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Best Paul Knight-Kirby Poems

Below are the all-time best Paul Knight-Kirby poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Glitter

Glitter.  
The sparkle of insanity, a mirror of colour.
A delusion of grandeur sailed in a mast of dazzling eyes to make a meal of mankind.
The pretentious material created to incite the imagination, to gift again from its external and invisible eyes. 
The multitude of colours come again, surprisingly changing within slight movements. Never static. 
Like the rainbow, its mother, filtered through its sharp edges ever so gentle but incumbent.
The relation of captivation with the precious jewels of earth created in the beginning but such little girth.
Like grains of sand, it is born; used on paper faces, even the dead.
A subtle object, aloof and bypassed by many.
A subconscious youth like raindrops in the brain.
A familiarity, a conformity caressing the tips of thought.
Never there but always here. 
Glitter.
An object of mankind, taken advantage of its seemly unlimited supply.
Children play innocently with it, while adults use it to woe the victim into a deeper state of arousing confusion.
An extra device to dilute reason.
Glitter.
I am impartial to your conclusion. 

GLOW OF GLITTER POETRY Contest
Paul knight-Kirby


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Homeless soldier

I once owned a uniform that shone in pride
The polished brass, creases and lines 
An army of friends and civilian respect 
I marched upon every street, placed every laureate 
The glowing admiration, the tireless market
Of gazing faces that sung even to the heartless 
Badgered by memories that I couldn’t forget 
Now withered and worn the years of regret 
My mental battle the suffering toll of silence 
No English I could mouth about the raw entirety 
Flashbacks of the wars supplying me 
But I sit a cluster of before 
My battlefield a daily occurrence of aimlessly wandering 
In routine emergence, of seeking cigarette butts borrowing more time and beer 
To drown out the battle none but mine could hear 
I clamber from bush broken sunlight, coughing up 
The empty sobriety of reality 
Just a used device, a human resource 
Hoodwinked and lead noosed in ignorant obligation 
Never-ending instigation from mind emancipation 
From this dumb-founded degree of humiliation 
Drunken laughter upon this man once bold 
Pissing on the soul 
And soles of my ragged boots, I couldn’t maintain or even hold 
Completely neglected by all I did serve 
Now served by a starvational solitude 
A face that none could remember, a shadow of my youth 
Just aloof wandering every day until my feet give up from the holes in my boots 
Until I drop dead like the rest of the ‘glorious dead’ 
Should have been left with a rifle on a battlefield proper 
Something my mind could accept, something I would now offer. 
Who would care and would begin to wonder 
Who these men were and why in such slumber 
After-all I am just a homeless soldier


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

The Cosmos

swirling gases monster clusters of floating rock, black-holes and supernova's the pinnacle 
Of all imagination living magic void from adaptation or joint celebration 
gravity's fabric cuddling the weight of all creation 
spinning in numb service for the unknown purpose 
the cornucopia of wonder and fear.

Will the mind even conjure the wisdom of thou 
desperately waiting for reason,seeking out 

or shall we ever wallow in worn theory 
waiting for a trained genius to add to this story 
or will death allow the cheat giving us our comforting complete 
or will we retreat back to logic's feet and find we are nothing 
but a miraculous accident all bacteria, atom's just freaks 
either way it's magic and welcome when in nothing 
the smashing of need the screaming of invention and happening 
the living painting ever added and deleted, ever made and forgotten 
consumed and cemented dancing pattern each to their own 
but every conclusion the same the black hole and we are again.


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Collective Recognition

Modern day Empire
The same as old,
Man doesn't really have time
Just Inventions and different clothes 
Still craving our nature the two split purpose,
Consumption and reproduction
All else is conjuring vanity, 
An evolving Microchip of lost perception, a tinted clarity
Yet we entrapped ourselves into diamond cast solutions,
Being compounded by every grasp that meets ear, eye and touch 
Never forget the truth bearing lust, 
that feeling of innerness that splinter-hair precision awareness 
And ask the question you've subconsciously locked away
Why are you being and what are the aims? 
And then at that moment your shell will fall apart 
so remind yourself of the real truth the binds mind and heart, 
and roam among your ancestors in the lyceum of endless fascination 
in one's mighty reflection and complacence


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

America where art thou

Mankind has been persecuted, slaughtered, raped, pillaged, enslaved, taxed and under tyranny since time immemorial battles have been fought physical religious and verbal and what greater has sufficed from such noble struggles second to none would be the common sense of the American colonial lit upon the shores of the new found wealth an open land of nature worshipping muttered upon the dirt now the empire building nation with its obscure technology and obscure idea’s come manifest it’s destiny upon weary ears poor natives who now live under the Anglo-Saxon sphere poor natives who were given the ringing of bells laughter and cheers of punters that drool around the cathedral  of neon lights and free beers 
Given the choice would they have traded that for the hush sounding swaying of trees and cries of wolves who live among them the otters the beavers to reindeers 
Blessed are those who have ushered the knowledge of genocide for so many years 
But when man has reached he’s step and was given the chance to read.                 he founded his deepest principle he’s most noble and desired needs in the vast continent and empire of the United States beauty and truth behold those men of 1776 leading the world from its canopy of tears and taking their fathers ideas and strife’s and putting to battle what we all know is right a self-evident cause a infused sense of time has come. The providence of mankind is now and one cracks of muskets screams and bayonets blood soaked mud deeper than the darkest claret such compassion confounds the senses what a special great nation it was back then 
Why did the American trade  it’s prairies and untouched heaven and replace it with concrete and the grotesque to build a land for the few to build a farm of financial gain chasing the dollar without it the insane left on the concrete street all bruised battered and in-flamed the land of the ‘free’ the land of plenty silenced never to explain why such beautiful principles lived then and haven’t lived again all beings all one all equal the real American idea understood then maybe a genetic longing built in the history of the soul lost through the mix of peoples who came after the story had been told and didn’t live to it’s meaning or failed to understand that America’s beginning was the American conclusion to these ghastly awful solution and situations we found ourselves in today don’t copy the oppressors be the world’s hero again.  


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

London

I wonder through the maze of time
Gazing upon every century,

Leading me astray along the 
fascinating array of cobbled roads 
beer soaked corners, and freshly 
watered bouquet's,

It's unique charm unified by the 
usual hustle of most western cities,

Though standing firm in multitudes 
of admirational plenty, an opera of 
reality singing loud in silent 
nostalgia,

Conventional though complex, a 
rock drowning weight of human 
creativity, sitting in invincible unity,

Among the swarms of dust beaten 
around by endless activity, a oiled 
engine forever purring, forever 
working, with inexhaustible duty,

A machine never ceasing, never 
sleeping,

Awaiting the next flow of eyes, every 
minute landing onto her from the 
skies,

A elixir of life ever changing under 
the burden of existence, saying 
'hello' to the morning sun the 
routine of innocence among the 
charcoal lung,

Divided completely though together 
as one.





Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Fatal Awareness

Bang, Bang, Bang 
The cracks in my ears 
Run,run,gone the silhouette of my peers 
My boots are sandals of mud, moulded like baked pastry 
Time, time, time, was the beating of my thought 
March, march, march, were my orders of before 
Now the battle smoke has cleared and my heart can feel no more
Strains of my friends leave memories upon this ground 
Like ripped soggy tissue, all around 
And I am alone, too scared to make sound 
Too much realization too young to know 
What things I could be doing and what things I should bestow  
What sights I should of seen and what has tarnished the in-between 
The passive reacting cold has taken my future, blemished the soul 
Young,young,young was the age of us all 
Kill, blood, kill was all we had in store
Rapid swirling deaf I see the blood inside
I’ve taken one round and I’ll never survive 
I can see a rain drop roaming down this rock 
It’s the last vision to understand this life I still have got  
It’s harmonic stature it’s peaceful rot 
And here is my end I cannot grip a stare 
I cannot effort my fingers I know I must be dying, seconds to bare 
I don’t know what to do but I am not crying 
It’s getting hard to breathe I cannot feel my toes 
I can hear my mother calling, I muster a smile 
I am surrounded by the loved ones escalating mile upon mile 
A final push of effort understood as folly
Yawn, gasp, then death has taken me to dark 
I’ll miss a many faces; I’ll never ride my bike 
I’ll never kiss those soft lips or feed a little guy 
I’ll never enjoy those things I’ve always lived to buy 
And I’ll never know the future as I am far too young to die 


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Lost Generation

We the victim's of incompetence 
We the pawns of vain experiments
Imprisoned by oligarchic, social engine.
Our pains, reflected by gluttonous pride.
Fermenting in black boil bubbling greed
Modern slavery in it's prime, glistening 
like polished diamond shine.
All pretentious, phoney entrapment,
lurking through time,  the ideal system, 
for a criminal eye, the perfect crook, 
filtered on a system it built, it impressed, 
and we undertook, now just mere 
puppets,
Upon the ladder of fingers,
The shadow composer casting the melody 
of subjugated illusion, laughing at ease, 
gazing upon their resolution.
A famine of needs and desires, tortured 
by the selected lot, who mock as we rot, 
in the mould around the bars of our cot. 
The misleading consequence of 
innocence, of ignorance, of vulnerability.
The digital web of deception, ripples in 
shuddered glee, it's next victim 
screaming, and then hushed silently 
among those chambers of conformity, an 
commodity given a number and then 
freed, for some years.
Next it's taught to adhere to the 
requirement of 'our' society,
Pushed through  any resistance,
Your ADD, labeled and branded for all to 
see, your defunct from a higher form, an 
acceptable sense of reality, the easier 
chores of slavery,
and less material distraction, an extra 
penalty.
In the sinister sweating perversion,
The passive exodus that moves in night 
and day excursions, fossiled in a lava of 
weary confusion.
We are the lost Generation on a path we 
cannot see, in a destiny that isn't you and 
isn't me. 


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

The Boys of the Old Brigade

Though we be apart, our memories 
remain intact
The adolescent folly, the hilarious 
intoxicated mess
Quarrels easily eroded, by our 
boundless brotherhood
The envy of the town, gallantly 
parading about to the awe, jealousy, 
the men of inspirational, influential 
social felony
We were the boys of England, the 
golden spurs sparking the culture,  
England's oak swaying herd our 
spirit resting in the dreams of 
monarch the meridian of hope,
Rests on the flight of freedoms 
unheard,untouched and 
unprovoked
You were my children and I your 
son, and now we go into the mist of 
the future, each to each own leaving 
the light of each other in the heart 
of independence, and it came to 
past, my duty to you my hidden art
And with urning I wish to see a 
reunion to come with more 
laughter, happiness passing the sun 
morning till morning, until that time 
when we say goodbye and climb 
that line learning our meaning and 
passing the clouds of journey and 
pride,  remember my brothers my 
friends of mine no matter how far
No matter what difficulties embrace 
our track, iam with you ghost or fact


Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Modern Delirium

Perilous addiction hell bent completion deluded cohesion.
Negative infusion feathered motion, spiraling down like a crispy weathered October leaf.
Faded grasp like the winter sun in vision the same but a difference so vast 
The echo of mankind never seldom to my ear, peace of mind never at cheer 
Bellows and bellows of screaming lucid thought crippled by the same resort. 
Wonky leg like a wonky chair bruised battered weakened and loose escaping like vaporing air. 
The ripple of contained liquid just slight but a mystery to the mass I am inclined 
Coned, padded, shut away, forgotten,  a pressed particle of cigarette ash in a dormant 
Hallway corner, 
Noticed by a moment of dust filled beams of light, exhilarating in such short time 
Gone again like black from night the acute jest of life, smashed glass left and unoccupied 
The heart so cold like bitter urine in survival mode soggy chip squashed under foot nobody cares
Nobody’s good. Lost in a cold shockwave of pain thrown to shore different than any other 
Too alien to mention too slain to fear a wondrous maze of capital esteem stagnant in movement 
Pointless art all curved and pointless oh where I am and oh where do I start.
Can I awake can I resound is this reality or is it just another calamity. Insanity gone beyond 
No track to unravel stability of the foundational start, just a implosion of art.  


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