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Best Poems Written by Nathan Wilson

Below are the all-time best Nathan Wilson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Cycle 4: God

Another age passes unmeasured.
Giant calms; in placid time waking
guilted warmth irradiates. Unbroken
calm aether heralds the next age.
Past embers cooled in God’s eye,
forgiveness of imagined betrayal.
But the turning cycle weighs not
amassed sincerity; the matter of energy.
Unworthy, may be, the ruling Giant
ignoble reign birthed in fiery crucible,
ordained; inevitable is the beginning
Settled worlds worship, at last.
Seen, finally, upon the black vista
The Giant illuminated; 
Burning passions turning close,
always facing God’s blazing glare.
Hopeful siblings stand centre, balanced
desperation or absence awaiting
calm waters. Vulnerable to the cycle.
Even distant wretched flock see warmth,
icy hearts melt; lingering love bequeathed
of their noble giant. 
Their Mighty God.

Details | Nathan Wilson Poem

Certain Death Amidst the Beauty of Blood

Hills are to blaze a dance upon death,
and moonlight whistles a chargin' fall.
Lighting rounds over heads draw breath,
petals reddened in love do befall.

Silence brings not but grimace,
for the reapers breath so icy cold.
Blood turns dead in poetic fuss,
for there’s no gain to Those who’re bold.

Orders not slain, 
but flesh might just differ.
To the lines of the others,
their fingers grew stiffer.

“Over the top!” 
holding their breath,
The Lions charged forward,
towards certain death.

Moonlight shone a dark icy hand.
Reddened shirts, but forward to rush.
The Lions soon laid upon solace land,
they roared out in anger, smothered in slush.

Ignoring the roaring, the shouting, the silence;
the donkeys did laugh amidst the maelstrom.
Forgetting the honour, the glory, the violence,
there’s nothing but blood to remember the Gone.

Orders not slain, 
but flesh might just differ.
To the lines of the others,
their fingers grew stiffer.

“Over the top!” 
holding their breath,
The Lions charged forward,
towards certain death.

The Others unknown, their voices unheard.
Remain in the shadows upon fires that blaze.
‘Saddle to line, ignore your own demon.’
For He is a traitor, upon death he shall gaze!

The Lions lay quiet, ‘What horror is this… 
…but you’ll be immortal as you draw your last breath.’
Its true what they said, with a laugh and a kiss,
The Lions were fearless, and stood unto death.

Led by the donkeys of people who fly,
they died in vain, but poppy’s grew high. 
Thus, lest we forget, the Heroes untold,
for fortune does carry the hope of the Bold.

Orders not slain, 
but flesh might just differ.
To the lines of the others,
their fingers grew stiffer.

“Over the top!” 
holding their breath,
The Lions charged forward,
towards certain death.

Details | Nathan Wilson Poem

Left Behind

“How exactly, my love, am I to die well?” 
The question croaked - a ghostly whisper;
from her lingering mouth
of rotten teeth and wretched lips;
broken by an end of thrist.
Eyes glazed at the edge of reality.
A mighty visage; a matriarch.
Vitality faded as a memory.
No more beautiful fiction,
only firm, cold skin;
left behind.

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The Bio-Wars: A Son Lost

A tumour abated alters and waits.
Pathway incised, a new one it makes.
Spreading and forming, roots growing down.
The moment’s now here, a mighty rebound.

Battle exhausted, the bones ache and crack.
The units expended; yield to the plaque. 
Inquiry, anger, negotiations above.
But the body is weakened, aching and done. 

“I’m sorry - I’ve tired - but failed in my plight.”
“Nonsense, my son, no fighting tonight.
No orders, no mission, nor failure to bare.
Just love from your father, of that I do swear.”

Dead now, but living. Eyes open, but grey.
Pallid and wasted, a ghost in but name.
A horror unyielding, a memory maligned.
Of which we endure, for moments of time.

Details | Nathan Wilson Poem

A Tree Bears Fruit

Starting quite fragile, wet, bright and agile,
it met the first test of it’s life.
Death promptly flew down, pecked at the ground, 
a beak that glints as a knife.

But the sapling stood high, crown to the sky,
fixing life’s end with a glare.
“Who are you, to coo from on high,
when all you bring is pain and dispair.

“Why threaten and leer, drive me to fear,
before even dare calling my name?”
But Death cocked it’s black head - 
said nothing - instead, took flight,
as if running from blame.

An eon did pass, and the tree grew at last,
before Death paid a visit again.
“Why are you back, when my bark is cast;
my leaves offer nothing but pain.”

“My friend of the wood, I thought if I could,
just give you a little more time.
To grow as a tree, bear children for me, 
that I may eat from your vines.”

And thought it did wail, writhing a gale,
there was nothing the tall tree could do.
But peer deep on down, all the way to the ground, hoping a few might live through.

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The Cycle 6: Twins

Flourishing begins. In the balance
jewels sparkling green and blue.
Tentative fronds with daunting climb
from warming depths, ever upwards.
Scornful Giant rages above; life fuel.
Spiteful rising waters are smothering -
cooling; organic in purposeful desire. 
Random chance repeats changes again;
ancient pathfinding revealing providence.
An algorithm in time. Ever learning. 
Reaching failures educate young
unthinking minds, of the the Twins.
Twin jewels in promise and destiny,
wards kept close; safe from the abyss. 
Lifting them up to mind’s canopy,
as roots raise trees to the sky.
Generations immeasurable past.
Vaunted consciousness long awaited.
Looked upon the sky and were.
Children of the Twins.

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The Great Work

Why would I - the maker of this:
desiccated and barren effigy, 
the devastated architect of this 
biological monstrosity -
want to end the great work?

I ask you dear friend, why would I not?
Why linger when nothing remains:
nothing but broken bricks, 
shattered glass in twisted wood;
all the hopes and dreams unspent, 
gnarled by time, left irredeamable
by decisions past, my legacy.

For the canvas can take no more paint,
can take no more congealing
of beautiful youthful strokes.
The shuddering structure cracks - 
each repairing touch only blemishes;
it’s beauty is lost forever.”

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A Psychological Reflex

Labyrinthine notions of complex emotions
break through the mind with a crack.
Vulnerable pains bubble up once again,
as the memories draw the strain back.

How far does one go before one truly knows
that an abhorrent mistake has been made?
That ideas pre-grown as crops would be sown,
only shudder, and crumble; degrade?

A gathering web; spreads through your head.
It corrupts with a touch like a plague. 
No stone left unturned, no idea unburned.
Reformed, like your mind when it gave.

No where to run, each safe-house corrupted.
You did it yourself: the bed’s ready friend.
None come to aid, your life interrupted. 
A reunion has come, the darkness again.

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The Cycle 1: Proto

Dark Matters burn; a new age will beckon
Ancient plans turn; with creaking tendons
providence a blight, hidden in questions.
Made of the aether; not of the heavens.

Coalescing tangles and connections makes.
Spinning an eon; the darkness breaks
Shadows cast in the gleaming wakes.
Gravity pulls into endless space.

Eruptive remnants of eons past
a common core of bonded ash
come together to form, at last,
a brand new cycle from circling gas.

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The Cycle 2: Dust

Dust pulls upon dust; pushes upon dust
and each drifting, spinning mote 
collides; all drawing closer.
Meaningless time passes
and pursues; blindly following 
The unbidden remnants
of endless darkened eons.
The cycle renews.

Distant lamps illuminate
the unbound; a tapestry weaving,
twisted looms ever working.
Ancient hands unseen
forms a blooming canvas.
Ethereal nature; forever vulnerable
to blind destruction;
to the interlopers. Behold!
The Sleeping Giant.

Behold! Celestial gods aflame
Driven core; fusion of old bones
cracking flares again.
Distant fanfare sparkles black
Recognition of novel life,
unknown without shadows,
flock-less; a novel cycle, 
become a shepherd,
spinning in endless gas; dust.