Unrest

Unrest. A poem

those waking dreams like scum, no

like napalm

 come, stripping me from sleep

I wonder if it is some kind (wrong word) of retribution

for past behaviours

or those that are still within.

The nomenclature of faith

that wrestles, by proxy, inside me

ill advised and ill informed

and thus

 powerful in a morbid way.

The furies in cloisters collude

to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes

and let livid colours settle

on daylight

like toxic chemicals in a sneer

ready to swirl and coalesce

in a dazzle on the surface

confirming all the worst weather reports

unsettling me here, on the shore

where I most want to be

still and calm.

A rider on the swells

A rider on the swells

A rider on the swells

So the poet in me speaks

Is this an accretion of sighs?

Or has today given me spoils,

an accretion of smiles?

I am forever riding the crests of waves

Being sucked under and below

Roiling back and forth

On an incessant tide

That rides with a roar

And recedes with a screech

Leaving me naked

Abraded by events and thoughts

That linger or are lost

Are careless with me

Posing questions

Leaving a little occasional wisdom

On the simpering callousness of life

Or the warm glow of love

I am the given. I shall not resist

Though hark at me

When so many souls are perishing at sea.

Not mine

Not mine

Not mine

A rubble strewn sky

Diaphanous white handkerchiefs

Wind-blown. Shambling

Against the blue of hope and space

That forms a shroud for us

Not just to me

That aching distance

Has always been a dream

And conciousness is gravity

In our high-blown minds

That are anchored here. On the ground

Not just mine

The last thought

Before taking action

May be fatal

May be an inspiration

May be an epiphany

Not just to me

Hidden Truths

Hidden Truths

 

Hidden Truths

Talk to me please

For I am troubled

By dreams that refuse

To sleep in quietness

Appearing only to confuse

And leave simpers in the margins

Of wakeful thoughts

To register on the scale

Of my conscience

Half drawn

The ineluctable stain

Of stretched flesh

As scraps and fragments

On a canvas

That reeks of errors

Remorse and half-told truths

Extruded from a private place

 Seeps into the world of eyes

On wanting more than there can ever be

 

conscience cannot escape

conscience cannot escape

There is nothing more to do

‘cept listen

For trouble is all around

And I, in family

Strive for more

Yet nowhere find

Ears that listen

So I can communicate my gifts

All I seem to get is noise

Those far off echoes of collisions

I dimly know of

Those histories of lost opportunities

Dying breaths so low on smiles

And I, in oneness

Am smaller always in adversity

Fog-bound in night time scenery

Inept it seems

Still, now. A parent adrift

With cautious tales

And care on a drip

For so much feeds resentment

And so much will slip away

Without my knowing it

And then somehow

In the face to face

I shall sense

An opportunity to shine

As sorrows fade like their grim cousins

Those shrouded minds alert to sparks

Amid the rancour and vapours

That spent hostility lays’ down

Forgetting. Rapturously forgetting casual pain

Injuries inflicted. Left to freeze

So only history will unearth the truth

To speak well of victims

And all the quiet ones

Who came along and died.

Dawn

DawnThe man who visits

A passing man

Who takes up a place

In a foreign space

And interjects with wisdom

He is conscience

A traveller with changing tales

Who fills spaces

In minds that are voids

And goes away chanting

Rumours of imagined things

That churn in the sleeping brain

And make little sense

Except that we carry his parcels

Through the day and into the dark

Inhabiting those spaces and places

That have been touched by druids

And other make-shift heroes

Flitting with their magic

And charms, restored from another world

To re-kindle slumbering guilt

From secrets half buried, half remembered

A litter of false ornaments

 

I am left in confusion again

At daybreak when hope should reign

Hall of Mirrors

 

Hall of MirrorsDrawn as by duty down a line

Dropping. Scraping the sides of a dark nothing

Viscous. Imagination pulls

At the echo of a colour lost to reason

So into slime the journey churns

Where daylight may be an escape

But I am fascinated by the threat of malevolence

Wherein I,  the author and the victim

Ask why. Why not make this a parody

And set me in a circus of smiles,

Or rich guffaws

But not the gallery of screams that pop

From an arcade of paid for thrills

Why am I, even in my own head

An outsider with dread

Let me please enjoy a loosening of the coils

That seem to constrict my pleasure

Obscure my vision and bring me

Always to the edge of pain

Let me exchange with the man in the booth

Small change for folly and blind excitement

Not the never ending centrifuge of fear

That falls twisting as a mirror to fate