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.