Sweet creation
flittering above the river &
between the overgrowth,
floating, naïve to these contemplations.
Explosions of noise on those fragile wings;
the air tastes of dark blue misery.
Yet you’re so peaceful
in the Garden of Eden
before the Fall of Man…
Before Man became man.
Come here, sweet beauty!
Stay a while.
No, don’t try escape my clasp!
Here, let me
tear
those wings off!
Let me tear up.
Death begets Life;
Life begets Death.
Fly now, sweet thing, fly now!
My nourishing Spirit!
O, my eternal Freedom!
Forsake me not;
Forgive me evermore!
My words are only half-filled
While your form is Divine.
Leave me not, wise Bard:
Keep touching my conflicted soul
With Your inspired Wisdom!
pulled up
sportive tricks
soft pillows
spontaneous flicks
toes curled
eyes closed
mouth open
soul exposed.
they raised me not to take
but to give where ever possible
my Parents
gave me everything i needed
i did not have to ask
my Parents
did not raise me with the back of their hands
but with the love in their hearts
my Parents
taught me to be helpful
and loyal to what I do
my Parents
were never inconsistent with their love
so neither am i with mine because
my Parents
taught me to have a mind and heart
before an ego or agenda
my Parents
will never leave me
even when they pass
my Parents
are the reason i will be a good parent
and my children will owe it to
my Parents
have made me into me
and i thank them
my Parents
I’ll think about it…
I’m still thinking about it…
Maybe, maybe… Nah.
I give my hand
You stare at it
Green eyes meet look away
Nobody is perfect
I know
But I’m here for you
Don’t you see?
You can’t
You’ve turned the
Other way.
I tried to carry
Your cross with you
But you’d rather
Let it fall
And break into
Splinters.
Maybe heroes aren’t real
After all.
Maybe the cross we carry
Will be the last weight
That weighs down our
Hopelessly lost purpled souls.
Connected?
World Wide Web:
caught where the spider wants us.
trapped
by the tweets about nothing,
Facebook likes, new-age activism.
As if sharing this poem-post changes anything.
Screens filled with snaps and chats;
timelines overflowing with so-called facts.
Where is the connection
when texts replace face-to-face talks
and everyone stalks?
Blue ticks and last seens?
Silent screams behind screens.
Life is out there
but we reply robotically.
Waiting:
typing…
An ellipsis of our lives;
three bullets: mind, heart, soul.
Death of communication,
hashtag RestInPeace
*post*
saw you standing there
in your veil of smoke
a little wisp around your head
like some kinda devilish halo-noose
blowing fumes from those lips
all ruby and full like the moon
pretty boy smoke
that
pretty boy smoke
in those pretty boy lungs
filling me up with pretty boy thoughts
your package came with
no warning
and if it did I don’t care
pretty boy love gonna
die
anyway pretty boy smoke
those
pretty boy smile
james dean
pretty boy style
pretty boy smoke
my pretty boy dream
For O.H.
Glasses smashing against this tall wall:
sharp shrapnel pieces
pierce the air, make bleed.
Screams echo forever in this dark hall,
even the pale moonlight refuses to shine through
and trees outside collapse without cause.
Burning cheeks from assaulting eyes;
stabbing knives twisting inside.
No sleep, only interrupted silence.
Silence interrupted no longer.
Waves lap gently caressing fine sands;
crystal water cooling and calm.
Sunlight swirling and dancing delightfully
onto glistening droplets of water on skin –
tanned and silky from loving hands.
Noah’s white dove, olive leaf in beak, glides
all around and everything is at peace:
an upward curve on your face, a delightful crease.
Well?
The answer?
The answer:
Sitting on a creaky wooden bench
beside a small lake
motionless
eyes fixed in a trance
a tear
one
then another
A ceiling midnight blue
a bed beneath
spotlit by the silver moon
crinkled sheets
silent tremors
then sleep
Red rose water droplets
fragranced
thorns lots of thorns
green thorns
on this red rose
dropped
trampled
pushed aside
Love?
Yes
I know it
I know it well.
Mr Individualist 