A canvas as wide as my teacher, and taller than still
It swallowed the wall whole,
And barely held still inside the frame,
The belly of a whale with it's arms open wide in welcome
The detailed impressions of people
Sinking into pillowy flesh
Inviting, violent, gentle pinks and red
The blessings in my mouth converted
Into the excited bounce in my stunted legs
My eyes, hungry
A child that probably should not be looking
But entranced nonetheless
Art with impurities, mores and values flayed wide
I cup the feeling in small palms
To carry home with me
To carry for the rest of my life
whimsical weasels
waterfall weathered willow
wilderness walk watch
starting a journey
within the self
embarking on an
excursion into the soul
taking an outing
into the unknown
pack a picnic lunch
full of questions
that need answers
that hopefully will
be found on the way
to self awareness
once this field trip of
the present self
has come to it's conclusion
on the other
side of reality
excursion
"where are you taking me,
where are we going,
why are we dressed in white
and tell me,
is this the night
or is it day
it is hard to say
everything is lightless
and gray.
so where are we now
somehow
i have lost the way
how long shall we stay...
where is the light
that used to be,
used to be
around me
ah, so then,
we are dying
passing from one plane
to another..."
i wonder
will i see my mother
and my father
and my brothers
should we bother
to even breathe
or shall we simply leave
and evaporate into the air
let me know when we are there
i am much too tired to care
anymore.
Where all rumbles where I ramble
beneath highway overpasses
and past the shy soul’s excesses.
Isn’t life a simple gamble?
I chaff at dreaded enclosure
then I spurn any exposure.
Earth driven shakes makes me scramble
To find solid footing while lost,
or lose ground in the permafrost,
not without scrapes from bramble,
cover glory second story,
leaving me so weak, con amore.
All renews without preamble.
Chirp of the summer’s morning bird,
introduction of some new word.
Where all rumbles where I ramble
Isn’t life a simple gamble?
Earth driven shakes makes me scramble,
not without scrapes from bramble
All renews without preamble.
Our excursion is a pathway we must follow
in the journey of life beyond this universe.
Love is that eternal emotion we all seek.
Poetry is the sweet music—light or dark,
that is bound from the union of our hearts.
Without poetry our minds are a whirlpool.
Disoriented and lost without song and sense
there is a unique understanding with delight
that moves us toward the direction of words.
Believing in our mortal life existing on Earth:
A true proclamation of faith holding strong
with a power and purpose beyond our grasp.
Eternity embraces our eternal existence and
in every daily aspect of our lives and our souls,
light holds the final godly power over darkness.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (May 25, 2015)
(Unrhymed Tercet)
Lonely Excursion
Place myself in a strangest city,
Feels like I’m a lonely nobody.
Walking back and forth inside this mall.
Can you really tell the world is too small?
Smiles are raging everywhere.
I’m a friendless no one from somewhere.
I hope I could be as happy as anyone.
Wishing that you were here my special someone.
Everyone screamed for joy but I so could not.
Feels like my mouth is decaying like a smelly rot.
Now I know how important it is to have a friend.
You will never be alone in a silent dead end.
Going home now and just waive this hand.
Better be back to places of white sand.
It was fun while excursion lasted…
Be back soon with people that I've trusted.
on an excursion
students are seen glorious
their auras speak dreams
few have no complain
at the time of taking seats
few do politics
whistling train moves on
talking many to other
few reserve silence
in all their coaches
few are busy with own games
few sing and few clap
faces are tired now
as stamina is finished
journey is complete
Written on 8th Januay2015
excursion blanket,
i love your soft tolerance
i think i will stay....
Excursion
Today we went a city tour by an open decked bus
to see old buildings, castles, churches and other
wonders built in honour of kings and god.
Not to forget all the statues of glorious admiral
and generals, famous for battles won in Africa.
After an hour of heritage and culture I had enough
mind switched off and I took an interest were
people lived in much more modest circumstances.
History only remember the famous, the pure bred
bastard who sent people into useless battles to die
so they could live in splendour.
We crossed the Douro River its shored was lined with
expensive restaurant selling bad food- coming from
a country with deep long fjords I was not impressed.
After the excursion I walked into the railways station
Sao Bento, the walls was covered with tiles depicting
the history of Portugal, magnificent, a must see.
Yes, I must go back to Porto see this again but this
not on a bloody tourist bus.
Sir –
Late in the noon as usual
Came the vergers with the sharp bells
(Prof, a roused lad saw not the Vicar)
Announcing another blessed excursion;
Of course, Sir –
The endemic hubbub
Reigned in the nest
To be vacated in a hurry;
And the piecing bells
Hinted of the swords in the rafter
Plunged in full poise by pig-watcher
(Prof, a roused lad saw the inscription)
‘Flee, meet the siren at midnight else!’
Dearest Vicar –
Late came the regency bells;
The voice of your acolyte:
The mezzotinted voice of the verger
Rang at last for mass extrusion.
Dearest Vicar –
We all heard the fragile peels:
All the birds of riot
Must disjoin in the new exodus
Of the new testament of single nests?
Dearest Vicar –
Confusion and uncertainty
Reigned in the hovel:
The restive communal nest.
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