Long Ostracised Poems
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Cloven hoofed I am striding across sanctuaries lands
Not what was expected in their sanctimonious plans
Have I ever existed or am I a figment of their imagination
Or am I simply more perfect which angers their frustration
Me, I'm cloven hoofed and one thrown against their black
Is it I whom lacks belief or am I an excuse for their lack
But it's always me that's ostracised, or do I actually exist
Do you really know who I am to continually persist
Good or bad, black or white, like left and right we're twinned
Hey, let's open our eyes and smell the air, who has really sinned
Our mind conditioned,
we chased objects of desire
but to no avail.
Reaching exhaustion,
we renounced the outer world,
which offers nothing.
Our identity,
which depends on flow of thought,
resisted silence.
We were determined
and so held steady focus,
in our tranquil heart.
Emptiness was strange
at first but we remained still;
a witness silent.
One moon cycle passed
and then we were rewarded,
by a bliss tingle.
Divine magnetism
soon engulfed our body-mind,
as a bliss beat spell.
Though we wished to share,
these benedictions sublime,
no one understood.
Save a select few,
who had so experienced,
all else spurned our views.
Thus, as a recluse,
ostracised by one and all,
we became a monk.
To the outer eye,
we went through all the motions,
as fate had ordained.
It was a facade
of course, for we alone knew
what others did not.
It’s strange, is it not,
the truth’s hidden in plain sight
but we see it not?
Let’s cut to the chase;
the God we seek is within.
We are living light.
We’ve said what we wanted to.
Tanka
Folk Heads Down in Flocks
waders stoop heads down
feeding uncoupled in flock.
like texters bowing
heads down to worship screen folk
disengaged with here and now
Heads Down, Engaged to Screen, Remote
Like waders at dawn sifting mud
with heads-down stance,
Modern folk in flocks with heads down, peer at screens
With thumbs a-tapping, eyes engaged
with friends on screen remote
But what of the here and now?
Those poor folk you are with, are ostracised,
displaced by 'You've got mail',
subplanted by there and then.
It is worrying how screen worship
has become such a priority.
It is infectuous when others all around you do it.
Interuptions to conversations now an accepted interlude,
not seen to be rude, when message calls
with bongs and rings,
demand heads-down bowing stoop
to worship screens.
I am sorry to the ones
Who never had a chance
No love nor opportunities
Due to circumstance
I am sorry to the unheard
The unseen, the forsaken
The forgotten, the disregarded
The ones from which life has only taken
I am sorry to the neglected
The mistreated, the ostracised
The abandoned, the rejected
Where love and nurture were never prioritised
I am sorry to the lost and lonely
The ones in turmoil and pain
The sufferers, the fearful
The ones with who sorrow reigns
I am sorry for all the bleakness and helplessness
The unfairness, hurt, cruelty that many endure and face
“It is never right nor fair”
Life can be an unkind and unjust place
From my heart …..I am truly sorry!
Spine-tingling,
down the chute,
gothic gutter trickle,
black and blue fusion,
stark signature tune,
wee faint hour phantasm,
mischievous melange,
surreptitious in its,
dimmed twinkle curfew,
for post meridian,
exodus egress,
minstrel me chorister,
shadow cape figurine,
humming nose sniffle,
spooky pale moon jingle,
on dank drizzled docklands,
looping street lamp,
whose eerie surveillance,
of claustrophobic canopy,
an intriguing ice pole static,
footsteps ricochet,
in bone chill metre,
following a stoic self,
upon intricate,
tangled torrent of,
rudderless echos,
sonic psyche figment,
in numinous nook,
star splatter sequence,
chasing motley mirror,
bilocation bold essence,
mutating fickle fragment,
stygian bard I,
smeared pocket-sized,
snapshots of,
my persimmon pursuits,
on grubby granite graffiti wall,
underneath ostracised,
a wringing wet shawled,
vagrant whose rusty tin,
I load with benign bolster coin,
golden hearts synergize,
in evanescent ebony,
furtive flying bat
squeak and scop,
placid pools
A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.
Alone he sat on the cold soft sand
Gazing at the ocean
Reflecting on his life
Overcome with emotion
His dad left when he was young
Never to return
His mother checked out slowly
It was the bottle she did yearn
There were no meals on the table
No heating or warm clothes in a drawer
Mums asleep on the couch again
Empty bottles on the floor
His mother gradually wasted away
Her eyes became yellow and blank
She no longer knew her son
From all the poison she drank
She died a horrible death
At fourteen he was all alone
No-one to turn to
Nowhere to call home
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Years passed by ….now a man
Sitting on the beach
Tears rolled down his face
As for his bottle he did reach
His life had been a struggle
As long as he could recall
Never having being nurtured
Or ever knowing love at all
He tried to do it right
Be a good and decent man
The demons inside his head
Silenced only by the bottle or can
He led a solitude life
Had nothing to call his own
Felt helpless and lost
Ostracised and alone
As he sat on the beach
Looking up at the stars
He was angry and sobbed heavily
Triggered by demons and scars
The hurt he suffered was intolerable
He placed his hand over his heart
Fell backwards in the sand
Only then did hand and bottle part!
~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He looks at her sweet young face
He’s filled with loving pride
As she listens to the story
Snuggling closer into his side
He watches his wife potter in the kitchen
Glowing as again with child
She glances over at him
Giving a loving smile
He feels complete fulfilment
He now knows what it’s like to be loved
To have family and be whole
Present …..No longer drugged!
It’s been nearly eight years since he touched the bottle
Turned his life around
Finally breaking that cycle
So future generations
Can walk on sober ground!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Part Two : The Tale of Artuir mac Aedan; The light of the West
(A tale of the hero of legend, a hero of Dalriada, who tried to unite a nation.)
The Old Man.
Was he a fool steeped in pagan lore,
to stand against the new religions door,
deaf ears against his word and actions,
ostracised and ignored by folk called kin,
shouted at him youll pay for deceit and sin.
At Artherydd in Rheged land took an army,
against Strath Clywd,s might with Dal Riatan,
allies led by Aedan and Ryderch Hoel kings,
of might and strength whose fame spread far,
Myrddyn stood against them and great was the slaughter.
Madness took him at all the blood and death,
spurred his horse in frantic escape to the north,
the great forest of Caledon opened her arms ,
and took him to hide and vanished from life,
to this day it is said his wails and cries,still are heard.
andrew mcintyre 10/01/2024.(c).
A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges, and saw a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
Fishermen are trying to catch eels on the dark surface in the bay.
There were sail ships too, ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, alas, during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up, and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, the constable, - fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
A friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
He continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours and we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we
lived in. John retired early, and I sold my cafe.
Myopic muddle
as beauty swirls
hues of heaven
yet bypasses
static statues that
pose as sentient
beings beknighted
dawn’s divine dream
seen as bland mirror
on ebbing eyewash
cathartic colour is
a universal uplift
even for low level
lustrous earth dweller
Immersed in skewed slant
I bandy icicled retort
as though taut timing
ever swayed rigid
stone age postures
elysian echo a speck
in azurite caves
to auditory aloofness
allied to blinkered
whim ‘s wanton
plight with dull
and dim twist
dispersed among
trivial terrains
alienation personified
vessel vacuous and void
rehabilitation of
the wayward faculty
a burst balloon blip
outsider ostracised
from gilded gardens
and sumptuous bloom
of ripe recrudescence
still limp laggard
on hackneyed cue
might yet stumble on
the fig of wakening