Contrast

 

                            Where is the line between darkness and light?
      Who decides which is wrong,
                                          which is right?

                                      Where is the justice, the truth or the reason?

        Where the betrayal?

                                          Where the treason?

 

 

Sorrow's Heir

 

How blissful ignorance can be,
the solace found in the notion of ghosts and angels,
or souls reincarnate.
The pain of normalcy all at once echoes regret,
and at the hands of reminiscence, turns to dust.
Now it reads like a blank page,
a vacant stare, a pointless rage,
and all that remains; a trinket, a pitiful relic of love.
So sorrowful a testament to the light that filled my world.

The scars of ashen tears that fell from guilty eyes,
are masked beneath a sullen shade of grey.
My soul denied, I turn my back on graces from a hollow,
a desperate, hopeless dream of nothing more than shame.
For what is hope when dreams are dashed,
and cast upon the jagged rocks?
And what is life when darkness falls,
and light becomes an empty promise?
A wish from lips that quiver like a frightened little child.

Now I am toxic, I prick the happy little bubbles of the terminally faithful.
I hide down in the depths just out of reach,
of those who fear being pulled from the lifeboat.
I surround myself with broken glass, that they may fear to tread,
recluse in self inflicted solitude.
And yet; I am not lost.
The glow in my heart, reborn each time I look upon,
the treasure that you left to my soul.
I am the heir of sorrow.

 

 

Woman In My Dreams

 

 

Where are you now?
Your tender footsteps once tripped across,
dulcet meadows kissed by dawn's summer dew.
Disney bluebirds held aloft,
your petticoat of  woven silkworm thread,
and by your presence flowers came to bloom.

I miss you so.
The darkened, cobwebbed corner where I sit,
and wait in vain to see the light that shrines your soul,
chills me with the rising damp and stifles me with mold.
A fleeting glance would much suffice,
and ease my wretched sufferance to that which I could bear.

I wait for you.
My heart, my beat, my dancing feet, all still.
For what more in the world can take the very breath from men,
than she who hungers for the kiss?
Whose tender lips of honey glaze intoxicate the heart,
and leave behind their loving touch, a want for more.

Sunset; dawn's break.
The darkness brings my heart to where it yearns to be,
for in sleep's realm my eyes can clearly see,
and to my soul's delight you show yourself and call my name.
I could not care for daylight; my slumber warms the fragile hope,
should life desist and leave me there, inside my dream with you.

The deadliest sin of all

Oh what it is to be human.
To be fitted with the means to know and understand
yet scorn the sins of lesser mortals
judged from behind the veil of morality.

Oh what it is to be perfect.
To see the ways of others through reprimand
yet recognise your own trespasses more justly
from a throne of high esteem.

Oh what it is to be human.
To elevate the essence of humanity to godly heights
and separate saints from sinners, as wheat from chaff
and render them apart.

Oh what it is to be holy.
To wash your skin with water blessed by piety
and through repentance free yourself to judge.
For is not conceit the deadliest sin of all?

Envoi: To err is human, to forgive is judgemental.

Simple Sandwich

Oh cheese savoury,

save me from the slavery of my grumbling tum.

For you shall be crowned in crisp green leaf,

and cloaked in soft fresh bun. 

Descent Of A Woman

Born of beauty, cursed by creed,
and cast into the labyrinth.
Natural in strength and deed,
but coaxed into perversity.

The lure of adulation strong,
too strong for prudence to resist,
then vanity becomes the norm,
the reason why she must exist.

Drawn towards the auctioneer,
and sold into a perfect vision,
conforming to expectant dreams,
she climbs the mountain of derision.

Too soon the clouds descend on her,
forcing her to lose her way.
Vulnerable to faceless vultures,
forcing her to fit and pay.

Visions of a perfect beauty.
Visions of a perfect form,
telling her it is her duty,
telling her it is the norm.

The shroud of pressure and the curse,
deludes her from the potent truth.
The ideal woman is a mirage,
followed at the cost of youth.

Pain and sufferance seems to be,
a woman's cross since time began.
The curse that shapes the form of she,
was manufactured of a man.


Beauty is only skin deep, but these days plastic surgery can fix that.

 

 

 

 

Hope

 

 

 

I long since feared the grey.

The wind and rain of drizzly winters;
and through my mourning moods, 
I've hustled down the slopes of tenuous frivolous hopes, 
to smile upon the living dead with loathing and a sense of dread,
that one day they might see the lies that echo from my soul.

I stand up once again.

I have stood more times than many, having gathered up the strength,
to see the world through lifeless and unloving eyes, 
but in the grey my spirit turns to mush 
and dribbles down, like melted aspirations 
for a life I'll never live to see transpire.

Yet still the grey clouds fall, 

I shed my skin and all at once was born again, 
but not into a better world no, not into a nicer place; 
and shadowed by obscurity bereft of any purity 
I saw the beast was but a frightened little child, 
still drawing from his mothers pap.

I ride the rapids to the falls, 

no glory from the beaten path, 
I turn to find the path has overgrown;
and covered all the traces, all the people, all the places 
and left me with no memories of my own. 
And still the rumble of the falls, draws all hope away from me.

I hunger for a sunrise, 

The dawning of a brand new day 
whose light and warmth shall burn away 
the blackened stains of life without a shelter; 
and succour me with comforts only known to those 
whose dreams are made from fragile faded lint.

Love less

Words I have spoken do not seem as real,
as these words that I write with my pen.
And the love that I had, now so stale,
that old fashioned slayer of men,
is tattooed in dull colours on the breast of my soul,
projecting disdain through my tiring eyes,
ruthlessly muffling inside my heart,
sorrowful, pitiful cries.

 

 

 Kween's inglish pleeze!

 

 

I tire of tyre being misunderstood,
and booey for buoy? Well that's simply no good,
it's buoy as in buoyant or boy from the 'hood
don't say as you see it but say as you should.

Check all your cheques before somebody sees,
and bedder is better with a couple of t's,
green is the colour, not color of peas
and yellow not yeller, the colour of cheese.

Alloominum soon will be up for the change,
'cos the 'i' in aluminium seems out of the range,
of colloquial accents that try rearrange,
an otherwise sound form of verbal exchange.

Labor's not working with it's absentee,
the 'u' is not silent nor put there for free,
it's put there to accent the roundness you see,
of a recognised word on which we can agree.

It's route as in root and not rowt as in clout,
you're intelligent people so figure it out,
say holler by all means, but no need to shout,
and speak the Queen's English, then there's never a doubt.

 

 

 

The first flowers of Spring

Snowdrops:

With hanging heads they stood so still,
They'd surfaced with a dormant will,
And in the rain they shod a tear,
That took away the stains of fear.

What meaning had their presence there?
What purpose, poignance or desire?
If not to fill my heart with care,
For that to which I should aspire.

But blessed with hope from seeing them,
My heart began to reconcile,
For every  bloom and every stem,
Had made my life once more worthwhile.

 

 A picture of you

A picture of you,
made not to hide in symphonies shadows,
but lead them from the shade
and give them substance new.
A vision of beauty,
whose pendent charm shone down its light,
whose only aim, to show the world
a vision of its light anew,
and paint a perfect picture.
                                         A picture of you.
 

An Atheist Prayer

What a terrible waste of precious life,

to live in abstinence and sacrifice

to a god that never really shows his face

and whose expected grace is never truly realised.

What a terrible sin it is to dream,

of purity and sacred scheme in death,

whilst every hue of precious breath

 leaves traces of a life that's squandered.

Wasted on what shall never truly be.

Is it wrong to feel that I am worthy

and through myself find sense and peace?

From depths of mire and scum and scurvy

find a way to stem and cease the torment of my conscience.

I will not seek what I cannot find.

Doing so will only make me blind or blinkered,

searching for a ghost whose existence is tenuous at most

and futile in a deadly tempest sea.

So you go with your god and pray, for I...

I will only ever have to answer to me.

Louise

Once, a rose there was,
Who's beauty, admir'd
Gave power to those who truly knew not beauty
But only coveted that which beauty brings.

Once, a storm there was,
Whose temper strong
Gave life to those whom life had long abandonned
And freed them on the Earth.

Once a love there was,
Whose fortune was chance,
And whose meaning was destiny to their enchanted hearts,
But there for envious eyes.

Once a time there was,
Whose passing brought the end,
And with his pain did make the end a passing into sorrows grasp,
Where only thorns could grow.

Once, a rose there was,
Whose bloom for one less fortunate than he,
Would never see the light and warmth that shone so bright,
Nor kiss that saved his soul.

Salvation

 

 

More powerful than God is the spoken word,

without the word what would God mean?

What purpose would he serve if not his own gratuity?

Without the word would we know God,

if only in our hearts?

Like the beast who knows no evil,

as he kills to eat and live another day.

Or the tree who knows not good,

as she fills the world with air to breathe

giving life to all creation.

Without the word all this would simply be,

no reason, purpose or philosophy,

and God would have no meaning.

For is not God the word of man,

and if that word comes from the heart

then is that not the word of God?

Search not the heavens nor the aether for redemption,

but look into the heart for truth and good

and know the pain that evil brings.

Then know your heart like God,

for therein lies your salvation.