A world of forms*

The only truth in my eyes
is the truth within my mind:

A world of forms before me,
such as Plato could merely dream,
is then shown to be a pleasant kind
of childish make-believe.

The only truth in my mind,
is a truth beyond my eyes:

A sea of tendrils before me,
feelings from which I glean
an abstract set of show and tell,
love, hate, and all between.

*absolutely not a textpoem.

A moment from the lips

A bad choice made, impulsively,
leads to humiliation, publically,
despite the knowledge that you are still
incomplete
yet to experience much.

Your behaviour, which belies your age, perhaps
is a true measure of maturity and sense,
so I make an n.b, p.s, or post-it note reminder to me:
'here are young dreams, tread softly'.

After 'Tell all the Truth'

Hear all the Truth but hear it slant --

Belief in Honesty lies

Too opaque for your tripping tongue

The words you say surprise

As Rain to the Windows lashed

With cruel description flawed

The Words must crash Violently

And any false One be outlawed --

Game

Too close to Nov 11th, this:
immersive surround sound,
hyper-real graphics of guns,
naturalistic narratives,
all devised, he tells me, to engage.
Better, he says, than real life.
In a real war, she says,
you would not last.

Some angels would do better
without even one halo.

danger

ideas fly around;
fireworks outside reflect
connections being made in mind.
One remains: critical.

rain

Cocooned, wrapped up, ensconced.
Faces and surfaces become more pronounced;
all the leaves falling from
the wet, black, bough.


~nod to Mr Pound.

Can You Not, Thanks.

Jeremy Hunt, some say you're a --
very nice man really,
(irony)
but
interference
in a realm
that is so far removed from yours
is, simply,
refused:

womb belongs to woman
and she will never allow legislation
to become part of her decision.
Your supposedly elevated status
should never allow you to
invade
this most private of spheres.
You will find your approach blocked
by any who feel
their body
=
their choice.

Hope

There is time, in the day,
to create, produce, incredible change;
the smallest detail can give
shelter from the rain.

Inspired by Emily Dickinson's 'Hope is the thing with feathers'

Epic growing

An epic story is waiting to emerge,
if given time, energy and a certain verve.

The days pass as one,
get up, get around, home again,
feelings insufferable,
words - empty - few -
gone. Spiral.

Ass u me

One facet, professionally,
does not dictate or indicate
any further aspect of me.
The blood that boils because
of your words
is blood that feels
deeper than any facade you see.
Disappointed, I ask:
Do you even have a clue?
Or is yours a skein,
words arranged like a house of cards?
An image saved, portraying a mask.

Fragmentation*

The curb grabs the dark
and you're right,
this city's alive
with hopes, dreams,
from the CEO up high
to the homeless in the park
and
every day, heroes walk among us.

There are many ways our souls decay;
you can theorise, hypothesise, or turn your life around,
and not just twist your face away,
but your soul is made heavy by the pressure of a goal
that is unrealistic or just plain stupid because of course,
what does it mean to be rich and why does it matter anyway?

Your greatness will be a sight for sore eyes to behold so
scale your mountain, leap far, and above all, be bold.


*inspired by the words of Kate Tempest's show, Brand New Ancients.

acerbic aftertaste

You say you've changed,
I don't see how.
but
destiny has become,
at once, too loud.

Your clipping words
puncture thick skin
Seen it all -
no apology, again.

Guest post

For the first time ever, here we have a guest post transcribed from a text by the esteemed @tomtomandgo:

Takes the time away from other thoughts
And intrudes on you from night-time.
Did you forget?
Subconscious is always awake.
Always thinking.
Always making connections to disassociate from the sane self.
It's silent.
But now it jabbers excitedly.
And you realise.
The thing that's been bothering you isn't cumbersome or negative.
It's not apathy to be in love with what you are not what you should be.

Empty vessel

Not In Service,
a terrible indictment of the human condition,
closed to passengers of any disposition,
a satirical statement of the greatest importance,
or - not.

Absence

The moment the bulb pops,
there a second, gone the next,
moment in time that's hard to define but finally you
truly understand; this,
an epic event,
irrespective of light.

Frozen

An elastic band stretched
to
breaking
point makes me freeze - fear -
my back -
will snap -
and I will be -

- stuck.

Overlay

Perspex drawing,
laid over lines
from yesterday,
resembles not -
resembles still.

Age defies us
with every day.
Our time marks us,
as we become
grave.

Poet, madman,
Shakespeare knew and
summarised well:

"To die: to sleep"

'Pretty Little Liars'

Drama, personified,
certified,
broken images and
unreal cities of
an ersatz world,
bildungsroman in a visual form,
a seed of truth in every lie?
Bizarre fiction, or the norm?

blog wordle

Concrete nouns

Ellipsis;
the mark of a superfluous word
to be understood by the context.

Invitation;
the mark of esteem and respect
to be understood by the context.

Hug;
the mark of feeling, compassion
to be understood by the context.

Context;
the parts of something that prec-
ede and follow a word or passage.

The Waste Land*

1. The Burial of the Dead

piercing pain and numbness

crossroads

hope/despair

joy/grief

dichotomies between feelings and

extremes of being

and

the narrowing of possibilities to

one

'In the mountains, there you feel free,'

you would frighten others with your anguish and your heart howls

'What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter'

and we are all the same.

Slam*

There's a certain slam of poetry
that echoes in my ears;
it's got metaphor and semaphore,
gestures which can shift gears.

The topics tackled vary
although the most common theme remains;
there's nothing words can't solve
(except those grand things that stay the same).

There's an idea here; Ophelia,
a troubling state of mind,
antonym to all interiors;
'dreamers often lie.'

*not a text poem.