and bellies tremble beneath curious shapes into confused laughter and breath

His eyes are mine as I collapse and he finds he’s way inside…again
Brent Apr 2015
(Note that this is kinda ****** and macabre at some point so, your call)
The Suicidal Painter

A shadowy character. A man shrouded in darkness.
A foreshadowed pain and other feelings that can't be restrained.
A special being. A master of the arts.
But instead of a trusty paintbrush, he wields a rusty blade.

As a man of expression, he released his irrepressible depression.
He let the dark thoughts prance in his mind,
as these thoughts consumed his sanity.

As his thoughts continued to dance, the blade followed its steps.
It sliced and slit, and almost hits his critical veins.
As crimson red splatters in his supposed canvas,
The image of his beloved began to take form.

As his blade circle around his arm,
Teardrops roll on his cheeks and sweat form in his forehead.
Slowly, the droplets approach his wounds.
One by one, the drops make contact with his open skin.
And every excruciating sting he feels,
A memory with her disappears.

As his blood continuously drip from his severely lacerated arm,
he lets go of his blade.
Then he paints with his trembling fingers, a pair of wings for his beloved.
The blood red wings to let her go.
The unstable wings to set her free.

But even then, his blood-dipped fingers continued to swish and rustle through the canvas.
As he steadies her wings, she began to fade to the fabric.
As his consciousness wanes, he puts his finishing touch.
Like every maestro who is done with his creation,
he smiles
And as he sees her image completely gone,
he realizes his eternal freedom.
this is probably the longest thing I've ever done. and probably the bloodiest. i like this site very much. it's my emotional outlet for times like these. it's my way of releasing how i really feel, even though i'm not that great a writer.

— The End —