Paste on your passion smile
Crisp all your words
as you settle yourself
to be self-consumed, heard
Whisper sweet nothings
which only you know
Don't stop the banter,
the words or the flow
You've reached the summit
of the loneliest point
You're king of the vacancy
best in the joint
Write all your poems
on the back of your hand
and read them at supper
of cream pie and sand
Your siblings will stand up
and whisper applause
You've felt all emotion
and ridden all stars
They bid you good-bye
for you're out of their league
and to think you just wanted
to be heard, succeed...
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
What is it to see the soil of home again?
A welcome, snow-struck and a return
To cold; sharp white contrasts sunburn.
We converse in broken tongues to men
We know, hooked on holiday language
Comprised of wandering hand signs.
Collect the car and pay parking fines,
Drive through towns and over a bridge
Until we reach the Western gateway.
Oh when will we arrive at our house?
No camels there, only field mouse
Which are eaten by our cat anyway.
The plane flies for an age, slyly yawning
Through the stretching, pealing sky,
A knife through air; what it is to fly.
Our travels over; a new day is dawning.
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
...for Carson McCullers
Terse language scored to the bone
with naught leftover,
truth suffusing every word
without a shred of platitude.
She faced her ghosts with fortitude,
hope and loss a perfect blending.
Straight to the point she spoke her mind,
no careless gesture or equivocation.
In a bright studio overlooking the noisy street,
I hide from the living to write with a frantic beat;
loud voices and sounds will subdue before dark...
very sweet is the the melody of the lonely lark.
Even when it snows, the view is quite awesome:
watching snowflakes slowly come down and dress
trees in glistening white...one can feel lonesome
when every audible sound is hushed by stillness.
How lovely it is when happy faces peak from windows!
They may seem immensely surprised or stupefied;
and some even open their doors and come outside
to observe the fluffy snow descend on the pines' boughs.
I pause for another minute, then resume my writing...
it's profound observation that inspires the heart and mind,
giving this motivated poet many ideas of positive feeling;
I sense and absorb them, not noticing kids getting wild.
In a bright studio overlooking the noisy street,
I fear shadows towards evening when feet
make deep footprints that lead to my stairs...
and afraid of ghosts, I begin chanting prayers.
I do not know?
WHERE DO I START? I DON'T THINK THERE IS WORDS , TO EXPLAIN HOW I AM
FEELING ABOUT THE LOSS OF YOU... BUT I WILL USE ALL THE STRENGTH YOU HAVE
GIVEN TO ME , SO I CAN GET THESE FINAL WORDS OUT THE GUILT , SADNESS AND
REGRET FROM NOT SEEING YOU LIKE I WANTED TO SO ****ING MUCH ,
THEN THE PAIN OF NOT HAVING A CHANCE TO SAY "GOODBYE" TO THE MOST
BEAUTIFUL MOTHER COULD WANT, AND YES MUM I'M TALKING ABOUT YOUTO HOLD
YOUR HAND, TO SEE YOU SMILE , TO HEAR YOUR VOICE, WOULD MAKE MY LIFE MORE
WORTHWHILE. YOU TAUGHT ME HOW TO LIVE, BUT YOU NEVER TAUGHT ME HOW TO
LIVE WITHOUT YOU I MISS YOU SO SO MUCH MUM, BUT THE LOVE IN MY HEART FOR YOU , WILL MAKE SURE
YOUR LIFE , LOVE , WARMTH AND TOUCH , WILL LIVE ON FOREVER ,
IN ME I KNOW THAT YOU CHANGED ME , JUST FROM YOUR
PRESENCE...THATS'S HOW STRONG YOU WERE MUM I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T LEFT ME ,
FOR THE LOVE IN MY HEART REMAINS , YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO SUFFER AND YOUR
BODY WILL FEEL NO PAIN...... GOD TOOK YOUR HAND , AND MADE US PART , HE CLOSED
YOUR EYES , AND BROKE MY HEART ....FOR ALL THE TIMES WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER,
I WILL NEVER FORGET YOUR FACE.
THERE IS NO MOTHER ANYWHERE LIKE YOU,
NO ONE COULD TAKE YOUR PLACE.
IF ONLY I HAD KNOWN YOU WERE LEAVING,
I GUESS I EXPECTED YOU TO FOREVER LAST,
ALL OF THE DREAMS OF US IN THE FUTURE,
ARE NOW BUT MEMORIES OF THE PAST.
GOD TAPPED YOU ON THE SHOULDER,
HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW,
THAT YOU WERE GOING WITH HIM,
TO THE SKY SO BEAUTIFUL BLUE.
ALTHOUGH I MAY NEVER SEE YOU MUM,
ARJAY WILL BE BY YOUR SIDE,
HE'S GONNA HOLD YOUR HAND,
AND LEAD THE WAY,
FOR HE WILL BE YOUR GUIDE.....
I LOVE YOU MY MOTHER.....
DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU UNDERSTAND,
DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU KNOW,
DON'T TELL ME THAT I WILL SURVIVE,
HOW I WILL SURELY GROW.
DON'T TELL ME THIS IS JUST A TEST,
THAT I AM TRULY BLESSED,
THAT I AM CHOSEN FOR THIS TASK,
APART FROM ALL THE REST.
DON'T COME AT ME WITH ANSWERS THAT CAN ONLY COME FROM ME,
DON'T TELL ME HOW MY GRIEF WILL PASS,
THAT I WILL SOON BE FREE.
DON'T STAND IN PIOUS JUDGMENT OF THE BONDS I MUST UNTIE,
DON'T TELL ME HOW TO SUFFER,
DON'T TELL ME HOW TO CRY.
MY LIFE IS FILLED WITH SELFISHNESS,
MY PAIN IS ALL I SEE,
BUT I NEED YOU,
I NEED YOU YOUR LOVE UNCONDITONALLY.
ACCEPCT ME IN MY UPS AND DOWNS,
I NEED SOMEONE TO SHARE,
JUST TO HOLD MY HAND AND LET ME CRY,
AND SAY, MY FRIEND I REALLY DO CARE
Mom you mean the world to me
It’s hard to live without you ,You were always by my side
Through thick and thin you helped me
I do not know?
Greetings, good and kind fellow Soup-ers!
'Tis wonderful, I say,
to be a Soup-er, so if I may,
I humbly request you to lay down your pen dipped in fine ink,
and visit my blog which can be found at the following link:
Now if this blatant self-promoting of mine seems rude,
I ask for your generous forgiveness, dear fellow Soup-er,
And wish you a day, that is peaceful, kind, and just plain super!
So cheers from the scribbler for now,
and as I take leave, my fellow Soup-ers,
I, in courtesy, to you all, do bow!