Snow in sheets sways so slowly
In the night’s breeze, lit up by its
Own startling brightness,
Allied, inevitably, by the glare
Of the surrounding street lights.
Each step on my long walk home
From the abandoned party is
Taken with petty caution,
When blatant disregard for all
Courses bitterly through freezing
Veins, filled with the stilted
Passion of everything which
Has been, and will be, lost forever.
Placeless and pace-less
(though not so far from my bed),
Every half-step forward
Represents two steps back,
As the ghost town of Clongriffin
Rises against me in terrible silence.
The few who live here resent me,
And I them, because our faults
Are never more exposed than
When intruded upon by a counter
(mercifully closed at this hour).
And those at the party, who
Supposedly stand by my side of
The bartering, are really no different,
Codded as they are by the
Folly of futile chases in the dark
When the shutters come down
And they all drink away their nights
(erring in lust where I lapse in love).
Wraith-like, I stalk the streets home,
Ever fearful of my past catching
Hold of me again, with every
Shadow a threat to my essence
(and each one ungraspable, too).
Deceitful is the path I tread,
But more treacherous is the truth
Enforced isolation brings to the
Thoughtful who should remain
Thoughtless for their own benefit:
That the fell chill choking my breath
Emanates from me myself and
Envelopes the genial snow and breeze
Around me, contorting its serenity
And coaxing it into becoming a storm,
The thundering crescendo of which
Blinds and cuts right through me
(just me).
And then I slip and crack a bone
In my left hand, the one I write with,
And this compounds the trembling
Misery both within me and without
(I never really made it home).
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Birthday
The shifting climate produces
In the country a freeze which reflects
My reaction to everything these days.
I find myself possessed by the many
Insignificant and irreversible truths
Of my life, and am plagued by regret.
Hooked to my belt everyday is a pouch
Of salt so that a pinch is always within
Reach when something invariably rots.
And I have adopted a pessimistic view to
Every act of life because all I expect is for
Decency to give way to apathy in the end.
But then mother told me something which
Stopped my existentialism in its infancy:
That today is your birthday, Big Man.
It has only occurred to me how much
Of my life I have lived without
The advice of a father or father-figure.
And it dawns on me, too, how even
In death our relationship mirrors exactly
What we would have become regardless.
You and mother could never hear me
Scream or shout, or cry alone in the dark,
So what hope was there for conversation?
Though you never chose it to be this way,
You did choose to leave, and your departing manner -
Buried in silence, without a single word spoken.
And though mother tells me again
That today is your birthday, it makes no
Difference to the reality of my existence.
I went from seeing you once a week
To not at all, which was as easy a
Transition as one could ever ask for.
Mother feeds me and washes my clothes,
So while her and I fail to communicate on
A real level, she is there at the most basic.
You could not be here, Big Man, because
You chose to die instead of facing your issues
Like the man you were built up to be.
And I would be lying if I said a similar flight
Had never crossed my own mind - but your
Boarding it first is what keeps me breathing.
So at the third time of mother’s mention
I present to you your birthday gift today:
A thank you for playing a part in my creation…
And the truth that you will never define me.
In the country a freeze which reflects
My reaction to everything these days.
I find myself possessed by the many
Insignificant and irreversible truths
Of my life, and am plagued by regret.
Hooked to my belt everyday is a pouch
Of salt so that a pinch is always within
Reach when something invariably rots.
And I have adopted a pessimistic view to
Every act of life because all I expect is for
Decency to give way to apathy in the end.
But then mother told me something which
Stopped my existentialism in its infancy:
That today is your birthday, Big Man.
It has only occurred to me how much
Of my life I have lived without
The advice of a father or father-figure.
And it dawns on me, too, how even
In death our relationship mirrors exactly
What we would have become regardless.
You and mother could never hear me
Scream or shout, or cry alone in the dark,
So what hope was there for conversation?
Though you never chose it to be this way,
You did choose to leave, and your departing manner -
Buried in silence, without a single word spoken.
And though mother tells me again
That today is your birthday, it makes no
Difference to the reality of my existence.
I went from seeing you once a week
To not at all, which was as easy a
Transition as one could ever ask for.
Mother feeds me and washes my clothes,
So while her and I fail to communicate on
A real level, she is there at the most basic.
You could not be here, Big Man, because
You chose to die instead of facing your issues
Like the man you were built up to be.
And I would be lying if I said a similar flight
Had never crossed my own mind - but your
Boarding it first is what keeps me breathing.
So at the third time of mother’s mention
I present to you your birthday gift today:
A thank you for playing a part in my creation…
And the truth that you will never define me.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Projections
Projections of us dancing
Flicker in my mind,
The circumstance, though,
Remains truthfully unkind.
We fell into arms to
The applause of our peers,
Yet our difference lies
In our gap of two years.
Our meeting has come
Too late in our lives,
And I listen with envy
To how your world thrives.
You whisper of your
Babies, man and boy,
And how they both bring
You an endless joy.
And as we sway gently to
A Christmas coming,
Your child’s virtue
Begins softly humming.
I held you first with
Selfish hopes of love,
But now context’s role
Shows me this is enough.
*
When the music stops
And the night ends,
You speak with passion
Of love and its trends.
An urge rises through me
Like a new day’s sun,
But my head rules my heart
And I fend off this one.
When you dismiss the flirts
Who chase all chances,
I learn, with silence,
To cherish our dances.
For while a kiss from you
Is all I really want,
Destroying your certitude
Would be an endless haunt.
So I hold off the urge
With repressed ache,
But a lesson is learned
From a subdued mistake:
In the end regret
Will always be rife,
So try to take comfort
When its reason is right.
Flicker in my mind,
The circumstance, though,
Remains truthfully unkind.
We fell into arms to
The applause of our peers,
Yet our difference lies
In our gap of two years.
Our meeting has come
Too late in our lives,
And I listen with envy
To how your world thrives.
You whisper of your
Babies, man and boy,
And how they both bring
You an endless joy.
And as we sway gently to
A Christmas coming,
Your child’s virtue
Begins softly humming.
I held you first with
Selfish hopes of love,
But now context’s role
Shows me this is enough.
*
When the music stops
And the night ends,
You speak with passion
Of love and its trends.
An urge rises through me
Like a new day’s sun,
But my head rules my heart
And I fend off this one.
When you dismiss the flirts
Who chase all chances,
I learn, with silence,
To cherish our dances.
For while a kiss from you
Is all I really want,
Destroying your certitude
Would be an endless haunt.
So I hold off the urge
With repressed ache,
But a lesson is learned
From a subdued mistake:
In the end regret
Will always be rife,
So try to take comfort
When its reason is right.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Attempt
I
Attempt after attempt is made to step away
from the strife I have created inside,
and the only realisation I can stumble upon
is that it is raining outside in the real world.
Blessed emancipation is stifled by the hours
spent grappling with shop chores and
shunting along stubborn people whose brief prosperity
has them believing they are entitled to more.
Fatigue sets in, then, and slows the mind,
killing the will for endeavour and progress,
and sucking dry my belief in hope and love,
the two shaky pillars that have come crashing
down around me, taking everything else with them.
The futility of earning to stand still is
beyond comprehension, while my twitching
fingers show a man bearing the brunt of the loss
he suffers when faced with the dreaded writer’s block.
II
The pen is my release, and the withdrawal
and resulting raggedness from my daily dosage
has dulled my expression and killed my spirit.
I pocket my hand to stop the nervous shaking
and to hide the questions trembling fingers bring,
but they bury with them some lessons harshly learned:
such as how reason must be sought and fought for
because it is not a divine right and never will be;
and how motivation must come from within
one’s soul and heart because when both become
battered, broken and bitter, apathy sets in;
and how talent is as talent was and will always wither
when subjected to the reality that a place on the
pedestal is not the destiny meant for everybody;
and, finally, how the only true person responsible
for chasing me into this cordoned-off piece of room
with no pen or paper is myself for not being the best I can be.
III
So, my name has reached few, yet more than some -
but isolation has limited me, with stories lost.
Having been so cavalier for so long in
gallivanting with words across the lives
of those known and unknown - carelessly
constructing thought as if it were gospel
gobbled up by strangers and loved ones -
the truth suddenly hits in supplementary fashion
that nobody cares what I have to say;
because all I have to say is about myself and my woes,
which have only ever been self-inflicted, with finger
pointed in denial at somebody else all the time.
With words I have walked farther than most men
without ever moving a step, but now I am stuck -
and with ambition, reason, drive and hope
all crushed in my pocket with this truth, I can only think
of how my youth has been pissed away at twenty-one.
Attempt after attempt is made to step away
from the strife I have created inside,
and the only realisation I can stumble upon
is that it is raining outside in the real world.
Blessed emancipation is stifled by the hours
spent grappling with shop chores and
shunting along stubborn people whose brief prosperity
has them believing they are entitled to more.
Fatigue sets in, then, and slows the mind,
killing the will for endeavour and progress,
and sucking dry my belief in hope and love,
the two shaky pillars that have come crashing
down around me, taking everything else with them.
The futility of earning to stand still is
beyond comprehension, while my twitching
fingers show a man bearing the brunt of the loss
he suffers when faced with the dreaded writer’s block.
II
The pen is my release, and the withdrawal
and resulting raggedness from my daily dosage
has dulled my expression and killed my spirit.
I pocket my hand to stop the nervous shaking
and to hide the questions trembling fingers bring,
but they bury with them some lessons harshly learned:
such as how reason must be sought and fought for
because it is not a divine right and never will be;
and how motivation must come from within
one’s soul and heart because when both become
battered, broken and bitter, apathy sets in;
and how talent is as talent was and will always wither
when subjected to the reality that a place on the
pedestal is not the destiny meant for everybody;
and, finally, how the only true person responsible
for chasing me into this cordoned-off piece of room
with no pen or paper is myself for not being the best I can be.
III
So, my name has reached few, yet more than some -
but isolation has limited me, with stories lost.
Having been so cavalier for so long in
gallivanting with words across the lives
of those known and unknown - carelessly
constructing thought as if it were gospel
gobbled up by strangers and loved ones -
the truth suddenly hits in supplementary fashion
that nobody cares what I have to say;
because all I have to say is about myself and my woes,
which have only ever been self-inflicted, with finger
pointed in denial at somebody else all the time.
With words I have walked farther than most men
without ever moving a step, but now I am stuck -
and with ambition, reason, drive and hope
all crushed in my pocket with this truth, I can only think
of how my youth has been pissed away at twenty-one.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Static
They ask for my plans
as they down their cans,
and cast a sidelong glance
at the better-looking man.
At the end of the end
without a single friend,
just garnered numbers
and faces out of trend.
But my fate lies away
from this dead place,
where I can howl to
heaven without constraint…
And live forever without complaint.
Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is lost
as I can’t crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
and the seconds die
as I keep clicking.
It is with a heavy heart
that we all must part,
but where is the sense
in looking back to the start?
I sigh through the door,
despair in every pore,
and I go in search of
the promise of more.
With hope in the new
and love in the few,
while the folly of our kind
adds to the queue…
The place I stranded myself for you.
Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is lost
as I can’t crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
and the seconds die
as I keep clicking.
And in being so selfish
I apologise,
but in being so selfish
I accept my guise.
My one true crime was
standing still.
My one true home was
my windowsill…
From where I would watch The World thrill.
But not anymore.
Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is gained
as at last I crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
but the seconds live
as I keep clicking.
as they down their cans,
and cast a sidelong glance
at the better-looking man.
At the end of the end
without a single friend,
just garnered numbers
and faces out of trend.
But my fate lies away
from this dead place,
where I can howl to
heaven without constraint…
And live forever without complaint.
Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is lost
as I can’t crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
and the seconds die
as I keep clicking.
It is with a heavy heart
that we all must part,
but where is the sense
in looking back to the start?
I sigh through the door,
despair in every pore,
and I go in search of
the promise of more.
With hope in the new
and love in the few,
while the folly of our kind
adds to the queue…
The place I stranded myself for you.
Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is lost
as I can’t crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
and the seconds die
as I keep clicking.
And in being so selfish
I apologise,
but in being so selfish
I accept my guise.
My one true crime was
standing still.
My one true home was
my windowsill…
From where I would watch The World thrill.
But not anymore.
Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is gained
as at last I crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
but the seconds live
as I keep clicking.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The End of The End
And it is a glorious finale to a spell which
flew by with the grace of a sparrow,
but also with the short-lived speed
of a cheetah in the desert, finishing
in the inevitable solitude an oasis brings.
This is The End of The End,
a final farewell to the many
acquaintances made during the
all too brief three years spent
sharing our stress in confined rooms.
The crown of a plaza fails to signify
enough the crescendo to which we are
building, and to me the night feels
like any other, save only my attire -
a tuxedo that, for once, is not a t-shirt.
The night is lost like every other night,
with obsessions over minor fancies
taking over my mind’s eye, detracting
my attention from the true essence of
this night’s ultimate significance.
So now the futile fight begins
to avoid the descent into mediocrity,
with the pull of the truth and the loss
of the few who transcended that divide
combining to move me to a standstill.
And that realisation amalgamates with
sadness to well up inside me, with
my ribcage fighting hard to restrain
the screams of frustration as my eyes
lose their battle to withhold the tears.
flew by with the grace of a sparrow,
but also with the short-lived speed
of a cheetah in the desert, finishing
in the inevitable solitude an oasis brings.
This is The End of The End,
a final farewell to the many
acquaintances made during the
all too brief three years spent
sharing our stress in confined rooms.
The crown of a plaza fails to signify
enough the crescendo to which we are
building, and to me the night feels
like any other, save only my attire -
a tuxedo that, for once, is not a t-shirt.
The night is lost like every other night,
with obsessions over minor fancies
taking over my mind’s eye, detracting
my attention from the true essence of
this night’s ultimate significance.
So now the futile fight begins
to avoid the descent into mediocrity,
with the pull of the truth and the loss
of the few who transcended that divide
combining to move me to a standstill.
And that realisation amalgamates with
sadness to well up inside me, with
my ribcage fighting hard to restrain
the screams of frustration as my eyes
lose their battle to withhold the tears.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Wasteland Wanderer
I never want to own a house,
Nor do I want a family to put in one;
I never want to buy a car,
Nor do I want to speed through the truth;
I never want to vote again,
Nor do I want to see either side win;
I never want to settle in one place,
Nor do I want to settle for every place;
I never want to become a negative statistic,
Nor do I want to become a positive statistic;
I never want to go to church,
Nor do I want to pray to a sadist God;
I never want to suffer like the old,
Nor do I want to pay like the young;
I never want to hear hypocrisy again,
Nor do I want to see it carelessly acted out;
I just want to be a wanderer
In this wasteland we call The World,
Piecing together the remnants of dreams
Broken from the blind chase before.
Nor do I want a family to put in one;
I never want to buy a car,
Nor do I want to speed through the truth;
I never want to vote again,
Nor do I want to see either side win;
I never want to settle in one place,
Nor do I want to settle for every place;
I never want to become a negative statistic,
Nor do I want to become a positive statistic;
I never want to go to church,
Nor do I want to pray to a sadist God;
I never want to suffer like the old,
Nor do I want to pay like the young;
I never want to hear hypocrisy again,
Nor do I want to see it carelessly acted out;
I just want to be a wanderer
In this wasteland we call The World,
Piecing together the remnants of dreams
Broken from the blind chase before.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Your Purgatory
It was amiable in the end
as hope shook truth’s hand
and we left behind the lies.
My watch struck a fence and
like a clock tower in the dark
Clanged “get out now or die!”
Shadows chased themselves
into near-non-existence
when the first light rose.
A tunnelled enclosure’s
contrived freedom made
a mockery of the road you chose.
Vacillating in torment for years
as you grappled with what you
feared most in schizophrenic love.
Your fate falls within your
purgatory of divisive desires
as nobody will ever be enough.
And it all became so startlingly
clear in my one-track mind
at the third time of rejecting.
All those hours spent gazing
at my mirror in search of why
were simply self-neglecting.
We were incredible since
the start, the end and the aftermath
for reasons wrong and right.
We dug so many circles
into the ground, with all the
old phrases now too trite.
Even now it all slips away
into memory and anecdotes
as the essence of change is speed.
So we both look forward
to a forked future, to live out
our warring, idyllic creeds.
as hope shook truth’s hand
and we left behind the lies.
My watch struck a fence and
like a clock tower in the dark
Clanged “get out now or die!”
Shadows chased themselves
into near-non-existence
when the first light rose.
A tunnelled enclosure’s
contrived freedom made
a mockery of the road you chose.
Vacillating in torment for years
as you grappled with what you
feared most in schizophrenic love.
Your fate falls within your
purgatory of divisive desires
as nobody will ever be enough.
And it all became so startlingly
clear in my one-track mind
at the third time of rejecting.
All those hours spent gazing
at my mirror in search of why
were simply self-neglecting.
We were incredible since
the start, the end and the aftermath
for reasons wrong and right.
We dug so many circles
into the ground, with all the
old phrases now too trite.
Even now it all slips away
into memory and anecdotes
as the essence of change is speed.
So we both look forward
to a forked future, to live out
our warring, idyllic creeds.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Barrier
I can see them all, friends old and new,
queuing up to dissuade you from any
temptation of falling back to that one
moment of weakness where you fell for me.
That glow in your eyes I felt in my heart
and even though when we moved so close
it felt so right, a barrier of sorts prevented
us from moving any closer than
a cheek kiss and a warm embrace,
so cold with the presence of prevention.
All we could do was sit and speak, and all
I could do was admire the way you spoke
so eloquently and freely, and revel in the lift
inside my heart that your contagious laugh
brought, a lift so genuine that I finally learned
the difference between reality and imagination.
And yet it is the reality of knowing
those whose opinion you value and trust most
will say “nay” to any inkling of lust
you may have felt in our fleeting meeting,
and that such meetings grow further apart
the more time goes by since the end of our
generation’s spell together on our hallowed campus.
“A crush, a fantasy, that was all,” they will insist;
“too soft, overbearing,” they will add,
using the context of history to remind you of
my personality’s fatalist flaws that I cannot escape.
So I left you at the bus stop with yet another hug
and a kiss, your cheek planted so squarely in my
face that your intention could not be misread -
and I left with hands shoved into my pockets,
wondering…where did I go so wrong?
queuing up to dissuade you from any
temptation of falling back to that one
moment of weakness where you fell for me.
That glow in your eyes I felt in my heart
and even though when we moved so close
it felt so right, a barrier of sorts prevented
us from moving any closer than
a cheek kiss and a warm embrace,
so cold with the presence of prevention.
All we could do was sit and speak, and all
I could do was admire the way you spoke
so eloquently and freely, and revel in the lift
inside my heart that your contagious laugh
brought, a lift so genuine that I finally learned
the difference between reality and imagination.
And yet it is the reality of knowing
those whose opinion you value and trust most
will say “nay” to any inkling of lust
you may have felt in our fleeting meeting,
and that such meetings grow further apart
the more time goes by since the end of our
generation’s spell together on our hallowed campus.
“A crush, a fantasy, that was all,” they will insist;
“too soft, overbearing,” they will add,
using the context of history to remind you of
my personality’s fatalist flaws that I cannot escape.
So I left you at the bus stop with yet another hug
and a kiss, your cheek planted so squarely in my
face that your intention could not be misread -
and I left with hands shoved into my pockets,
wondering…where did I go so wrong?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
James Blunt Gold
I hoped what we had was
James Blunt gold,
but that was a hope
irrational and bold.
Again you leave
to take your flight,
your boarding pass was
booked all night.
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
We are a drama
three years long,
the curtains drop
but the song sings on.
Before it was life,
this time it’s you,
if my love brings fear,
whose love will do?
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
Waves of friendship
steady as can be
rocked by the storm
of revelation’s sea.
Silence is golden,
or so I am told,
but my soundless phone
feels too cold.
Never again will we lock eyes,
so now we must say goodbye
as our love was never the lie -
just your will to see it through.
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
James Blunt gold,
but that was a hope
irrational and bold.
Again you leave
to take your flight,
your boarding pass was
booked all night.
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
We are a drama
three years long,
the curtains drop
but the song sings on.
Before it was life,
this time it’s you,
if my love brings fear,
whose love will do?
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
Waves of friendship
steady as can be
rocked by the storm
of revelation’s sea.
Silence is golden,
or so I am told,
but my soundless phone
feels too cold.
Never again will we lock eyes,
so now we must say goodbye
as our love was never the lie -
just your will to see it through.
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
And even though again you flee,
here I stand and still believe
you and I were meant to be,
yet all the while you love and leave.
Monday, October 4, 2010
All I Want
I don’t want to revel in my own isolation by
sitting in the dark watching lovers falsify their pleasure.
I don’t want to help the poor by giving them change
and soup and my own time when it makes no difference.
I don’t want to earn millions and become lost
in the excess wealth always brings to the greedy.
I don’t want to earn nothing while losing forty hours
a week doing a job I hate for people who hate me.
I don’t want to start a project and cease a project
and continue in this futile vein because it’s expected of me.
I don’t want to perform before crowds of thousands
who only know my name and my face but not me.
I don’t want the adulation of millions of strangers,
nor their claims of undying love in blindness.
I don’t want the vented fury of those same millions
when it all goes wrong because I am human to their detriment.
I don’t want to travel the world alone in pursuit of
‘wisdom’ that will only make me bitter in the end.
I don’t want to be stuck in this dead, dull place
if it means my own existence has to die with it.
I don’t want to be known by name as the greatest
of my generation in whatever it is that I do.
All I want is to find one person and make them so
indescribably happy that it re-ingnites the life inside me…
Then I could die a happy man.
sitting in the dark watching lovers falsify their pleasure.
I don’t want to help the poor by giving them change
and soup and my own time when it makes no difference.
I don’t want to earn millions and become lost
in the excess wealth always brings to the greedy.
I don’t want to earn nothing while losing forty hours
a week doing a job I hate for people who hate me.
I don’t want to start a project and cease a project
and continue in this futile vein because it’s expected of me.
I don’t want to perform before crowds of thousands
who only know my name and my face but not me.
I don’t want the adulation of millions of strangers,
nor their claims of undying love in blindness.
I don’t want the vented fury of those same millions
when it all goes wrong because I am human to their detriment.
I don’t want to travel the world alone in pursuit of
‘wisdom’ that will only make me bitter in the end.
I don’t want to be stuck in this dead, dull place
if it means my own existence has to die with it.
I don’t want to be known by name as the greatest
of my generation in whatever it is that I do.
All I want is to find one person and make them so
indescribably happy that it re-ingnites the life inside me…
Then I could die a happy man.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Universe
I awoke one morning to find a star
shining in glorious beauty before me;
it remained within my sight for so long,
blinding me to the rest of the world as
I became enthralled in utter infatuation -
I had fallen in love.
And one day, this star became more
tangible than ever, more real than
anything I had ever experienced,
so I decided to try and grab the star
floating before me, as I was absolutely
certain that it would make me happy.
But every time I reached out to take
hold of my loving star, it was beyond
my grasp, and I began to doubt then
whether or not the star wanted to be held -
What gives me the right to possess a
gem of the universe? I asked myself.
It began to shake violently, then, its glow
wavering with the violence, the love
creaking and cracking, splinters of star
becoming shards as it began to fall apart -
and it finally dawned on me that the star
was never floating before my eyes.
It was dangling by a string in front of me,
a string that stretched over my head
and connected with a strap on my back;
I was like a horse chasing a carrot all the time,
believing in a prospect because it seemed
so tantalisingly close, so impossibly close.
And as the star crumbled into its pieces
I shed a tear for the needs of the soul
and for my own blindness, but I could
not be angry because the star had brought
me hope and love when both seemed lost -
now I simply find myself home again.
shining in glorious beauty before me;
it remained within my sight for so long,
blinding me to the rest of the world as
I became enthralled in utter infatuation -
I had fallen in love.
And one day, this star became more
tangible than ever, more real than
anything I had ever experienced,
so I decided to try and grab the star
floating before me, as I was absolutely
certain that it would make me happy.
But every time I reached out to take
hold of my loving star, it was beyond
my grasp, and I began to doubt then
whether or not the star wanted to be held -
What gives me the right to possess a
gem of the universe? I asked myself.
It began to shake violently, then, its glow
wavering with the violence, the love
creaking and cracking, splinters of star
becoming shards as it began to fall apart -
and it finally dawned on me that the star
was never floating before my eyes.
It was dangling by a string in front of me,
a string that stretched over my head
and connected with a strap on my back;
I was like a horse chasing a carrot all the time,
believing in a prospect because it seemed
so tantalisingly close, so impossibly close.
And as the star crumbled into its pieces
I shed a tear for the needs of the soul
and for my own blindness, but I could
not be angry because the star had brought
me hope and love when both seemed lost -
now I simply find myself home again.
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Truth
This life is a path
so well-worn,
The soles of our feet
weathered, torn,
Contemplating why
I was born,
And find the mistakes of
those not sworn.
Those, my parents, once
so free,
One of whom I can
never see,
He, in his wisdom,
chose to flee,
The burden of rear-
ing we three.
We, my brothers, so
very young,
They forget the noose
he strung,
Delicate knot from
which he hung,
Escape from hell his
nail marks clung.
Hell, this air, those of
foible thought,
Spread the chosen all
which is fraught,
Lies of a book hope-
lessly nought,
In faith and promise
all is lost.
Parents of parents
cry believe,
Callow triumphs will
to deceive,
Even when God rash-
ly bereaves,
Parents of parents
cry believe.
Truth is denial
so well spun;
Hope is denial’s
deed well done.
so well-worn,
The soles of our feet
weathered, torn,
Contemplating why
I was born,
And find the mistakes of
those not sworn.
Those, my parents, once
so free,
One of whom I can
never see,
He, in his wisdom,
chose to flee,
The burden of rear-
ing we three.
We, my brothers, so
very young,
They forget the noose
he strung,
Delicate knot from
which he hung,
Escape from hell his
nail marks clung.
Hell, this air, those of
foible thought,
Spread the chosen all
which is fraught,
Lies of a book hope-
lessly nought,
In faith and promise
all is lost.
Parents of parents
cry believe,
Callow triumphs will
to deceive,
Even when God rash-
ly bereaves,
Parents of parents
cry believe.
Truth is denial
so well spun;
Hope is denial’s
deed well done.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Hold
Entrenched in a backwards land,
You sought a shot over my hand.
Not ready to give up the fight,
Enlightenment without the light.
Manoeuvre your hips without designs,
Burning bonds where I built shrines.
I wander these futilities of being,
And you alone are all I am seeing.
Surrounding tents inhibit progression,
Their sounds of ecstasy spark depression.
Beyond flimsy doors a landfill lies,
As pill-poppers revel in their guise.
And you abandon this portable crack den;
I try to follow but lose you, then.
Friends wear faces not known before,
Bemoaning bags accidentally torn.
They piss in bottles to stay so sly,
And all the while I just lose my mind.
We watch hope wilt in a poor show,
That was when you decided to go.
Left alone and with nerves unsteady,
I turned to leave as the rain got heavy.
Surrounding tents inhibit progression,
Their sounds of ecstasy spark depression.
Beyond flimsy doors a landfill lies,
As pill-poppers revel in their guise.
And you abandon this portable crack den;
I try to follow but lose you, then.
And my torch fails in this drug-addled city,
And a voice whispers “Isn’t that a pity?”
So
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
Yet I never held you to begin with;
Our existence was a self-made myth.
You sought a shot over my hand.
Not ready to give up the fight,
Enlightenment without the light.
Manoeuvre your hips without designs,
Burning bonds where I built shrines.
I wander these futilities of being,
And you alone are all I am seeing.
Surrounding tents inhibit progression,
Their sounds of ecstasy spark depression.
Beyond flimsy doors a landfill lies,
As pill-poppers revel in their guise.
And you abandon this portable crack den;
I try to follow but lose you, then.
Friends wear faces not known before,
Bemoaning bags accidentally torn.
They piss in bottles to stay so sly,
And all the while I just lose my mind.
We watch hope wilt in a poor show,
That was when you decided to go.
Left alone and with nerves unsteady,
I turned to leave as the rain got heavy.
Surrounding tents inhibit progression,
Their sounds of ecstasy spark depression.
Beyond flimsy doors a landfill lies,
As pill-poppers revel in their guise.
And you abandon this portable crack den;
I try to follow but lose you, then.
And my torch fails in this drug-addled city,
And a voice whispers “Isn’t that a pity?”
So
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
Yet I never held you to begin with;
Our existence was a self-made myth.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Jonsi
March of the arachnids after he kicked the
bucket in delicate Icelandic tones,
Jonsi’s Gobbledygook remains the most
beautiful musical medium of
transversing across the mind’s antipodes.
Human ears discern utter emotion
in a crowd too lost in straight-sighted
passion to witness the many acts of
pure affection playing out beneath the
laser beams spearing this dark tent of hope.
Floating above the shadowy bobbing
heads of the revellers is a mangled
dollar sign that exposes itself as
a twisted heart-shaped balloon which becomes
rainbow coloured when pierced by the lasers,
with a solitary red bulb dotting off
its bizarre existence of entrancement.
And the lighters come out, not to spark a
cigarette or a joint, but to acknowledge
the pulsing beats’ part in gifting life to
the forests, the fire flies and the ravens
that now two dimensionally materialise.
Jonsi tells us to go do and do we go,
all of us faceless strangers swept away
in the euphoria of clapping and
the rising crescendo of the rhythm.
This reverie of conjuring tricks that
has fooled my mind feels like a moment long
drawn out that will never be repeated -
and the truth of that thought makes me want to
cry in mourning for the loss of the present.
bucket in delicate Icelandic tones,
Jonsi’s Gobbledygook remains the most
beautiful musical medium of
transversing across the mind’s antipodes.
Human ears discern utter emotion
in a crowd too lost in straight-sighted
passion to witness the many acts of
pure affection playing out beneath the
laser beams spearing this dark tent of hope.
Floating above the shadowy bobbing
heads of the revellers is a mangled
dollar sign that exposes itself as
a twisted heart-shaped balloon which becomes
rainbow coloured when pierced by the lasers,
with a solitary red bulb dotting off
its bizarre existence of entrancement.
And the lighters come out, not to spark a
cigarette or a joint, but to acknowledge
the pulsing beats’ part in gifting life to
the forests, the fire flies and the ravens
that now two dimensionally materialise.
Jonsi tells us to go do and do we go,
all of us faceless strangers swept away
in the euphoria of clapping and
the rising crescendo of the rhythm.
This reverie of conjuring tricks that
has fooled my mind feels like a moment long
drawn out that will never be repeated -
and the truth of that thought makes me want to
cry in mourning for the loss of the present.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Induced
The fatigue entrances the street lights either side
of me so they begin to dance before my weary eyes.
As I walk home alone the moon appears to my right
and begins laughing softly in my ear - an attempt
to distract me from the temptations of the nocturnal night.
I reach the car park and spot a black cat jealously guarding
the surrounding mass of empty concrete that will be
filled within several hours anyway - an effort so utterly futile
that the stunted growth of aging perception seems like
standard stagnation to the eyes of voyeurs, the faceless strangers
who waltz through life completely certain of their “beliefs”
whilst claiming to be faithless by undivine intervention;
and a greenfly lands on my index finger as I write down
all of these insignificant events that, once upon a time,
would have induced the awe of a mesmerised child in me:
Oh, how reality hits when the world stays exactly the same!
of me so they begin to dance before my weary eyes.
As I walk home alone the moon appears to my right
and begins laughing softly in my ear - an attempt
to distract me from the temptations of the nocturnal night.
I reach the car park and spot a black cat jealously guarding
the surrounding mass of empty concrete that will be
filled within several hours anyway - an effort so utterly futile
that the stunted growth of aging perception seems like
standard stagnation to the eyes of voyeurs, the faceless strangers
who waltz through life completely certain of their “beliefs”
whilst claiming to be faithless by undivine intervention;
and a greenfly lands on my index finger as I write down
all of these insignificant events that, once upon a time,
would have induced the awe of a mesmerised child in me:
Oh, how reality hits when the world stays exactly the same!
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Stimulant
My hands tremble, dropping everything
in their fumbling grip as my body succumbs
to the tremors the metallic silver, blue and red can
failed to mention its contents would provide -
an unnecessary and unexpected fear descends as
my eyes dart this way and that, paranoia gently placing
its firm grip around the steadily increasing
beat of my heart while the customers shop unawares;
the pain of my left wrist extends to the knuckles
of my hand now as the transactions double
with the lengthening of the ceaseless stream of locals
who will simply never have enough of fulfilling their
own needs, especially the convenience store gambler,
a wretched hag out to torment me with her insistence
on awkwardly purchasing her weight in scratch cards.
A brief reprieve is sought in the bathroom, but it is
when I am locked away from the outside world that
the antipodes of my mind reveal themselves to be
the dark expanses I always feared they were, the glassiness
of my eyes reflecting my face back at me in the mirror -
and I am at a loss to explain how such a huge
haggard face came to be confined within the black
recesses of pupils so seemingly innocent (once upon a time).
The twitches begin soon after the bathroom horror
truth, and only a miniscule revelation brought on
from some irrelevant train of thought saves me
from collapsing in pure fright before my colleagues:
Time only passes in working shifts, in the things
we do, both recreational and enforced - it is only
in periods of utter stagnation, of literal nothingness,
that it begins to pass in seconds, minutes, hours,
days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia;
and each iota of such blatant inaction could only be
deemed as ultimately being one thing when that life expires…
Wasted.
(a can of Red Bull made me feel quite uneasy in work the other day)
in their fumbling grip as my body succumbs
to the tremors the metallic silver, blue and red can
failed to mention its contents would provide -
an unnecessary and unexpected fear descends as
my eyes dart this way and that, paranoia gently placing
its firm grip around the steadily increasing
beat of my heart while the customers shop unawares;
the pain of my left wrist extends to the knuckles
of my hand now as the transactions double
with the lengthening of the ceaseless stream of locals
who will simply never have enough of fulfilling their
own needs, especially the convenience store gambler,
a wretched hag out to torment me with her insistence
on awkwardly purchasing her weight in scratch cards.
A brief reprieve is sought in the bathroom, but it is
when I am locked away from the outside world that
the antipodes of my mind reveal themselves to be
the dark expanses I always feared they were, the glassiness
of my eyes reflecting my face back at me in the mirror -
and I am at a loss to explain how such a huge
haggard face came to be confined within the black
recesses of pupils so seemingly innocent (once upon a time).
The twitches begin soon after the bathroom horror
truth, and only a miniscule revelation brought on
from some irrelevant train of thought saves me
from collapsing in pure fright before my colleagues:
Time only passes in working shifts, in the things
we do, both recreational and enforced - it is only
in periods of utter stagnation, of literal nothingness,
that it begins to pass in seconds, minutes, hours,
days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia;
and each iota of such blatant inaction could only be
deemed as ultimately being one thing when that life expires…
Wasted.
(a can of Red Bull made me feel quite uneasy in work the other day)
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Boy
The boy
Was found dead in the safety of his bed.
His lips
Were purple, so the rumours said.
His skin
So grey was callous to touch.
A life
At seventeen that never knew much.
*
Sirens
Shrilled to waken all of Newbrook.
Tears
Fell in sympathy for a home shook.
Gasps
As ambulance men removed a large black sack.
The sun
Disappeared as they stowed it in the back.
*
Naïve
Those who believe that this is so unfair.
Death
Forever chooses victims without a care.
Cloaked
He steals in like a thief in the night.
Lays
A finger upon a soul, then takes flight!
*
And sounds
Of mourning travel the channels from next door.
Reality
Comes crashing down - their boy is no more.
Was found dead in the safety of his bed.
His lips
Were purple, so the rumours said.
His skin
So grey was callous to touch.
A life
At seventeen that never knew much.
*
Sirens
Shrilled to waken all of Newbrook.
Tears
Fell in sympathy for a home shook.
Gasps
As ambulance men removed a large black sack.
The sun
Disappeared as they stowed it in the back.
*
Naïve
Those who believe that this is so unfair.
Death
Forever chooses victims without a care.
Cloaked
He steals in like a thief in the night.
Lays
A finger upon a soul, then takes flight!
*
And sounds
Of mourning travel the channels from next door.
Reality
Comes crashing down - their boy is no more.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sleeping Peacefully
The world sleeps while I write what they should think,
They never dream about what they should know.
The world sleeps while I feign calm acceptance,
A fine few see the futility that I see.
***
The world breathes ever so peacefully outside,
Never a stop nor stutter in false hope.
The world breathes with unnerving assurance,
And I question what it is I know and fear.
***
The world lies perfectly still despite its traumas,
Despair and death embraced alongside joy.
The world lies perfectly still despite its tears,
Hurting few as they fall with hail’s ferocity.
***
The world lives happily within its self-made storm,
Because the world knows exactly how it will end.
They never dream about what they should know.
The world sleeps while I feign calm acceptance,
A fine few see the futility that I see.
***
The world breathes ever so peacefully outside,
Never a stop nor stutter in false hope.
The world breathes with unnerving assurance,
And I question what it is I know and fear.
***
The world lies perfectly still despite its traumas,
Despair and death embraced alongside joy.
The world lies perfectly still despite its tears,
Hurting few as they fall with hail’s ferocity.
***
The world lives happily within its self-made storm,
Because the world knows exactly how it will end.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tranquil Chagrin
We wake up in the early hours
in Cahirciveen beside the shimmering
silence of the smooth sea’s surface.
Clouds hide the pointed peaks of
the surrounding mountains
as we yawn and stretch to get
ready for a day of stone skipping
and day tripping across the
many layers and strands of this
well known home of peace.
Our plan is borne of childhood
nostalgia and discounted offers,
a cycle to the nearby island of Valentia.
The rent-a-bike chatters happily to us
while we gaze upon our temporary
steeds, battle worn but familiar with
our route; and then we leave, basking in
the freedom only two wheels and a
strong breeze through one’s hair beneath
perfect golden rays of sun can grant.
We reach the ferry to Valentia and cross
to the island where we cycle for over
three hours, lost in the beauty surrounding us.
The uphill struggles burn the thighs so
we stop awhile at the cliffs where we
gaze down at the world’s end, crashing
against the rocks - it erodes the present.
Everybody else shudders at the sight of
such a perilous drop, but I flirt with
the edge and it is then I lose myself in thought.
I see the couples around me, matched up
and made up, happiness personified in a
world where temperance is king and
permanence is a pauper’s false hope.
In my mind’s eye I see replays of love
unrequited taken from my weak grasp.
Isolation roars up in the crashing waves
as the utter frustration coils up inside,
ready to spring from the cliff’s edge
down to the wrong solution below.
They voice their concerns as I eyeball
the jagged stones so elegantly formed,
all oblivious to the whispers in my mind.
Words of worry and the natural sounds
fade away as the footing becomes
treacherous while the whispers grow louder,
coaxing me one step further and
one step further, yanking the invisible
leash around the imaginary
collar on my neck so inevitably noosed.
Never before have I been more
comfortable than when within the grip
of an unbiased wind, pushing and pulling,
giving then taking, and always
threatening no matter which way
it blows the day; and just when I
look set to succumb to the wind,
the whispers and the rocks, I step back,
chagrined by the perpetual tranquillity
I cannot bring myself to ruin.
in Cahirciveen beside the shimmering
silence of the smooth sea’s surface.
Clouds hide the pointed peaks of
the surrounding mountains
as we yawn and stretch to get
ready for a day of stone skipping
and day tripping across the
many layers and strands of this
well known home of peace.
Our plan is borne of childhood
nostalgia and discounted offers,
a cycle to the nearby island of Valentia.
The rent-a-bike chatters happily to us
while we gaze upon our temporary
steeds, battle worn but familiar with
our route; and then we leave, basking in
the freedom only two wheels and a
strong breeze through one’s hair beneath
perfect golden rays of sun can grant.
We reach the ferry to Valentia and cross
to the island where we cycle for over
three hours, lost in the beauty surrounding us.
The uphill struggles burn the thighs so
we stop awhile at the cliffs where we
gaze down at the world’s end, crashing
against the rocks - it erodes the present.
Everybody else shudders at the sight of
such a perilous drop, but I flirt with
the edge and it is then I lose myself in thought.
I see the couples around me, matched up
and made up, happiness personified in a
world where temperance is king and
permanence is a pauper’s false hope.
In my mind’s eye I see replays of love
unrequited taken from my weak grasp.
Isolation roars up in the crashing waves
as the utter frustration coils up inside,
ready to spring from the cliff’s edge
down to the wrong solution below.
They voice their concerns as I eyeball
the jagged stones so elegantly formed,
all oblivious to the whispers in my mind.
Words of worry and the natural sounds
fade away as the footing becomes
treacherous while the whispers grow louder,
coaxing me one step further and
one step further, yanking the invisible
leash around the imaginary
collar on my neck so inevitably noosed.
Never before have I been more
comfortable than when within the grip
of an unbiased wind, pushing and pulling,
giving then taking, and always
threatening no matter which way
it blows the day; and just when I
look set to succumb to the wind,
the whispers and the rocks, I step back,
chagrined by the perpetual tranquillity
I cannot bring myself to ruin.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Lover of a Friend
War of attrition, impossible mission,
Guns set down in forced coalition.
My heart exploding, our love imploding,
Mixed messages forever decoding.
Standing stone still, without any will,
Hours spent gazing from my windowsill.
Cannot comprehend, lover of a friend,
All I ask now is where will it end?
Guns set down in forced coalition.
My heart exploding, our love imploding,
Mixed messages forever decoding.
Standing stone still, without any will,
Hours spent gazing from my windowsill.
Cannot comprehend, lover of a friend,
All I ask now is where will it end?
News: two more poems on SpunOut.ie
SpunOut.ie have published two more of my poems, Turquoise and Lover of a Friend. I didn't publish Lover of a Friend on this blog for the simple reason that I actually forgot to, and the fact the site doesn't credit me with writing the poem makes it look like I'm trying to take credit for something I didn't write - but I assure you all now I did actually write it and I have the email from SpunOut.ie crediting me with writing the poem!
So Long
We wander through the streets so old,
Clandestine in our cascade.
It starts to rain as the thunder
Roars its disproval of this charade.
But rather than douse your flames
The water stokes your burning fire,
And as the clouds continue bunching
Together the flames lick ever higher.
Oblivion grows as the abuse increases,
It becomes torrential and ill-thought out,
And a sly remark with raised eyebrows
Was enough to sow the seed of doubt.
Our walk ceases outside an old haunt,
And your eyes bore through mine,
My grip on your hand surprisingly
Slackens as I say “We had our time.”
Clandestine in our cascade.
It starts to rain as the thunder
Roars its disproval of this charade.
But rather than douse your flames
The water stokes your burning fire,
And as the clouds continue bunching
Together the flames lick ever higher.
Oblivion grows as the abuse increases,
It becomes torrential and ill-thought out,
And a sly remark with raised eyebrows
Was enough to sow the seed of doubt.
Our walk ceases outside an old haunt,
And your eyes bore through mine,
My grip on your hand surprisingly
Slackens as I say “We had our time.”
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Resentment
There is a carnival atmosphere in
the air but all I feel is resentment
towards everybody around me who clings
to who they have as if slacking their grip
would let my bitterness swallow them whole;
the nearby shore is drowned out by the sounds
of the Spanish travelling siesta
combined with the usual outpouring
of drunken delinquency by the Irish,
a stereotype that fits so well I
almost begrudge myself for not bearing
it too, even though it would exacerbate
everything that doing nothing at all
manages to keep in balance; and when
the festival lights are dimmed one last time,
when deluded anarchy hits the streets,
my resentment still builds as I watch these
people, seemingly without a care, drawl
and stumble and cry over trivial
things made drastic by the temptress that is
alcohol who lives in oblivion,
a place that coaxes even me when I
witness freedom - disillusioned, yes, but
still freedom - in everyone else but I.
the air but all I feel is resentment
towards everybody around me who clings
to who they have as if slacking their grip
would let my bitterness swallow them whole;
the nearby shore is drowned out by the sounds
of the Spanish travelling siesta
combined with the usual outpouring
of drunken delinquency by the Irish,
a stereotype that fits so well I
almost begrudge myself for not bearing
it too, even though it would exacerbate
everything that doing nothing at all
manages to keep in balance; and when
the festival lights are dimmed one last time,
when deluded anarchy hits the streets,
my resentment still builds as I watch these
people, seemingly without a care, drawl
and stumble and cry over trivial
things made drastic by the temptress that is
alcohol who lives in oblivion,
a place that coaxes even me when I
witness freedom - disillusioned, yes, but
still freedom - in everyone else but I.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Dancing Dare
Her eyes locked on someone else,
His words flow and her heart melts,
Lost I brood as arms flail,
Touching lips the final nail.
Downward gaze a downward spiral,
Downward hope is down right viral,
Scuffling feet rape my sight,
‘Til a passing glimmer of chance light.
Head tilts up and falls elsewhere,
Her close friend a dancing dare,
More from waste than from spite
We kiss away the collapsing night.
Bustling sounds and the crowd’s roar,
Fading memories from before,
But flickering doubt blunts this thrill,
As it whispers “what of my will?”
His words flow and her heart melts,
Lost I brood as arms flail,
Touching lips the final nail.
Downward gaze a downward spiral,
Downward hope is down right viral,
Scuffling feet rape my sight,
‘Til a passing glimmer of chance light.
Head tilts up and falls elsewhere,
Her close friend a dancing dare,
More from waste than from spite
We kiss away the collapsing night.
Bustling sounds and the crowd’s roar,
Fading memories from before,
But flickering doubt blunts this thrill,
As it whispers “what of my will?”
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
News: SpunOut.ie publishes a second poem
SpunOut.ie is an online magazine I have been published in before and just the other day they published my poem 'Invisible'. I sent in a number of submissions at once at the time and 'Rat Race' was plucked from those to be published.
I wasn't expecting another poem from that group of submissions to be published as well several weeks later, so it was a pleasant surprise to find the webmasters did decide to publish something else! Click on the following embedded links for the original versions of 'Invincible' and 'Rat Race' posted on this blog.
I wasn't expecting another poem from that group of submissions to be published as well several weeks later, so it was a pleasant surprise to find the webmasters did decide to publish something else! Click on the following embedded links for the original versions of 'Invincible' and 'Rat Race' posted on this blog.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Weep
As adrenaline fades away in the immediate
solitude of leaving the frantic house-party,
silence rushes from the dark to swallow me
whole. A brisk walk becomes a slow stroll
before it descends into a laborious slog,
sapping the little energy remaining from a
once boundless supply. Faceless strangers
of the night seem to sneer from within the
safety of their hoods, shadows veiling features.
And as I move less and less, a scratching
sound begins inside my mind, as if some thought,
some wraith-like truth long buried beneath
the layers of deceit and denial, longed to
creep up from hiding and remind me of its
existence. Drops fall softly like tears of the
stars as my progress grounds to an utter halt
outside the front garden of a childhood friend
and real-time alcoholic, lost to the fine print
of what love and life and truth really are -
but the scratching gets louder, suffocating
other remedial trains on rails toward dead ends.
The scratching stops, replaced by complete
nothingness as I gaze blankly ahead into the void,
And then I can hear only one thing in the night
but it comes from inside my own head:
it is the sound of weeping, tainted and pitiful.
solitude of leaving the frantic house-party,
silence rushes from the dark to swallow me
whole. A brisk walk becomes a slow stroll
before it descends into a laborious slog,
sapping the little energy remaining from a
once boundless supply. Faceless strangers
of the night seem to sneer from within the
safety of their hoods, shadows veiling features.
And as I move less and less, a scratching
sound begins inside my mind, as if some thought,
some wraith-like truth long buried beneath
the layers of deceit and denial, longed to
creep up from hiding and remind me of its
existence. Drops fall softly like tears of the
stars as my progress grounds to an utter halt
outside the front garden of a childhood friend
and real-time alcoholic, lost to the fine print
of what love and life and truth really are -
but the scratching gets louder, suffocating
other remedial trains on rails toward dead ends.
The scratching stops, replaced by complete
nothingness as I gaze blankly ahead into the void,
And then I can hear only one thing in the night
but it comes from inside my own head:
it is the sound of weeping, tainted and pitiful.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Valley
We wander and trip between the trees,
Lost in the silence of the breeze;
Walking within the valley of lies,
Right beneath their judging eyes.
The moon’s light guides the way,
Hidden within the shadow play;
Snow falls in sheets around us
As we follow our well-worn trust -
And as they wait for our final fall,
I wait for you to answer my call.
Steeper and steeper we still stumble
Over fallen branches of this jungle;
Every step is designed to stagger,
Yet you skip along with a swagger
Holding your hand to me in peace,
Your shining eyes failing to cease.
Slowly we move nearer the truth,
Hope building with aging youth;
Soon we come to an empty clearing,
The end to which you have been steering.
There we embrace for an endless age,
Writing the last lines of our page,
So yellow and torn from the past:
A fool was I to think it would last?
“Old romantics are dead and gone,”
You whisper like a sing-along,
“Where do you now go from here?”
You ask in a voice filled with fear.
And I reply hoping you will see,
“In this valley we are free.”
Your responding tear says more
Than any words you uttered before,
And all I am left with as you depart
Are snowy footprints we left at the start.
One-by-one, staring eyes leave
Content with seeing what they always believed -
An inevitable end to a shock romance
That began with a stroke of happy chance.
Blinded by faith and belief in love,
I always thought that would be enough.
Lost in the silence of the breeze;
Walking within the valley of lies,
Right beneath their judging eyes.
The moon’s light guides the way,
Hidden within the shadow play;
Snow falls in sheets around us
As we follow our well-worn trust -
And as they wait for our final fall,
I wait for you to answer my call.
Steeper and steeper we still stumble
Over fallen branches of this jungle;
Every step is designed to stagger,
Yet you skip along with a swagger
Holding your hand to me in peace,
Your shining eyes failing to cease.
Slowly we move nearer the truth,
Hope building with aging youth;
Soon we come to an empty clearing,
The end to which you have been steering.
There we embrace for an endless age,
Writing the last lines of our page,
So yellow and torn from the past:
A fool was I to think it would last?
“Old romantics are dead and gone,”
You whisper like a sing-along,
“Where do you now go from here?”
You ask in a voice filled with fear.
And I reply hoping you will see,
“In this valley we are free.”
Your responding tear says more
Than any words you uttered before,
And all I am left with as you depart
Are snowy footprints we left at the start.
One-by-one, staring eyes leave
Content with seeing what they always believed -
An inevitable end to a shock romance
That began with a stroke of happy chance.
Blinded by faith and belief in love,
I always thought that would be enough.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Reading 'If'
I sit down and watch Mike Bassett recite
Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ in the face of adversity
and hostility from the butchers that are the
British football press. The fact this film is
a work of fiction makes no difference
as I listen to the fight in his voice and
the will to keep going, even when all
hope was lost in the typical mediocrity
of his side’s lacklustre performances.
Then I remember an old possession of mine,
so I go upstairs and dust off the poetry book
a friend who shares my birthday bought
for me when we both turned 21. I flick through
the pages, searching for Kipling’s much
acclaimed ‘If’, and I read that poem
- and all the promises it makes in exchange
for courage, wisdom and patience - and I
come to realise that the ifs he speaks of
are cannots for me. It is then I walk to
the bathroom, all alone in the overbearing
heat of my house, and splash water on my face,
wanting to be both realistic and optimistic,
but failing to find a balance between the two like
Kipling did in writing his poem and Basset did in
reading it before the media hounds - salivating at his
apparent demise - with such resolute determination.
And it is then I meet my own gaze in the
bathroom mirror and goad the self I see -
an irritable shadow of the figure I once was -
in a futile attempt at reverse psychology:
“I dare you to be happy.”
Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ in the face of adversity
and hostility from the butchers that are the
British football press. The fact this film is
a work of fiction makes no difference
as I listen to the fight in his voice and
the will to keep going, even when all
hope was lost in the typical mediocrity
of his side’s lacklustre performances.
Then I remember an old possession of mine,
so I go upstairs and dust off the poetry book
a friend who shares my birthday bought
for me when we both turned 21. I flick through
the pages, searching for Kipling’s much
acclaimed ‘If’, and I read that poem
- and all the promises it makes in exchange
for courage, wisdom and patience - and I
come to realise that the ifs he speaks of
are cannots for me. It is then I walk to
the bathroom, all alone in the overbearing
heat of my house, and splash water on my face,
wanting to be both realistic and optimistic,
but failing to find a balance between the two like
Kipling did in writing his poem and Basset did in
reading it before the media hounds - salivating at his
apparent demise - with such resolute determination.
And it is then I meet my own gaze in the
bathroom mirror and goad the self I see -
an irritable shadow of the figure I once was -
in a futile attempt at reverse psychology:
“I dare you to be happy.”
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
No More Corners
A fool’s mantra is pressed home in optimistic tones
as you doll yourself up for a night of untold promise.
“You never know what’s around the corner.”
My lips curve into a smile before I laugh the laugh
you want to hear when I really just break down inside.
“I have no more corners to turn.”
You begin to tell me of the revival of your fortunes
and how hope has returned to a once hopeless cause.
“I used to think like you, but look at me now.”
Then I silence your scoffs as I systematically prove how
my inadequacy has contributed to my four failings.
“I have covered every inch of this square.”
The light in your eyes refuses to dim in the shadow
of this reality as you believe in forgiving and forgetting.
“You just gotta let go and move on.”
But I explain how my circumstance has me boxed
inside this suffocating world of routine so mundane.
“I have nowhere to move on to.”
And we both agree that time is the ruler of all things
and that I just have to bide the seconds I have left.
“But why should I wait when nothing awaits me?”
as you doll yourself up for a night of untold promise.
“You never know what’s around the corner.”
My lips curve into a smile before I laugh the laugh
you want to hear when I really just break down inside.
“I have no more corners to turn.”
You begin to tell me of the revival of your fortunes
and how hope has returned to a once hopeless cause.
“I used to think like you, but look at me now.”
Then I silence your scoffs as I systematically prove how
my inadequacy has contributed to my four failings.
“I have covered every inch of this square.”
The light in your eyes refuses to dim in the shadow
of this reality as you believe in forgiving and forgetting.
“You just gotta let go and move on.”
But I explain how my circumstance has me boxed
inside this suffocating world of routine so mundane.
“I have nowhere to move on to.”
And we both agree that time is the ruler of all things
and that I just have to bide the seconds I have left.
“But why should I wait when nothing awaits me?”
Monday, June 28, 2010
Serenade
Death caws overhead as the black cat smirks
while revealing nothing in its glassy gaze.
A lone plastic bag makes the only rustling sound,
teasing me within this endless maze.
And it is quite clear that I write better than I live
when I spot life coursing through your veins.
We walk side-by-side down the same dark road,
yet you walk freely as I struggle with chains.
You go your way and I go mine, blood dripping
onto the grave as I visit the dead old man.
Concerns about the gash sustained in the bar fight
only grow more when I insist it was part of the plan.
I remember when, in exchange for bravery and heart,
I was promised the world and everything that is in it.
And I remember when the world fought my grasp
As my bravery and heart slowly waned, bit by bit.
Then we cross again outside my house, your fears
at my indifference growing steadily in silence.
My dismissals with wringing hands become agitated
Until they soon become yells of outré violence.
The tears form a stream on your face as you
Suggest we go out the back garden and serenade the walls.
My confusion meets your delusion as you hope
Whoever else is listening may just answer our calls.
while revealing nothing in its glassy gaze.
A lone plastic bag makes the only rustling sound,
teasing me within this endless maze.
And it is quite clear that I write better than I live
when I spot life coursing through your veins.
We walk side-by-side down the same dark road,
yet you walk freely as I struggle with chains.
You go your way and I go mine, blood dripping
onto the grave as I visit the dead old man.
Concerns about the gash sustained in the bar fight
only grow more when I insist it was part of the plan.
I remember when, in exchange for bravery and heart,
I was promised the world and everything that is in it.
And I remember when the world fought my grasp
As my bravery and heart slowly waned, bit by bit.
Then we cross again outside my house, your fears
at my indifference growing steadily in silence.
My dismissals with wringing hands become agitated
Until they soon become yells of outré violence.
The tears form a stream on your face as you
Suggest we go out the back garden and serenade the walls.
My confusion meets your delusion as you hope
Whoever else is listening may just answer our calls.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Bedroom Door
I stare at my bedroom door, mostly shut
but partially open - too frightened to
peak around its edge because I believe
there is somebody beyond the threshold
whom I do not want to see anymore.
I continue to stare at my bedroom
door, my logic lost amidst the many
permutations of these complications,
swirling in the abyss of never again,
never to be and never was in the
first place, misplaced in a time of my own
manufacture from my own dreams which slip
away as sleep itself becomes a dream;
impossible in the warm summer nights
spent idly reading, writing and playing
virtual football with virtual players
who are still so much better than my real
self and my own mishap filled control.
So I stare at my bedroom door, wanting
to leave while knowing it would mean coming
face-to-face with those who will devalue me,
abuse me, assault me, those who say they
care - and mean it too - but who will never
have the means to make their sense see my sense.
And even though I know that my landing
is as empty at three in the morning
as it was when I first became entranced
by the known unknown beyond, I just stand
and stare rather than open it wide to
reveal no apparition as I fear the
meaning of its absence’ enforced admission.
but partially open - too frightened to
peak around its edge because I believe
there is somebody beyond the threshold
whom I do not want to see anymore.
I continue to stare at my bedroom
door, my logic lost amidst the many
permutations of these complications,
swirling in the abyss of never again,
never to be and never was in the
first place, misplaced in a time of my own
manufacture from my own dreams which slip
away as sleep itself becomes a dream;
impossible in the warm summer nights
spent idly reading, writing and playing
virtual football with virtual players
who are still so much better than my real
self and my own mishap filled control.
So I stare at my bedroom door, wanting
to leave while knowing it would mean coming
face-to-face with those who will devalue me,
abuse me, assault me, those who say they
care - and mean it too - but who will never
have the means to make their sense see my sense.
And even though I know that my landing
is as empty at three in the morning
as it was when I first became entranced
by the known unknown beyond, I just stand
and stare rather than open it wide to
reveal no apparition as I fear the
meaning of its absence’ enforced admission.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
In Hiding
Squabbling concerns fail to ignite a reaction
As they all voice opinions formed in the dark.
Disregarded are the unguarded who expect
Confessions to come willing as to why the words
Landing on page after page are red, enticing
Bad luck and worse scrawls that resemble
Streaks of blood staining the yellowish pages.
Memories, dreams and realities collide inside
As my mind struggles to comprehend between
The periods of dejection, jubilation and depression
Experienced in each of the three at any moment.
And friends’ voices shrill higher in their pleas
For access to my thoughts even though they are free
For all to see regardless of our natural degree.
But the pressure mounts, the brow twitches more
As tears in vain try to escape the clutches of my
Unforgivable lashes, barriers to and from my sanctum.
So when the calls come with renewed vigour I shall answer
With brutal honesty why my life is lived through lies
In the safety of solitude secretly sought in the night:
That this is a choice of my own making.
As they all voice opinions formed in the dark.
Disregarded are the unguarded who expect
Confessions to come willing as to why the words
Landing on page after page are red, enticing
Bad luck and worse scrawls that resemble
Streaks of blood staining the yellowish pages.
Memories, dreams and realities collide inside
As my mind struggles to comprehend between
The periods of dejection, jubilation and depression
Experienced in each of the three at any moment.
And friends’ voices shrill higher in their pleas
For access to my thoughts even though they are free
For all to see regardless of our natural degree.
But the pressure mounts, the brow twitches more
As tears in vain try to escape the clutches of my
Unforgivable lashes, barriers to and from my sanctum.
So when the calls come with renewed vigour I shall answer
With brutal honesty why my life is lived through lies
In the safety of solitude secretly sought in the night:
That this is a choice of my own making.
News: published on SpunOut.ie
SpunOut.ie is an online magazine that provides journalistic articles in varying media on all sorts of topics - in the website's own words it "is an independent, youth powered national charity working to empower young people to create personal and social change."
The website is incredibly interactive and is divided into six sections: Home, The Mag, Health & Life, Take Action, Forum and Get Involved. The Mag section is where fiction and poetry gets published and it is where SpunOut.ie have published my poem Rat Race. They have changed the structure of Rat Race, though, for reasons I can only assume have to do with the space available on the display page - for the original version click here.
They take all sorts of articles, not just fiction writing, so it is definitely worth clicking into the Get Involved link and seeing what you can contribute to SpunOut.ie.
The website is incredibly interactive and is divided into six sections: Home, The Mag, Health & Life, Take Action, Forum and Get Involved. The Mag section is where fiction and poetry gets published and it is where SpunOut.ie have published my poem Rat Race. They have changed the structure of Rat Race, though, for reasons I can only assume have to do with the space available on the display page - for the original version click here.
They take all sorts of articles, not just fiction writing, so it is definitely worth clicking into the Get Involved link and seeing what you can contribute to SpunOut.ie.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
News: published in Minus 9 Online - Minus 9 Squared's cousin
The editor of the monthly online zine Minus 9 Squared has set up a new blog called Minus 9 Online. The aim of the new blog is to provide a continuous stream of work by writers and artists during the gap between publication of the monthly zines proper.
The blog is split into two categories - Words on a Page, for poetry, prose and short stories; and Pictures on a Screen, for all work of a visual nature.
Three of my poems currently feature in the Words on a Page category of the blog - Fantasies, All the Old Friends and Rankle; though, once the blog receives more submissions they'll disappear from the home page quite quickly!
Submitting work to the blog is a good way of getting exposed and could lead to being published in Minus 9 Squared itself, or even in other magazines as anybody could be reading/viewing the content. At the time of writing, the blog remains relatively bare, so help fill it up with a catalogue of work by getting the submissions in!
The blog is split into two categories - Words on a Page, for poetry, prose and short stories; and Pictures on a Screen, for all work of a visual nature.
Three of my poems currently feature in the Words on a Page category of the blog - Fantasies, All the Old Friends and Rankle; though, once the blog receives more submissions they'll disappear from the home page quite quickly!
Submitting work to the blog is a good way of getting exposed and could lead to being published in Minus 9 Squared itself, or even in other magazines as anybody could be reading/viewing the content. At the time of writing, the blog remains relatively bare, so help fill it up with a catalogue of work by getting the submissions in!
Monday, June 14, 2010
Miracle
Today is her birthday, so we bake her
A cake, but one silly mistake is all
It can take and now we are left with no
Place to put her candle. The birthday girl
Will arrive soon and as the seconds slip
Away panic grips us all as we know
That time is running out to rectify
This simple wrong; there is no money to
Buy a replacement, and even if there
Was, the gift would mean more if handcrafted.
And the birthday room floating away on
The balloons that fill it seems absent of the
Crucial component which would give it life,
So a miracle is cried out for and,
With God apparently absent in our
Time of need, we turn to you - the one who
Has always made things happen when others
Have stood still. Your eyes widen in fear at
First but the colour surrounding you in
This moment of majestic expectation
Carries you to the kitchen, a place you
Feel quite homely in despite its walls never
Being able to keep you. And you smile,
And you laugh, and you revel in your role
Of responsibility as the sheer
Power of friendship makes something once
A distinct impossibility become
A wonderful realisation in
The form of a completed cake, perfectly
Edible and equally as delicious
As its now forgotten predecessor.
And the sense of satisfaction culminates
With the look on the birthday girl’s face when
She steps through the door - a genuine look
Of joyful shock that can not be achieved
Without the element of surprise; but
It is the cake that grabs her attention
As it is her favourite flavour, and once
The birthday girl blows out her candle, she
Looks up and smiles at you from across the
Room, knowing this could never have happened
Without you, even though she knows nothing
Of the cake mishap (which is better left unsaid!),
And you smile back because for you today
Is just about being happy with friends,
Which is a daily miracle in itself.
A cake, but one silly mistake is all
It can take and now we are left with no
Place to put her candle. The birthday girl
Will arrive soon and as the seconds slip
Away panic grips us all as we know
That time is running out to rectify
This simple wrong; there is no money to
Buy a replacement, and even if there
Was, the gift would mean more if handcrafted.
And the birthday room floating away on
The balloons that fill it seems absent of the
Crucial component which would give it life,
So a miracle is cried out for and,
With God apparently absent in our
Time of need, we turn to you - the one who
Has always made things happen when others
Have stood still. Your eyes widen in fear at
First but the colour surrounding you in
This moment of majestic expectation
Carries you to the kitchen, a place you
Feel quite homely in despite its walls never
Being able to keep you. And you smile,
And you laugh, and you revel in your role
Of responsibility as the sheer
Power of friendship makes something once
A distinct impossibility become
A wonderful realisation in
The form of a completed cake, perfectly
Edible and equally as delicious
As its now forgotten predecessor.
And the sense of satisfaction culminates
With the look on the birthday girl’s face when
She steps through the door - a genuine look
Of joyful shock that can not be achieved
Without the element of surprise; but
It is the cake that grabs her attention
As it is her favourite flavour, and once
The birthday girl blows out her candle, she
Looks up and smiles at you from across the
Room, knowing this could never have happened
Without you, even though she knows nothing
Of the cake mishap (which is better left unsaid!),
And you smile back because for you today
Is just about being happy with friends,
Which is a daily miracle in itself.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Measure
And praise lavish in its delivery
drops at his doorstep when it all goes well,
as he smiles his smile so famous for its
authenticity; but any man can
be a good man when things go according
to plan - the true measure of a man can
only be seen when it all falls apart.
drops at his doorstep when it all goes well,
as he smiles his smile so famous for its
authenticity; but any man can
be a good man when things go according
to plan - the true measure of a man can
only be seen when it all falls apart.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Fantasies
All my fantasies are filled with people
who are not me, controlling my heartbeat
as if it was their own with actions I
could never even dream of achieving
by myself because I am simply not
able nor worthy. They carry hopes of
nations upon shoulders incredibly
broad, and they do so with the freedom
and movement of children gracing us with
the presence of their imagination.
And it makes me sad that some are younger
than I, and so much more gifted too, with
a grand stage to exhibit their talents
on; and it only serves to remind me
of my own inadequacy and my
own failings in my own life, here, in the
real world, where real things happen or do not
happen, depending on whether one can
speak up or sit down when the time is right
or wrong or never to be; and it soon
becomes apparent that my fantasies
are actually living nightmares that haunt
me night and day, and morning and evening,
tearing me to pieces to put me back
together, just to pull me apart once
more, just to piece me back together again,
like some sort of sick jigsaw puzzle which
has a jagged part that does not quite fit
because it is never allowed to end.
who are not me, controlling my heartbeat
as if it was their own with actions I
could never even dream of achieving
by myself because I am simply not
able nor worthy. They carry hopes of
nations upon shoulders incredibly
broad, and they do so with the freedom
and movement of children gracing us with
the presence of their imagination.
And it makes me sad that some are younger
than I, and so much more gifted too, with
a grand stage to exhibit their talents
on; and it only serves to remind me
of my own inadequacy and my
own failings in my own life, here, in the
real world, where real things happen or do not
happen, depending on whether one can
speak up or sit down when the time is right
or wrong or never to be; and it soon
becomes apparent that my fantasies
are actually living nightmares that haunt
me night and day, and morning and evening,
tearing me to pieces to put me back
together, just to pull me apart once
more, just to piece me back together again,
like some sort of sick jigsaw puzzle which
has a jagged part that does not quite fit
because it is never allowed to end.
Monday, June 7, 2010
God
I have a friend who proclaims nothing is in our hands
because it is all in the laps of the gods we cannot see.
I have a grandfather who is convinced a god watches
over us day-by-day and keeps his son safe until the
long awaited moment when they are reunited again.
I have a grandmother who lives by grandfather’s rules,
not through faith but through hope that come the end
of it all he turns out to be right in the face of adversity.
I have a father buried beneath a headstone he did not want
because he never saw or heard the god his father claimed to know.
And I cannot claim to know him either, regardless of my friend’s
proclamations and my grandfather’s insistence that his
prayer’s for me are always answered because I am not
the bastard I need to be, nor am I as large as the life
they think I have behind these eyes so allegedly alabaster.
And it is in irony that I claim to be so cold in isolation as
grandfather truly believes if I clasp my hands in silent prayer
I could never be alone - but talking to myself, or to the walls, does not
constitute being in company; otherwise I would never be alone,
despite failing to utter a single Hail Mary for my spurious smiles.
because it is all in the laps of the gods we cannot see.
I have a grandfather who is convinced a god watches
over us day-by-day and keeps his son safe until the
long awaited moment when they are reunited again.
I have a grandmother who lives by grandfather’s rules,
not through faith but through hope that come the end
of it all he turns out to be right in the face of adversity.
I have a father buried beneath a headstone he did not want
because he never saw or heard the god his father claimed to know.
And I cannot claim to know him either, regardless of my friend’s
proclamations and my grandfather’s insistence that his
prayer’s for me are always answered because I am not
the bastard I need to be, nor am I as large as the life
they think I have behind these eyes so allegedly alabaster.
And it is in irony that I claim to be so cold in isolation as
grandfather truly believes if I clasp my hands in silent prayer
I could never be alone - but talking to myself, or to the walls, does not
constitute being in company; otherwise I would never be alone,
despite failing to utter a single Hail Mary for my spurious smiles.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
All the Old Friends
Oh, there’s my old friend Karma,
A broken scene as the interest soared.
Cutting through pretension to grant an extension
To a time and place without record.
Oh, there’s my old friend Hope,
Temptation is truly the fabled sin.
Appeasing forever those with endeavour
So they always have reason to begin.
Oh, there’s my old friend Love,
Intervention of the well-worn friend.
Inhaling to choke on those flames you stoke
With shortened breath to comprehend.
Oh, there’s my old friend Silence,
Thickened walls offer no reprieve.
Yelling to pray while I watch as you sway
In a drunken attempt to deceive.
Oh, there’s my old friend Lies,
Trickling stream of an age-old river.
Sitting on your throne while the film is shown
As you wait for me to deliver.
Oh, there’s my old friend Logic,
Calculating prowess a point of assault.
Though you control parts of my soul
In you I can see no fault.
Oh, and there’s a new friend, Being,
Realisation cracks the white mask.
I open my eyes to reveal our guise
And find you already took me to task.
A broken scene as the interest soared.
Cutting through pretension to grant an extension
To a time and place without record.
Oh, there’s my old friend Hope,
Temptation is truly the fabled sin.
Appeasing forever those with endeavour
So they always have reason to begin.
Oh, there’s my old friend Love,
Intervention of the well-worn friend.
Inhaling to choke on those flames you stoke
With shortened breath to comprehend.
Oh, there’s my old friend Silence,
Thickened walls offer no reprieve.
Yelling to pray while I watch as you sway
In a drunken attempt to deceive.
Oh, there’s my old friend Lies,
Trickling stream of an age-old river.
Sitting on your throne while the film is shown
As you wait for me to deliver.
Oh, there’s my old friend Logic,
Calculating prowess a point of assault.
Though you control parts of my soul
In you I can see no fault.
Oh, and there’s a new friend, Being,
Realisation cracks the white mask.
I open my eyes to reveal our guise
And find you already took me to task.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Invincible
Arms outstretched in a victory as false as his pose;
deceit spins through the air but is lost in the
tranquillity of the sea and the absconding aromas,
elements and senses teasing him with their freedom.
And as he stands there in a seemingly painted
picture of glory unrivalled, voices whisper in his ears
that his only consistent character trait is inconsistency,
that he can scale as many hills, receive as many cuts,
earn as many scars and throw as many stones
as he pleases, but that he will never be invincible.
He stands on the opposite side of the cliff now,
overlooking the ocean glimmering like gold
beneath the basking rays of the sun, which hangs like
a flaming orb waiting to be blown out; a sign of the
impending climax to his tale of thoughtful inaction.
And friends regale him with tragic stories of time’s
continuous murdering streak, forever unpunished
because the accepted wisdom is the tick-tock of
all the clocks can never stop and that age - not even
a guarantee - will occur upon hearing too many clocks.
Yet sometimes it seems time takes an age to pass,
in those moments of unheralded brooding in the
newfound wilderness of well-worn pathways
holding keys to the isolation he craves daily and nightly.
And he knows he will lose all of what he breaths in now,
this unusual, unfamiliar feeling of serenity and oneness
with a world so willing to overindulge on gossip and
death and politics and scandal and all the trivialities
for which we should not have one minute to spare as life
spins on its axis, not invincible either as the poles shift.
(more thoughts from the day at the cliffs)
deceit spins through the air but is lost in the
tranquillity of the sea and the absconding aromas,
elements and senses teasing him with their freedom.
And as he stands there in a seemingly painted
picture of glory unrivalled, voices whisper in his ears
that his only consistent character trait is inconsistency,
that he can scale as many hills, receive as many cuts,
earn as many scars and throw as many stones
as he pleases, but that he will never be invincible.
He stands on the opposite side of the cliff now,
overlooking the ocean glimmering like gold
beneath the basking rays of the sun, which hangs like
a flaming orb waiting to be blown out; a sign of the
impending climax to his tale of thoughtful inaction.
And friends regale him with tragic stories of time’s
continuous murdering streak, forever unpunished
because the accepted wisdom is the tick-tock of
all the clocks can never stop and that age - not even
a guarantee - will occur upon hearing too many clocks.
Yet sometimes it seems time takes an age to pass,
in those moments of unheralded brooding in the
newfound wilderness of well-worn pathways
holding keys to the isolation he craves daily and nightly.
And he knows he will lose all of what he breaths in now,
this unusual, unfamiliar feeling of serenity and oneness
with a world so willing to overindulge on gossip and
death and politics and scandal and all the trivialities
for which we should not have one minute to spare as life
spins on its axis, not invincible either as the poles shift.
(more thoughts from the day at the cliffs)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Cliffs
And today June emphatically begins,
As we scale these cliffs, reliving our sins,
The sun beats down with no sign of a wind,
Just an air of hope the past will rescind.
Old war wounds burst their banks on my skin,
As rocks rapingly scrape “repent to win,”
We approach the edge, I approach the end,
And looking down I fear to surrend.
The beauty of certain uncertainty,
The unknown of life as a guarantee,
My laughter is said to bring so much joy,
But how can that be, I am just a boy?
Now the waves crash into the cliff side,
The roar grabs hold, without a place to hide,
But then it all goes numbingly silent,
So deafening, voraciously violent.
And though time drags us so far apart,
We breath in the clock, go back to the start,
And live in this scene of serenity,
Setting sun shows no shred of sympathy.
(I visited the cliffs around Howth for the first time yesterday - they were incredible)
As we scale these cliffs, reliving our sins,
The sun beats down with no sign of a wind,
Just an air of hope the past will rescind.
Old war wounds burst their banks on my skin,
As rocks rapingly scrape “repent to win,”
We approach the edge, I approach the end,
And looking down I fear to surrend.
The beauty of certain uncertainty,
The unknown of life as a guarantee,
My laughter is said to bring so much joy,
But how can that be, I am just a boy?
Now the waves crash into the cliff side,
The roar grabs hold, without a place to hide,
But then it all goes numbingly silent,
So deafening, voraciously violent.
And though time drags us so far apart,
We breath in the clock, go back to the start,
And live in this scene of serenity,
Setting sun shows no shred of sympathy.
(I visited the cliffs around Howth for the first time yesterday - they were incredible)
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Unheard
They sway as they stand, messes unplanned,
spilling, barging, everyone else damned.
Creaking heels break, ground starts to shake,
they kiss and caress, the same old mistake.
Blinding lights awoken, sight’s line broken,
beating, screaming, words are spoken.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Enforced conscription, war’s attrition,
shoulders, elbows, a clubber’s ammunition.
Scrapes the wretched claw, resentful awe,
groping and hoping, and then you saw.
Gripped by grip’s shock, away you walk,
door opens then closes, no chance to talk.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Night’s end too true, thoughts of you,
fragments, pieces, form in the morning dew.
Misplaced memory, entrenched enemy,
dancing, deliberating, a flight to flee.
A phone’s ring, confirms the fling,
She recites, recalls, and starts to sing.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
spilling, barging, everyone else damned.
Creaking heels break, ground starts to shake,
they kiss and caress, the same old mistake.
Blinding lights awoken, sight’s line broken,
beating, screaming, words are spoken.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Enforced conscription, war’s attrition,
shoulders, elbows, a clubber’s ammunition.
Scrapes the wretched claw, resentful awe,
groping and hoping, and then you saw.
Gripped by grip’s shock, away you walk,
door opens then closes, no chance to talk.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Night’s end too true, thoughts of you,
fragments, pieces, form in the morning dew.
Misplaced memory, entrenched enemy,
dancing, deliberating, a flight to flee.
A phone’s ring, confirms the fling,
She recites, recalls, and starts to sing.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Dead Ends of Our Time
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Sticking me in an office for eight hours a day,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Bringing me home to where I can be myself again,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
The difference being I enjoy writing when at home,
But only when it means something to somebody.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading to another day and another dead end.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading back home to another dead end.
The difference being I can go to sleep when I get home,
And drift away while hoping to never wake up.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and bursts into flames.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and crashes into the sea.
Every smart man knows when he is no longer needed,
Every smart man knows when to take his final bow.
Sticking me in an office for eight hours a day,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Bringing me home to where I can be myself again,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
The difference being I enjoy writing when at home,
But only when it means something to somebody.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading to another day and another dead end.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading back home to another dead end.
The difference being I can go to sleep when I get home,
And drift away while hoping to never wake up.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and bursts into flames.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and crashes into the sea.
Every smart man knows when he is no longer needed,
Every smart man knows when to take his final bow.
Shards of a Puzzle
You stand alone, or so you think,
watching the shards rain down around you,
a storm that has been brewing a long time.
Bigger pieces fall, smashing into smaller parts
that fly everywhere, cutting to ribbons
those nearest and dearest to you.
It seems like the storm will never end,
the shards almost ceaseless in their descent;
but then it stops, leaving shards scattered
all around you, and only an empty void above.
Feelings ominous grow, fed by indecision
and fear, that it is all drawing to a close,
so you neglect to piece the shards back
together, seeing it as an act of futility.
It is in that moment of darkest despair,
with progression suspended and respite
restricted, that we start the process for you,
happily cutting our fingers on these shards
as we piece them together, because we know
that your life is something worth rebuilding.
watching the shards rain down around you,
a storm that has been brewing a long time.
Bigger pieces fall, smashing into smaller parts
that fly everywhere, cutting to ribbons
those nearest and dearest to you.
It seems like the storm will never end,
the shards almost ceaseless in their descent;
but then it stops, leaving shards scattered
all around you, and only an empty void above.
Feelings ominous grow, fed by indecision
and fear, that it is all drawing to a close,
so you neglect to piece the shards back
together, seeing it as an act of futility.
It is in that moment of darkest despair,
with progression suspended and respite
restricted, that we start the process for you,
happily cutting our fingers on these shards
as we piece them together, because we know
that your life is something worth rebuilding.
Crystal
Waves lap in a precious moment of calm,
gently rocking this lonesome boat side-to-side.
Two oars sit in silent slumber, content with the
isolation in which we now find ourselves,
lost in the middle of the sea’s vast expanse.
I pull an empty glass from a bag of trinkets,
clean it with a brand new cloth so the sun
glistens off the transparent cylinder shape.
Then, I dip it into the ocean, filling the glass
with the sea’s salty water for no real reason;
and what I see in the glass both startles and saddens,
for the water is not blue like the surrounding sea
but completely clear, like the cleanest crystal.
Then, I come to resent the sea’s ability to
achieve clarity so easily, as the sun begins to die
and the cold crawls through my skin, plunging
me back into the dark depths of murky thought.
gently rocking this lonesome boat side-to-side.
Two oars sit in silent slumber, content with the
isolation in which we now find ourselves,
lost in the middle of the sea’s vast expanse.
I pull an empty glass from a bag of trinkets,
clean it with a brand new cloth so the sun
glistens off the transparent cylinder shape.
Then, I dip it into the ocean, filling the glass
with the sea’s salty water for no real reason;
and what I see in the glass both startles and saddens,
for the water is not blue like the surrounding sea
but completely clear, like the cleanest crystal.
Then, I come to resent the sea’s ability to
achieve clarity so easily, as the sun begins to die
and the cold crawls through my skin, plunging
me back into the dark depths of murky thought.
Monday, May 24, 2010
My Stage
I stand on my stage, as I have for twenty-one years,
Acting out every scene and story of my life as if
It were real, believing the joy, the pain, the losses,
The gains, and the love like they would never leave.
And after every showing I trot backstage to the few
Who know how the world really is, with its falsehoods
So prevalent in our everyday lives that to think otherwise
Would be considered complete and utter madness.
The only solace we take in acting out one fallacy
While breathing in the other is that they are
Separated by a maroon velvet curtain, shielding
One set of lies from the other so they do not all
Come together and douse an incurable poison over us.
Until one day I take centre-stage, and my eyes begin
To cheat me of my perspective, as the truths untangle
Themselves from the lies for the very first time.
I falter and fall, I get back up, then I trip again
Because of the revelations and contemplations
Suddenly surrounding the place that has reluctantly
Been home to this architecture of denied deceit.
And the people in the crowd and the people backstage
All look the exact same, players playing me for a fool,
None with my best intentions at heart and all tricking me
Into thinking that the stage and its behind were really
Different worlds in different times with different hopes,
Dreams, failures, lovers, chancers, liars and realities.
Flames engulf the so treasured maroon velvet curtain
From nowhere as it becomes quickly apparent that
They want me to move on to a new stage where the
Act can start again as if this realisation of mine
Never happened at all - but I do not want to go back
To being a puppet on a string of some sly supervisor,
So I embrace the newfound truths of my personality
As if they were newfound family because it is only in
Those truths that salvation and escape can be sanely sought;
But with every re-reading of these truths about me,
And every glance back at the lies I once lived,
I soon see that I cannot tell which life would be worse:
One filled with truths or one filled with lies.
Acting out every scene and story of my life as if
It were real, believing the joy, the pain, the losses,
The gains, and the love like they would never leave.
And after every showing I trot backstage to the few
Who know how the world really is, with its falsehoods
So prevalent in our everyday lives that to think otherwise
Would be considered complete and utter madness.
The only solace we take in acting out one fallacy
While breathing in the other is that they are
Separated by a maroon velvet curtain, shielding
One set of lies from the other so they do not all
Come together and douse an incurable poison over us.
Until one day I take centre-stage, and my eyes begin
To cheat me of my perspective, as the truths untangle
Themselves from the lies for the very first time.
I falter and fall, I get back up, then I trip again
Because of the revelations and contemplations
Suddenly surrounding the place that has reluctantly
Been home to this architecture of denied deceit.
And the people in the crowd and the people backstage
All look the exact same, players playing me for a fool,
None with my best intentions at heart and all tricking me
Into thinking that the stage and its behind were really
Different worlds in different times with different hopes,
Dreams, failures, lovers, chancers, liars and realities.
Flames engulf the so treasured maroon velvet curtain
From nowhere as it becomes quickly apparent that
They want me to move on to a new stage where the
Act can start again as if this realisation of mine
Never happened at all - but I do not want to go back
To being a puppet on a string of some sly supervisor,
So I embrace the newfound truths of my personality
As if they were newfound family because it is only in
Those truths that salvation and escape can be sanely sought;
But with every re-reading of these truths about me,
And every glance back at the lies I once lived,
I soon see that I cannot tell which life would be worse:
One filled with truths or one filled with lies.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
News: published in Outburst Magazine
Outburst Magazine is a recently established online literary zine containing short stories, poetry, photographs and art work by various contributors.
I was fortunate enough to have two poems published in the second issue of the magazine: Red and Window.
The short stories are particularly interesting in this issue of the magazine, and it is a venture well worth keeping an eye on in the future.
I was fortunate enough to have two poems published in the second issue of the magazine: Red and Window.
The short stories are particularly interesting in this issue of the magazine, and it is a venture well worth keeping an eye on in the future.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Colourless Eyes
Stomping feet, swinging hips, and long gone friends
Form the memory of my last dance with
The first love of my adolescence, whose
Radiance never ceased to amaze me.
I fell at first sight, but hindsight reveals
Teenage infatuation without hope.
And yet I still remember when, as I
Was leaving the party, she stepped forward
And pulled me into a wistful embrace.
When we both pulled back, our eyes met and I
Became so entranced by her gaze that I
Bypassed their colour completely, losing
Myself in something else entirely.
Form the memory of my last dance with
The first love of my adolescence, whose
Radiance never ceased to amaze me.
I fell at first sight, but hindsight reveals
Teenage infatuation without hope.
And yet I still remember when, as I
Was leaving the party, she stepped forward
And pulled me into a wistful embrace.
When we both pulled back, our eyes met and I
Became so entranced by her gaze that I
Bypassed their colour completely, losing
Myself in something else entirely.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Yellow Door
Crumbling buildings shrink beside Scotch Hall,
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.
Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.
Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.
Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.
Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
To Spite the Solace
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait…
And whenever I
Stand I slowly see
It has all happened
In spite without me.
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait…
And whenever I
Stand I slowly see
It has all happened
In spite without me.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Rat Race
We sit on steps, surveying the chaos
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?
A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.
And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?
A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.
And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Cast-Offs
Cast-off souls call out in vain
To former flames with forgotten names,
Fragile as glass they wait for life
To deliver a chance to end the strife.
Beaten, not broken they still stand,
Beauty resonating throughout the sand,
Arm-in-arm they gaze out to sea,
Healing hope to set them free.
The wind blows and clears the air
Of the problems that are so unfair,
Predications of the past so trite
Are tossed aside in the pending night.
Cataclysmic thoughts sink
When one witnesses the final wink,
Because time spars with each of us,
Just to reinforce that wavering trust.
These are the souls time remembers
As they are the ones fools dismember,
The souls that breath all alone,
Without the monotony of life’s drone.
To former flames with forgotten names,
Fragile as glass they wait for life
To deliver a chance to end the strife.
Beaten, not broken they still stand,
Beauty resonating throughout the sand,
Arm-in-arm they gaze out to sea,
Healing hope to set them free.
The wind blows and clears the air
Of the problems that are so unfair,
Predications of the past so trite
Are tossed aside in the pending night.
Cataclysmic thoughts sink
When one witnesses the final wink,
Because time spars with each of us,
Just to reinforce that wavering trust.
These are the souls time remembers
As they are the ones fools dismember,
The souls that breath all alone,
Without the monotony of life’s drone.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Burst Banks
One mean promise that bursts its banks, causing
Two tides to roll steadily down either
Hill before they come together in the
Crevice underneath a mouth that speaks too
Much and fails to do enough. Walking the
Streets of Dublin, crying about living
And dying alone when a louder cry
Pierces the air and my eardrums - I turn
In hope only to find that a machine’s
Brakes cry louder than I do, earning the
Attention of passers-by more than a
Fellow human being can only wish
For, and once again I gaze across the sea,
Believing all is greener on distant
Shores, despite the news telling me different
Everyday. Ignorance is easier
Because giving up would mean allowing
This sea to swallow me whole,
Combining the streams on my cheeks with the
Relentless assault of wave after wave,
Until I end up isolated on
An island, truly alone, and with no
Way out except to lie down and close my
Eyes, lost in happier times with better
People who did quite well to disappear.
Two tides to roll steadily down either
Hill before they come together in the
Crevice underneath a mouth that speaks too
Much and fails to do enough. Walking the
Streets of Dublin, crying about living
And dying alone when a louder cry
Pierces the air and my eardrums - I turn
In hope only to find that a machine’s
Brakes cry louder than I do, earning the
Attention of passers-by more than a
Fellow human being can only wish
For, and once again I gaze across the sea,
Believing all is greener on distant
Shores, despite the news telling me different
Everyday. Ignorance is easier
Because giving up would mean allowing
This sea to swallow me whole,
Combining the streams on my cheeks with the
Relentless assault of wave after wave,
Until I end up isolated on
An island, truly alone, and with no
Way out except to lie down and close my
Eyes, lost in happier times with better
People who did quite well to disappear.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Fuelled Fire
I fuel a fire that never needed
A match to strike its first flame, screaming in
Agony everyday while nobody
Ever hears because it is locked within
My ribcage, now bruised from the vibrations.
It is the time spent idle that kills me
Because it is then thoughts wander along
Past paths that should be blocked off forever.
I stand alone, pacing the path,
Outside the old folks’ graveyard, waiting for
A friend’s shift to end, when all I can hear
In the rustling of a nearby tree’s leaves
Is death - simple and free, paralysing
The pain of living the same fiery
Lies everyday because they need the light.
A match to strike its first flame, screaming in
Agony everyday while nobody
Ever hears because it is locked within
My ribcage, now bruised from the vibrations.
It is the time spent idle that kills me
Because it is then thoughts wander along
Past paths that should be blocked off forever.
I stand alone, pacing the path,
Outside the old folks’ graveyard, waiting for
A friend’s shift to end, when all I can hear
In the rustling of a nearby tree’s leaves
Is death - simple and free, paralysing
The pain of living the same fiery
Lies everyday because they need the light.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Rankle
Agitation of my wringing hands haunts
Those around me as my voice shrills higher.
Thickened glass drowns yells they wish to ignore
As the situation becomes dire.
Simplicities of intimacies lost
Still rankle as the world holds out on me.
Gaping mouths and tear-stained cheeks plead in vain
To deaf ears as I refuse to wait and see.
Taken flights and clouds of ash restrict my
Breath as my friends’ pleas begin to cower.
Cigarette stubs and empty cans litter
Life like indifference without power.
The long walk back to the start goes awry
As the path vanishes before my eyes.
Keep them open, keep on walking because
It is all so short, are their anguished cries.
Pleasantries and patience, all I extolled
As I dreamed of reaping returned rewards.
Yet here I sit empty-handed as I
Realise that we all fall on our own swords.
Those around me as my voice shrills higher.
Thickened glass drowns yells they wish to ignore
As the situation becomes dire.
Simplicities of intimacies lost
Still rankle as the world holds out on me.
Gaping mouths and tear-stained cheeks plead in vain
To deaf ears as I refuse to wait and see.
Taken flights and clouds of ash restrict my
Breath as my friends’ pleas begin to cower.
Cigarette stubs and empty cans litter
Life like indifference without power.
The long walk back to the start goes awry
As the path vanishes before my eyes.
Keep them open, keep on walking because
It is all so short, are their anguished cries.
Pleasantries and patience, all I extolled
As I dreamed of reaping returned rewards.
Yet here I sit empty-handed as I
Realise that we all fall on our own swords.
Red Moon
Conversation carries us along the
Dark backroads of Portmarnock, and with no
Lights to guide us home we jog the whole way,
Not in fear but lost in freedom only
Solitude can bring. A glance to our left
Shows a big red orb hanging in the sky,
The moon watching tenderly over us
In its unusual shade; a glance to
Our right shows a field with once endless
Expanse now slowly dwindling as
Empty apartments creep closer to these
Narrow, pathless roads. Yet the changing scene
Does not bother us as we run, for in
These moments the tedious, painful words
We exchanged about a past resting in
Futility and a future that could
Be just the same fall away. We run in
A different time, seeing the pitch where we
Grew up together, defender and goal-
Keeper, protecting the honour of a
Team that never had one to begin with.
We recall the old man with his Sunday
Finest and his cigarette addiction,
Memory lapses, temper tantrums and
Unbelievable passion for a game
That eventually attacked his heart,
Ending their love affair. The liberty
Of youth on this nostalgia run takes us
All the way to Donaghmede, where, once the
Running ceases, all the complications
Of the present catch up to us again,
And you vomit, mostly from drunkenness,
But partly in disgust, as the truth that
Those days are over hits again under
The glare of the ever watchful red moon,
Bloody with pity for our blissful plight.
(running home along isolated and empty backroads in the dark with a friend brings a freedom unattainable elsewhere - but it was only a brief reprieve as you cannot outrun life)
Dark backroads of Portmarnock, and with no
Lights to guide us home we jog the whole way,
Not in fear but lost in freedom only
Solitude can bring. A glance to our left
Shows a big red orb hanging in the sky,
The moon watching tenderly over us
In its unusual shade; a glance to
Our right shows a field with once endless
Expanse now slowly dwindling as
Empty apartments creep closer to these
Narrow, pathless roads. Yet the changing scene
Does not bother us as we run, for in
These moments the tedious, painful words
We exchanged about a past resting in
Futility and a future that could
Be just the same fall away. We run in
A different time, seeing the pitch where we
Grew up together, defender and goal-
Keeper, protecting the honour of a
Team that never had one to begin with.
We recall the old man with his Sunday
Finest and his cigarette addiction,
Memory lapses, temper tantrums and
Unbelievable passion for a game
That eventually attacked his heart,
Ending their love affair. The liberty
Of youth on this nostalgia run takes us
All the way to Donaghmede, where, once the
Running ceases, all the complications
Of the present catch up to us again,
And you vomit, mostly from drunkenness,
But partly in disgust, as the truth that
Those days are over hits again under
The glare of the ever watchful red moon,
Bloody with pity for our blissful plight.
(running home along isolated and empty backroads in the dark with a friend brings a freedom unattainable elsewhere - but it was only a brief reprieve as you cannot outrun life)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Chamber
I have a chance to die here, all alone,
Overcrowded beach of faceless strangers,
But I run away, leaving my friends to
Die there instead, solving nothing at all.
In reality, the isolation
Chamber I constructed for you, that we
Joked about, was made really for me
To hide behind, so I could watch the joy
Of your life without disrupting its free
Chaos filled essence, conflicting and cold.
Your eyes in which I deign to lose myself
Are set soulfully on another man,
Invisible and imaginary,
Whom I do not know, yet envy still.
Our shared kiss is dead in the annals of
History, forgotten by you because
It was a footnote in your weekly game
Of who next? It yellows within my mind,
Tearing at the edges as I fight to
Grasp that feeling of meaning something to
Somebody once more, when the truth is
I never did, because they all run away,
Empty words floundering in fear behind.
My time is spent chasing indifferent
Shadows daily and nightly, waiting to
Catch one and never let it go, because
The order attained in books and films will
Finally be mine when I do, even
Though the stories written for amusement
And entertainment are written only
To cash in on manipulation.
They are not real and they never will be,
So this hope to achieve the scene-set end,
Of taking you on the beach as the waves
Whisper, telling us that the world has stopped
Spinning, is futile, because this chamber
Is designed to prevent, not to create.
(the last poem ever to go on Bebo).
Overcrowded beach of faceless strangers,
But I run away, leaving my friends to
Die there instead, solving nothing at all.
In reality, the isolation
Chamber I constructed for you, that we
Joked about, was made really for me
To hide behind, so I could watch the joy
Of your life without disrupting its free
Chaos filled essence, conflicting and cold.
Your eyes in which I deign to lose myself
Are set soulfully on another man,
Invisible and imaginary,
Whom I do not know, yet envy still.
Our shared kiss is dead in the annals of
History, forgotten by you because
It was a footnote in your weekly game
Of who next? It yellows within my mind,
Tearing at the edges as I fight to
Grasp that feeling of meaning something to
Somebody once more, when the truth is
I never did, because they all run away,
Empty words floundering in fear behind.
My time is spent chasing indifferent
Shadows daily and nightly, waiting to
Catch one and never let it go, because
The order attained in books and films will
Finally be mine when I do, even
Though the stories written for amusement
And entertainment are written only
To cash in on manipulation.
They are not real and they never will be,
So this hope to achieve the scene-set end,
Of taking you on the beach as the waves
Whisper, telling us that the world has stopped
Spinning, is futile, because this chamber
Is designed to prevent, not to create.
(the last poem ever to go on Bebo).
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Choiceless Ceremony
Sitting at the choiceless ceremony
In complete indifference to the girl
Attempting to prise her way into my
Cold embrace, as it has been for so long.
You are all dolled-up with no one to kiss,
Nobody to hold your hand as my sight
Rests firmly on a former flame that was
Never lit because of the pretension
That time has helped me come to loath so much.
Tonight is the culmination of it
All, where the awards are given to
The worthy, and the months, days, minutes
And seconds wasted finally earn
Some form of recognition from their pears.
And yet you only have eyes for me while
Mine are set across our table at the
Beautiful woman in the cream dress, with
Those eyes that just light up whenever she
Laughs, with her golden skin so soft to touch.
And she sits there, blissfully unaware
Of the conundrum her grace has caused me,
The doubts her previous confession still
Raise in my mind, as I always wonder
If she really meant what she said before
On a cold September night long ago.
And what makes this whole thing tragic is that
You brought me here under false pretences,
Perhaps believing that we may share a
Kiss under the star light of this venue,
The Mansion House, a marble marvel lost
In this decaying city of false hopes.
And the irony is I posses no
Feeling for you, and she has no feelings
For me; we three are just chasing shadows,
Conforming to this game they all play in
Their confines of calls and chat, just waiting
To be broken again, as you cannot
Prevent the inevitable ending
Naivety brings when you have no choice.
Golden
Desperate defeat left quickly behind
With the chance to dance on deity’s designed,
Shaped in September of a year now lost,
Fumbled through fingers as chores crossed.
I wipe away lashes, disillusioned tears,
Your disappointment and your future fears,
Realisation hits, you slowly start to smile,
No more excuses or drunken denial.
Surrounding circumstance is then ignored,
Past idleness forgotten by the bored,
Focus becomes present, to you and me,
The end of an era sets us both free.
Beauty resonates in your smooth cream dress,
In your golden skin I love to caress,
And it is up, not down, I am staring,
The lights in your eyes, the sign of caring.
And even when you can stand no more,
Alcohol weighing you down to the floor,
We sit in silence, your eyes shut tight,
And we hold hands amidst the passing night.
Your head resting gently upon my hand,
While I stroke softly every silk strand,
And by the end I walk you to your door,
Waving goodbye to your kiss once more.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Shaken Hero
I see all the belief you have in me checked
And re-checked, again and again, doubtless,
Without a single clouded thought crossing
Your mind so sure of my capabilities.
Then, I see you look into a mirror, and you
Waver, unable to meet your own gaze
Because what you see within your eyes
Is a soul so restless it feels the need to act
Without rationale whenever it is pinned down.
Flight is always easier than confronting
The issues at hand, and flight is always
Your chosen way, one flight after the other,
Until the ash trail you leave behind from those
Cigarettes smoked in stress leads you back to
The beginning again, and you realise you have
Been running in futility from problems that were
Never irresolvable, just overbearing.
Claims of misplaced faith fall onto my deaf ears
Because the only faith that has been mislaid
Is your own in yourself, dropped somewhere
Along a rocky road that has shaken you
Time after time, rattling your nerve,
Until you become certain that every little thing you say,
Every little thought you think, and every single
Choice you make is the wrong one that sends the world
Crashing down around your ears.
And I see, then, that you need to be told something
That can help restore your belief in yourself,
And your love for those around you
And for this life we have to live.
That one thing is this and I beg you to heed the words:
My love for you is unwavering
Because you are my goddamn hero,
Shaken, but not broken.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Suppression
Suppression of thought self-imposed
By a need to complete the trivial.
Those trips down lurid lanes on nocturnal nights
Within my mind have ceased because
Straight-seeing sight with sleep-filled hours
Is the only way to finish the task at hand.
Now a different kind of delusion grips me
As hours upon hours are spent staring at
Fractions that do not add up.
Forty over one hundred multiplied by five
And three-fifths, but why?
I do not want to be locked away while the sun
Shines down on my friends outside,
Who are living their lives to the fullest.
“Providing for the future,” they say,
“is as important as living your life now,”
But not when I am setting myself up for a
Life I do not want to lead.
And I can only drop to my knees in despair
At the feet of my table bearing the brunt
Of my being, a responsibility once held
By a pen set right into prostration.
This workload has numbed my very essence,
Stifling something that should come fluidly.
Not so long ago words would lash down on paper
With the same ease as rain falling from the sky.
Now, there is no rain, nor any words to go with it.
There is only sunshine.
Eternal.
Evaporating all the emotion from me,
Silencing my gift.
(my thesis is due in a matter of weeks, meaning I've little time to do anything but work on that - this poem is about the horridness of that feeling)
By a need to complete the trivial.
Those trips down lurid lanes on nocturnal nights
Within my mind have ceased because
Straight-seeing sight with sleep-filled hours
Is the only way to finish the task at hand.
Now a different kind of delusion grips me
As hours upon hours are spent staring at
Fractions that do not add up.
Forty over one hundred multiplied by five
And three-fifths, but why?
I do not want to be locked away while the sun
Shines down on my friends outside,
Who are living their lives to the fullest.
“Providing for the future,” they say,
“is as important as living your life now,”
But not when I am setting myself up for a
Life I do not want to lead.
And I can only drop to my knees in despair
At the feet of my table bearing the brunt
Of my being, a responsibility once held
By a pen set right into prostration.
This workload has numbed my very essence,
Stifling something that should come fluidly.
Not so long ago words would lash down on paper
With the same ease as rain falling from the sky.
Now, there is no rain, nor any words to go with it.
There is only sunshine.
Eternal.
Evaporating all the emotion from me,
Silencing my gift.
(my thesis is due in a matter of weeks, meaning I've little time to do anything but work on that - this poem is about the horridness of that feeling)
Monday, April 5, 2010
News: published in Minus 9 Squared
Minus 9 Squared is a literary zine that contains poetry, prose, photographs, artwork, and many other products of the arts by various contributors. It has only been recently set up and the first issue can be viewed here.
I was fortunate enough to have my poem Chaos to Silence published in this issue, and my friend Michael Fogarty also had a poem published (and, by random chance, the poems feature beside each other in the online magazine on pages ten and eleven, which is always nice).
All the work, both written and visual, is excellent, and hopefully there will be more to come from Minus 9 Squared and its contributors in the future.
I was fortunate enough to have my poem Chaos to Silence published in this issue, and my friend Michael Fogarty also had a poem published (and, by random chance, the poems feature beside each other in the online magazine on pages ten and eleven, which is always nice).
All the work, both written and visual, is excellent, and hopefully there will be more to come from Minus 9 Squared and its contributors in the future.
Sober Story
Same sober story, hands raised by the riverside,
Yet this is different, something is missing,
A spark or a flame for which I am famed
Has flickered out in my absence from the game.
The bearable is now beyond comprehension,
Dancing feet offer no reprieve, nor do the beats,
The rhythms that once offered respite and insight
Are dead to my ears and beneath my hands’ sleight.
Several shots sunk down in spite of the burning within,
Lighting candles that shall guide them through the night,
All around me they laugh and joke while I just choke
On the water that quenches a fire I used to stoke.
As it unfolds, plays and poems are written in my mind,
Placing people upon pedestals for the sake of creation,
That is what I tell myself when I put journals on my shelf
Now full of these plays and poems all about myself.
Yet, where once they glowed brighter than the stars,
Positive about being clear amidst the drunken haze,
They have become dim the more I refuse my sin
That is not cardinal but personal in a fear of being like him.
My father was an angry drunk who put holes in doors,
Yet he was always better at creating when he chose to be,
He was the master of his trade without a hearing aid,
Despite this he fled and the paint on his grave still fades.
And what is the point of thought clear in sobriety,
If it remains clouded by the consequences of life all around it?
Your alter ego is your shadow not seen in the here and now,
Who’s usually hid within your soul, waiting to come out.
Yet that is me all the time as everyday I see mine,
So is committing my supposed sin really such a crime?
Yet this is different, something is missing,
A spark or a flame for which I am famed
Has flickered out in my absence from the game.
The bearable is now beyond comprehension,
Dancing feet offer no reprieve, nor do the beats,
The rhythms that once offered respite and insight
Are dead to my ears and beneath my hands’ sleight.
Several shots sunk down in spite of the burning within,
Lighting candles that shall guide them through the night,
All around me they laugh and joke while I just choke
On the water that quenches a fire I used to stoke.
As it unfolds, plays and poems are written in my mind,
Placing people upon pedestals for the sake of creation,
That is what I tell myself when I put journals on my shelf
Now full of these plays and poems all about myself.
Yet, where once they glowed brighter than the stars,
Positive about being clear amidst the drunken haze,
They have become dim the more I refuse my sin
That is not cardinal but personal in a fear of being like him.
My father was an angry drunk who put holes in doors,
Yet he was always better at creating when he chose to be,
He was the master of his trade without a hearing aid,
Despite this he fled and the paint on his grave still fades.
And what is the point of thought clear in sobriety,
If it remains clouded by the consequences of life all around it?
Your alter ego is your shadow not seen in the here and now,
Who’s usually hid within your soul, waiting to come out.
Yet that is me all the time as everyday I see mine,
So is committing my supposed sin really such a crime?
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Three Stars
Three stars flying down so high,
One for each as time flows by,
Crashing towards Earth in blazing glory,
Crossing chores, they do bore me.
A star from the past still shines brightly,
A star from the present is just as sprightly,
I am the star stuck in-between,
Deciphering doubt while crying unseen.
Light years apart, yet still so close,
Whisperers suggest an overdose,
One I knock back daily and nightly,
Prising the puzzle just to spite me.
I write myself into a cage,
Lamenting feelings on a yellowing page,
Waiting in haste for a single sign,
So I know which star is mine.
(I saw an aeroplane tonight that looked like three stars slowly crashing towards the airport...don't worry, I'm almost certain the plane landed safely; another for the Signs by Bloc Party collection).
One for each as time flows by,
Crashing towards Earth in blazing glory,
Crossing chores, they do bore me.
A star from the past still shines brightly,
A star from the present is just as sprightly,
I am the star stuck in-between,
Deciphering doubt while crying unseen.
Light years apart, yet still so close,
Whisperers suggest an overdose,
One I knock back daily and nightly,
Prising the puzzle just to spite me.
I write myself into a cage,
Lamenting feelings on a yellowing page,
Waiting in haste for a single sign,
So I know which star is mine.
(I saw an aeroplane tonight that looked like three stars slowly crashing towards the airport...don't worry, I'm almost certain the plane landed safely; another for the Signs by Bloc Party collection).
Friday, April 2, 2010
Marooned
I thought I saw a man standing on Leigh’s roof in Donaghmede,
Hooded,
Holding what seemed to be a warning sign in my direction.
But it wasn’t a man, it was a chimney,
Smoking innocently, and even if it was a man,
I chose to ignore his selfless warning…
And then I looked up and saw the moon, so full.
I tried to strike up a conversation with the words of a poet
Ringing in my mind’s ears,
That the moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
But the moon ignored me like I ignored the hooded man’s warning sign,
Leaving me to reach the sea in solitude and ponder my mistakes…
The white light now shimmers off the surface of the sea,
Taunting me by withholding its wisdom
Gleaned from centuries of swallowing mercilessly
Those naïve enough to believe in its tranquillity,
And I can only sit and watch the water lap on the steps
Of my secret seat four rows down…
Alone.
I am a self-destructing machine who cannot have
The simplicities of the sea or the
Immaculate mystery of the moon.
They all run away before my pleasantries
Because I am from a different decade
When things were more intimate and less casual…
The handrails of my stepped seat bear evidence
Of a visitor to the sea who never left its grasp,
Their clothes’ remnants tied around the steel in a knot
As a warning not to follow them to the depths.
The second warning of the night,
But will I heed it?
The ocean could just carry me away,
Or drag me down,
Either way, I would get what I want.
The ripples are so tempting as I gaze with envy
At the sleeve blowing gently in the wind, and the
Lapping water is whispering my name…
And it grows louder until it is all I can hear.
The whispering then mocks my foolishness
For braving these Baltic elements just to watch
From afar as boats leave Howth Head to places
I can only dream of setting foot upon.
A chance of escape lies in the route of the sea
But I cannot swim so what becomes of me?
Nothing.
So I continue to look longingly across the ocean,
Willing it to rise up and sweep me from my seat,
Sweep us all from this life lived in futility,
In some falsified hope that by doing so
I can re-mould my being to be like every other 21st century man…
Then, for a brief moment,
A light shines on the horizon between the islands,
Coaxing me to take those tentative first steps
Into the icy depths disillusionment has carried me
To thus far, to a level of despair even he knew
In his short, soundless drama of a life…
But the light disappears,
Marooning me here until I die.
(I went for a walk the other night and this is everything I felt, saw, and thought I saw).
Hooded,
Holding what seemed to be a warning sign in my direction.
But it wasn’t a man, it was a chimney,
Smoking innocently, and even if it was a man,
I chose to ignore his selfless warning…
And then I looked up and saw the moon, so full.
I tried to strike up a conversation with the words of a poet
Ringing in my mind’s ears,
That the moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
But the moon ignored me like I ignored the hooded man’s warning sign,
Leaving me to reach the sea in solitude and ponder my mistakes…
The white light now shimmers off the surface of the sea,
Taunting me by withholding its wisdom
Gleaned from centuries of swallowing mercilessly
Those naïve enough to believe in its tranquillity,
And I can only sit and watch the water lap on the steps
Of my secret seat four rows down…
Alone.
I am a self-destructing machine who cannot have
The simplicities of the sea or the
Immaculate mystery of the moon.
They all run away before my pleasantries
Because I am from a different decade
When things were more intimate and less casual…
The handrails of my stepped seat bear evidence
Of a visitor to the sea who never left its grasp,
Their clothes’ remnants tied around the steel in a knot
As a warning not to follow them to the depths.
The second warning of the night,
But will I heed it?
The ocean could just carry me away,
Or drag me down,
Either way, I would get what I want.
The ripples are so tempting as I gaze with envy
At the sleeve blowing gently in the wind, and the
Lapping water is whispering my name…
And it grows louder until it is all I can hear.
The whispering then mocks my foolishness
For braving these Baltic elements just to watch
From afar as boats leave Howth Head to places
I can only dream of setting foot upon.
A chance of escape lies in the route of the sea
But I cannot swim so what becomes of me?
Nothing.
So I continue to look longingly across the ocean,
Willing it to rise up and sweep me from my seat,
Sweep us all from this life lived in futility,
In some falsified hope that by doing so
I can re-mould my being to be like every other 21st century man…
Then, for a brief moment,
A light shines on the horizon between the islands,
Coaxing me to take those tentative first steps
Into the icy depths disillusionment has carried me
To thus far, to a level of despair even he knew
In his short, soundless drama of a life…
But the light disappears,
Marooning me here until I die.
(I went for a walk the other night and this is everything I felt, saw, and thought I saw).
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Turquoise
I take your hand, lost in your turquoise eyes,
Heading to the floor, no more compromise.
Arms around my neck, body to body,
Intoxicated, nothing could stop me.
As everything else falls away, we dance,
Beating heart, I lean in to take the chance.
When our lips touch, your shock is evident,
Until you smile, as others circumvent.
With eyes shut we kiss, missing in the crowd,
First moment of respite, you laugh aloud.
No-one prying, hands wander to caress,
Ours unite to pull down your rising dress.
Other thoughts drift, savouring this sought kiss,
The past gone, forgetting our last near-miss.
We stop again, your laughter fills my ears,
In the corner they watch, with drowned out cheers.
We sway together, move through the masses,
In each other’s arms, we flee their chassis.
Blinded by feeling, your infectious smile,
I disregard morals, drunken denial.
And all the while, lights in strobes shadow us,
Hiding, becoming bright to break our trust.
A startling luster sheen, they all disperse,
As they do, the night’s end I spit and curse.
We let go, minutes for eternity,
So long, so short, too fast for you and me.
Heading to the floor, no more compromise.
Arms around my neck, body to body,
Intoxicated, nothing could stop me.
As everything else falls away, we dance,
Beating heart, I lean in to take the chance.
When our lips touch, your shock is evident,
Until you smile, as others circumvent.
With eyes shut we kiss, missing in the crowd,
First moment of respite, you laugh aloud.
No-one prying, hands wander to caress,
Ours unite to pull down your rising dress.
Other thoughts drift, savouring this sought kiss,
The past gone, forgetting our last near-miss.
We stop again, your laughter fills my ears,
In the corner they watch, with drowned out cheers.
We sway together, move through the masses,
In each other’s arms, we flee their chassis.
Blinded by feeling, your infectious smile,
I disregard morals, drunken denial.
And all the while, lights in strobes shadow us,
Hiding, becoming bright to break our trust.
A startling luster sheen, they all disperse,
As they do, the night’s end I spit and curse.
We let go, minutes for eternity,
So long, so short, too fast for you and me.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A Dreamer's Dream
I dreamt last night of us kissing inside
The pitch blackness of a rain sheltered pier
Swallowed by the night overlooking the
Calm surface of a sea that threatened to
Swallow us too, while letting us breath in
This moment of eternal happiness.
The pitch blackness of a rain sheltered pier
Swallowed by the night overlooking the
Calm surface of a sea that threatened to
Swallow us too, while letting us breath in
This moment of eternal happiness.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Violin
The majority are meaningless strings
Played by the conspicuous conductors,
The ones whose music gives reason
To the violin’s existence otherwise
Futile, a forlorn piece of carved wood.
Conductors are few and far between
But the strings are plentiful, coming
In boxes by the dozen daily and weekly,
Before they inevitably gather dust and break,
Replaced by a lively new set with a similar
Standing sustain as the notes that went before.
One-by-one the conductors leave the room
Having learned of a finer instrument to be
Played in a different, more upstanding place
Where the quality of sound is not hindered
By the surrounding atmosphere of the patrons.
Complacent conductors take up the violin
And mistreat its once sincere soul,
Each conductor’s iris of the eye darker
With every dropping of the instrument,
Denting its body, scratching its being.
And then, there is nobody left to play,
And the violin is left to gather the same
Dust as the strings, the same dust it so
Detested when it was at the height of its
Popularity, played by only the critical
Conductors, the ones whose influence
Was everlasting when they manipulated
The mundane strings so easily found.
Finally, the strings are taken away too
For use on another active instrument,
Leaving the violin on its own to inhale the dust,
A mark of passing time and inaction,
A mark of the inconsequence it used to mock.
Played by the conspicuous conductors,
The ones whose music gives reason
To the violin’s existence otherwise
Futile, a forlorn piece of carved wood.
Conductors are few and far between
But the strings are plentiful, coming
In boxes by the dozen daily and weekly,
Before they inevitably gather dust and break,
Replaced by a lively new set with a similar
Standing sustain as the notes that went before.
One-by-one the conductors leave the room
Having learned of a finer instrument to be
Played in a different, more upstanding place
Where the quality of sound is not hindered
By the surrounding atmosphere of the patrons.
Complacent conductors take up the violin
And mistreat its once sincere soul,
Each conductor’s iris of the eye darker
With every dropping of the instrument,
Denting its body, scratching its being.
And then, there is nobody left to play,
And the violin is left to gather the same
Dust as the strings, the same dust it so
Detested when it was at the height of its
Popularity, played by only the critical
Conductors, the ones whose influence
Was everlasting when they manipulated
The mundane strings so easily found.
Finally, the strings are taken away too
For use on another active instrument,
Leaving the violin on its own to inhale the dust,
A mark of passing time and inaction,
A mark of the inconsequence it used to mock.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Chaos to Silence
I
Strobe-light chaos splits time with black spaces,
Seconds divided, just like stop motion
Animation without any purpose.
Bodies come together and sway as one,
Shaking the floor in time to the rhythm.
Elbows crack ribs as sweat rains down from those
Perched on the upper levels, surveying
The alcohol fuelled ecstasy below.
Alone I stand in sobriety, lost
In thought while moving thoughtlessly to the
Beat that goes ever on and on for no
Reason but to inspire the masses,
Granting courage to those lives without it.
Now they hang from each other, boy and girl,
Boy and boy, girl and girl, all playing the
Tease with the desires of the drunkard,
And when they drop their glasses, yelling in
Uncalled for anger and futile despair
As all their aspirations fall apart
In their man-made spiralling abyss, it
Is clear I shall forever be alone.
II
And that is the way I left the city,
On my own, expecting the chaos to
Pervade the streets as society lets
Itself fall into the trap of being
Too comfortable in uncomforting
Times, with the sly men and whorish women
Screaming and vomiting under street lights,
While the innocent night workers curse their
Prayers that were prayed in vain to the deafest;
But instead of finding bodies crisscrossed
Along the paths of deceit and sin so
Frequented by the ever ossified,
My eyes fell upon nothing at all, save
A solitary cab and its driver,
With only three jobs in thirteen hours.
Then he told me stories of a recluse,
And how the night sky mirrored the events here,
So empty, not a soul nor star in sight.
And as deafening silence drowns my
Ears while we race the night’s casting shadows,
Solitude becomes random, not certain.
(another night out, another poem about that night out).
Strobe-light chaos splits time with black spaces,
Seconds divided, just like stop motion
Animation without any purpose.
Bodies come together and sway as one,
Shaking the floor in time to the rhythm.
Elbows crack ribs as sweat rains down from those
Perched on the upper levels, surveying
The alcohol fuelled ecstasy below.
Alone I stand in sobriety, lost
In thought while moving thoughtlessly to the
Beat that goes ever on and on for no
Reason but to inspire the masses,
Granting courage to those lives without it.
Now they hang from each other, boy and girl,
Boy and boy, girl and girl, all playing the
Tease with the desires of the drunkard,
And when they drop their glasses, yelling in
Uncalled for anger and futile despair
As all their aspirations fall apart
In their man-made spiralling abyss, it
Is clear I shall forever be alone.
II
And that is the way I left the city,
On my own, expecting the chaos to
Pervade the streets as society lets
Itself fall into the trap of being
Too comfortable in uncomforting
Times, with the sly men and whorish women
Screaming and vomiting under street lights,
While the innocent night workers curse their
Prayers that were prayed in vain to the deafest;
But instead of finding bodies crisscrossed
Along the paths of deceit and sin so
Frequented by the ever ossified,
My eyes fell upon nothing at all, save
A solitary cab and its driver,
With only three jobs in thirteen hours.
Then he told me stories of a recluse,
And how the night sky mirrored the events here,
So empty, not a soul nor star in sight.
And as deafening silence drowns my
Ears while we race the night’s casting shadows,
Solitude becomes random, not certain.
(another night out, another poem about that night out).
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
One Key
If I could just
Set myself free,
Then it could
Be you and me,
And then we would
Sail the sea,
Us alone,
Reality,
Ours to make
For one key,
Unlock the cage
That keeps me,
Conflicting,
This country,
Can’t breath,
Imprisons me,
Need to get out
Or choke slowly,
And just
Lead life the way it was meant to live,
Or else there is nothing else to give,
No vice to expose, no gift to share,
No truth to epos, no reason to bear,
And I need you with me to see it all,
Every orange sky and every high fall,
Every echo that is your call.
If you could just
Come through snow,
Open the door
And watch me go,
Strike a match,
Candle’s glow,
Walk ahead,
I will follow,
Not too far,
Stone’s throw,
Hold my hand,
Let me know,
You’re here to stay
To just
Lead life the way it was meant to live,
Or else there is nothing else to give,
No vice to expose, no gift to share,
No truth to epos, no reason to bear,
And I need you with me to see it all,
Every orange sky and every high fall,
Every echo that is your call.
If we could just
Say no more,
Act our intent,
Dreams to fore,
Turning the key
Is but a chore,
Escape to come
Is so much more,
Flight to water,
To Earth’s core,
And there stop,
Forevermore.
Set myself free,
Then it could
Be you and me,
And then we would
Sail the sea,
Us alone,
Reality,
Ours to make
For one key,
Unlock the cage
That keeps me,
Conflicting,
This country,
Can’t breath,
Imprisons me,
Need to get out
Or choke slowly,
And just
Lead life the way it was meant to live,
Or else there is nothing else to give,
No vice to expose, no gift to share,
No truth to epos, no reason to bear,
And I need you with me to see it all,
Every orange sky and every high fall,
Every echo that is your call.
If you could just
Come through snow,
Open the door
And watch me go,
Strike a match,
Candle’s glow,
Walk ahead,
I will follow,
Not too far,
Stone’s throw,
Hold my hand,
Let me know,
You’re here to stay
To just
Lead life the way it was meant to live,
Or else there is nothing else to give,
No vice to expose, no gift to share,
No truth to epos, no reason to bear,
And I need you with me to see it all,
Every orange sky and every high fall,
Every echo that is your call.
If we could just
Say no more,
Act our intent,
Dreams to fore,
Turning the key
Is but a chore,
Escape to come
Is so much more,
Flight to water,
To Earth’s core,
And there stop,
Forevermore.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Hope/My Friends
Slipping into an abyss within the
Soul where solitude rests in deceiving
Harmlessness. A lack of reality
In my mind creates oblivion, sharp
In its coup but merciless in its fierce
Follow-through. Past memories manifest
Themselves before my eyes, reminding me
Of circumstance’s cruel interventions
And of my own mistakes, the conceited
Chases. It all unfolds again as if
It was the first time, unleashing the stream
Within and without, in front of those most
Likely to make a mockery. People
Cover the cracks yet create the faults, some
In vain trying to protect me from the
Pretenders; not my well-wishers, never
To be so. Dreams crumble from stone to shards
To shallow mud puddles, catching steps and
Dragging them down to the sloping, sinking
Depths of disimprovement, with only false
Prophets found at the end, buried beneath.
The only chance now to restore faith in
Humanity lies with those who took it,
Unknowingly, away from me before;
Hope and my friends must take each other’s hands.
Soul where solitude rests in deceiving
Harmlessness. A lack of reality
In my mind creates oblivion, sharp
In its coup but merciless in its fierce
Follow-through. Past memories manifest
Themselves before my eyes, reminding me
Of circumstance’s cruel interventions
And of my own mistakes, the conceited
Chases. It all unfolds again as if
It was the first time, unleashing the stream
Within and without, in front of those most
Likely to make a mockery. People
Cover the cracks yet create the faults, some
In vain trying to protect me from the
Pretenders; not my well-wishers, never
To be so. Dreams crumble from stone to shards
To shallow mud puddles, catching steps and
Dragging them down to the sloping, sinking
Depths of disimprovement, with only false
Prophets found at the end, buried beneath.
The only chance now to restore faith in
Humanity lies with those who took it,
Unknowingly, away from me before;
Hope and my friends must take each other’s hands.
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