"synchronises" poems
Sitting in some car in a forgotten parking lot
Grey marks the skies
Lush green plants peeping in
The wildlife of concrete and paint makes the perfect background
For
Little ***** of liquid heaven falling on my windscreen
And some music to complete the scene
Each guitar line synchronises with each raindrop
Each blast of power thunder hits hard like heavy metal
But the soft clouds, the gentle ebb and flow lull me to sleep
Whispering, persuading me to dream
But I really don't want to miss this shard of time
I never want to lose little moments like these
A silver raindrop is born by landing on my car
Crash landing, rather
The bubbling pocket of mystery travels down
Swerving and slamming into other fellow pockets in crime
It's life cycle completes when it reaches the bottom
It races to it's death, unable to stop gravity's plan for it
Each drop morphs into another, making a wave
The rain weaves an intricate web of waves
All strutting their sparkly magic before me
I sense a metaphor for humanity creeping in
Millions of crescendos growing about
Too concerned with their internal politics to worry about others
But I stay focused on the beauty all around
I wonder if heaven has rainy days
If so, this must be one of them
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Like the tide,
you, will, rise and fall, impossible to hold on to.
Just as a pattern emerges
your personality synchronises with the British weather.
Like a long summer evening in Shanghai you are warm and bright,
carefree as an afternoon breeze.
Making me smile, laugh, blush
such a tease.
Car rides into the sunset with
the windows down and the music up
sharing cigarettes.
But as you pull those dark shades over your eyes and soul
the rain begins to pour
the intimacy washes away
trust astray
several steps apart
from the inch we grew closer yesterday.
Laid back, insecure, self-centred, unreliable,
unstable, restless and emotinally unavailable
yet somehow charmingly mystic
surprisingly dashing
talented and well bred
unattainably captivating
naively helpless
shy
thus I cannot pin point why
I am drawn.
I regret not kissing you
and know I would still have
if I did...
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
Imagine, for this night, you are the queen of Fairy Tale land.
I, too, am a prince, from Make-Believe kingdom.
From beyond our cocooned proximity,
the night shimmers in, and thickens to a silken thread of moonlight
that the crone will soon spindle into her never-ending story
of billion constellations, both seen and unseen
by naked, desperate novas.
We, entwined, like the roots under a rabid rainforest,
pale as innocence, battering feverishly against the stones for ever afters,
seize Avalon, and reject Camelot.
The canopy of fireflies synchronises in raw euphoria,
a rebel Excalibur.
The wind matures around us.
Tomorrow may be an inevitable notion,
but my queen of Fairy Tale land,
my sword, shield, bow, toothbrush, unicorn,
worn-out copy of The Arabian Nights,
all lay bare before your lion throne.
This world was once a crevice between fire and ice.
Fire and ice run in our veins,
from me to you and back into the realm of drunken faeries,
where the bumblebee heart of the day
is yet to ignite the pomegranate sky.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
If it makes you feel better
I would say sorry
I'll apologise on behalf of those whom I don't know
If it gave us peace
I would be the first to be held for the terror
But this world of ours
Is falling apart
The oceans are spewing bodies
And the sound of fireworks make me flinch
I am frozen in fear of whiplash
As I watch you cry on the t.v
My breath synchronises with the pants of your fear
They show belongings of victims as they raced for their lives
And I see a watch my brother wears
I see streets that I grew up in
I see people whom I feel nothing but compassion for
I want to hold you tight and rewind away the pain
I want to come and lay flowers where the blood of mankind is soaked into the sawdust
But will you accept a hug from a Muslim?
I want to tell you I love you
I want to tell you if I was there I'd like to think I could protect you
I would stand in front of the innocent
And spit at the gunmen in disgust
I would cry like a mother whose child had gone astray
I would mourn
The spawn of Satan
Has Islam not taught you anything?
I want you to know
That denouncing my faith
To make you happy
Will truly not make everything okay
For I will be leaving what taught me to love
And then what better would I be than our perpetrator?
I see humans
I feel humanity
I see a world not Syria or Paris
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
I have consistently felt a fraud in describing myself as 'determined', or 'driven'. Not due to any quarrel with my faith of ability or self-esteem; myself and my worth quite frankly stand side by side, in quietly ferocious agreement of what I can and will achieve. But, for the days that I find myself debilitated by this intruder, inhibition, I seem to find it much easier to succumb to a detour I have been prudently avoiding for the sake of progress. It is these days I cling onto during my most self-critical moments. As this invasive oblivion washes over me, I cannot fathom desire or purpose in anything of passing. The built up flecks of dust that quiver in the dim gap of the curtains adjacent to my bed make me sneeze, and act as an unbearable physical reminder of the overwhelming force that has seized any means of motivation. I bathe myself in a self-pitying despair, noticing my reflection in the crisis act of a drama, then turning off the TV before I can take heed of any resolution. Memory infatuates itself with devastation and regards love as a courteous aftermath of guilt. Then comes this hurtling, unapologetic force of liberation; a rush of self-destruction or anger, it doesn't matter, it is energy and it is mine. It's the only emotion I have experienced so far in my life akin to electricity. Poets write about how being loved by another is electric, a wave of newness whenever their skin brushes against yours, becoming real and sincere as it travels through your nervous system and synchronises the flow within your veins to their power source. That is until this surge of hunger rises in my throat, begging for an action. Passivity sinks deep, I come to terms that it will reignite, but for now I find myself enamoured with a need to create; to create beauty in my surroundings. This is the drive and determination I had inadvertently deprived myself of; steered by passion and leaving no trail, because there does not have to be material evidence for progress. It may falter into a wandering delirium, but I cannot describe to you the beauty seeped in knowledge of return.
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC
...drip drip drip drip
The rain is a blanket of sound, a theme song that empties my now, vanquishes me to dreams of two bodies entwined moving to the rhyme of hearts that beat until the melody synchronises to the tune of the rain drips...
...frequent and irregular...
...gasping, he lifts me up body and soul, to demonstrate he can handle me, and my crazy thoughts. I open up, abandon my reservations, then curl my limbs around him, till our souls be only separated by our skin. stretching our all to each other like rain drops do on window panes, willing themselves to reach that next droplet and then running the rest of eternity together...
...happily there after...
...which we all know its facing the world everyday as a unit. having bad days, but working through that pain Finding new heights of excitement and doing old things you like to do again. even when the rain comes and goes, I can always dance to the memory of us
drip drip drip drip...
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
Time soothes me,
it rounds me like her face.
it's sound is the beat,
that synchronises with mine.
the hands hold me,
so I stand,
the tick of time.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC