The whisper of a shadow song
Morning star no glory
just a story
I am just lived backwards
hidden track words
scars like lines across paper
can I save her?
I am not what you think
drinking from a cup of agony
no God can save me
but death won’t enslave me
I am midnight verse
nails won’t surrender to my skin
the truth they told you the lies worn thin.
In the yellowed worn out dusty pages
the poetry that had a purpose is not lost
no matter how much the ideas cost
In this cupboard space
like the recesses of my minds eye
Ideas on the page never die
the reader if they thumbed through my poetry
would likely gain a paper cut or two
red ink another happening
mapping the page
the poetic wars we wage
on this desperate stage
between poet and reader
In this cupboard hidden away
will these poems ever see the light of day
like the dead poet lost in time
his reasons and rhymes
still unearth histories
and mysteries of life and of the earth
from birth to the finish
these ideas won’t diminish!
Maybe behind the library rooms and shelves
the poet unpublished poet finds themselves
and their voice
And these poems and half finished ideas
give a voice to voiceless after all these years
will be found and treasured and made into books
that people will treasure read and look
after finding this lost cupboard.
We are gathered here today
To bear witness
to pray for the best of ourselves
we buried
so we could fill our food shelves
and work jobs we hate
but not abbreviate
our own sadness
madness caves us in
we are lost
in depraved cravings
as another migrants ship sinks
where is our humanity
we are on the brink
of degrading and hating our own species
or has that ship sailed on its own sea of faeces
I don’t know so say a prayer
for the people we could have been
if life wasn’t so mean
and we hadn’t of adopted
and been co-opted
into ideologies of hate
as we masterbate
over our own tribal race
and forget that we supposed to love every face.
In the space that moves in our hearts
in the words that rule them
a fools language called love
sent to quell.
A heart is made in heaven
doused in the lustful flames of hell
In the dawn the morning star
in the night sky the sun
if you chose the right beat
we’d all be one!
but the drumbeat has a silence
and an off beat out of kilter vibe
The scribe is not a musician
but he is at least alive
the changing of the patterns
the flow of electrons
introspection of personality
the tonal chords of brains with clarity
We dance to words without reasons
we give chords bass and beats flow
the movements we know grow into routines
routines that we form and sow
We drift into daydreams
sing of far off lands we yet to visit
and we gather the images we envisage
We look for our dreams
and measure them in gold
and diamonds sold
yet they are our wealth even in cold
wintery days where love is the only language
it maybe a fools language
but that’s all we have
don’t let our innocence be nabbed.
The way the sunlight causes shadows through the leaves.
The movements of trees on the breeze
sycamore seeds twirl in pirouettes
as they helicopter to the ground.
Hag stones form
magic is born
from impermanence
decaying ghosts of leaves
erosion flowing free
the changing of the seasons
the reasons of life and death.
Unexpected artwork of nature
forming then fracturing and breaking.
The caricature of a feather floating free
in the minds artwork free
as a bird in rapture
captured in a photo in my minds eye.
My poetry never gets read
it hides in street corners instead
it lurks in the shadows of grey days
and seeps like a Smokey cigar out the window in a haze
It gathers at poetry recitals
where it splutters and mumbles
into action
my poetry is just a distraction
an interaction between a mad man and an audience
an ordinate scream
like pissing in a stream
and wondering what it smelt like
starving poets told to go on hikes
My poetry never gets read
it feeds the angels instead
but they don’t share
or care
enough to tell
what poetry of mine is from heaven and what is from hell.
I just like writing
poetry which is like lyrics without musical interlude
I know it’s rude but never mind you won’t read it anyway
and if you do have nice day…
In the darkness and light of a daydream from a distant heaven. The woman with many faces but one soul. I have looked at legends and myths. She is a gift. To live many lives and still remember some of them is her curse.
I remember she woke my kaleidoscopic mind like in the song porcelain by Moby. A conversation between the two of us. Her timelines spread across mine. Her heart and soul a beacon for mine.
Giving me a reason for life and seeing beyond the illusion of separation. She has been living all the lives I see through the collective unconscious the Holy Spirit is a girl a woman a mother a sister a friend a lover and so much more. Life would be a mistake without her music. She speaks through the crowd words of wisdom that guide me.
I have been labelled schizophrenic but I can see her spirit in all things. The way the wind moves the trees leaves she is one who guides us all. Oneness is what I have found I am her protector I love her darkness her light some may say I have lost my mind. And all the unkind things but those people are blind.
Magic can be drawn from
the spaces under your bed
where there are night and shadows
there’s magic instead
like the stars that burn
dark energy forms
we are the universe born
scribbled chaos in ink
sinking into depths of imagination
and sensations
magic that is a promise
yet to be made
An obsidian blade
that protects us from harm
cuts through curses and dark arms
unseen
we need the shadows as much as the stars
for contrast is what we are.
In my wondering
pondering
desolation
I am an imp
an upstart crow
with a limp
a little bit more
than your average trickster
but a little bit less
than my average best
a sour tongue lemon zest
a speaker
drinking from a plastic beaker.