Poetry: This Light

This light, bright above your soul
It dims and shadows become soft
It shines and your being sings in rays of colour
It leaves and you existence asserts itself
Yells to be known
For its voice to be felt.

The protest stings the darkness
The light shines again, more focused
Those colours diffuse and fizz
Waves of pure sobering ecstasy, clarity
Riding on notes that gallop and snatch

Love, pure love, trusted and steadying
Shines, bright above your soul

Poetry: Withdraw to the Edge (Poetry Workshop)

I was invited to a poetry workshop on Tuesday. It was a great experience and of course, involved writing and performing poetry. So, for the first time in my life I performed a poem I had written in front of an audience.

Before writing and performing the poem, there was an exercise to "get us loose" where we had to give our own eulogy. I have to admit that I didn't take this as seriously as others, deciding that I could fill for the allotted minute instead of saying anything honest or revealing. However my ad-lib skills weren't quite up to the task and a few nuggets of authenticity threatened to appear.

For the poem itself however, I wanted to be very authentic, and indeed was under instruction to be, so I wrote about where I am right now, hopefully you can relate in some way.

This is the poem I wrote and performed during the workshop:

I often feel like I'm on the periphery
The M.C. but not the main act
I step out on stage and welcome the world
Then slink away to the back

I often feel like an outsider
The one who is left out
I try to find my place amongst you
But end up lost without a route

I think I'm capable. Likeable. Loveable
I know what I'm about
But communicating this, it's tough
It's a skill I feel I'm without

I can spin a yarn
And flash a smile
And act like I have no doubt
But eventually I'll withdraw to the edge
What the hell is that about?!

Withdrawn, introverted, within my own mind
A space that's my personal hell
I second guess, I hesitate
And on each negative thought I dwell

I think I'm capable. Likeable. Loveable
And can free myself from this cell
I'm the author, auteur, director
And I value the story I have to tell

I often feel like I'm on the periphery
And perhaps that's just as well
I know I'm likeable
Loveable
Capable...
Of coming out of my shell

The workshop was organised by ONETASTE, and their website can be found here.

Untitled & Unfinished

I woke this morning with the start of 4 different poems fluttering around in my head. One of them is pretty complete and the others are just the first line/lyric of something I may or may not bring to fruition. I will list them for you here, please let me know what you think:

Untitled & Unfinished 1:

Though now I'm here at the only conclusion

Untitled & Unfinished 2:

And through the starkest night I've stood staring at lunar light

Untitled & Unfinished 3:

And all the time my heart beg my mind for some sort of release
Some solace
Some peace

Untitled & Unfinished 4:

I wonder how much I've let go by holding on
Obstinately,

Wonder how much I let pass by standing fast
Stubbornly,

I didn't wonder too fast if I was led down a path right for me,
Unpropitiously,

Or where that path would lead or what would be left in sight for me
Aimlessly,

Though it is no small wonder, no wonder at all, that it came to an end
Calamitously

1 & 2 are a little hammy now that they're written down, I might have 3 written on my gravestone because that is the only place it could be where it wouldn't seem trite. 4 is the more complete and yet seems unfinished, it feels like their is a narrative hidden there and I need to eek it out but I've set my self a task by beginning with a structure I can't carry on in any genuine way.

Again, comments welcome.

Worse and Worse

Each initiative imprudent
Every action, adverse
And each time, worse and worse

There's faith that it will go
unnoticed
For as much as faith is worth
But it's that belief in his stealth
That is his self-made curse

And whilst it's fun for the while
It won't quench his thirst
And whilst it's fun for the moment
It won't half the search

Each initiative imprudent
Every action, adverse
And it's that confidence that he will
'get away with it'
That seals his self-made curse

Disappointment and Untitled

I would be wise not to become
Invested in expectation

It’s always weighted in trepidation

And as often as there’s elation

There’s disappointment

But,

Where as one leaves a soul enlightened
The other is burdensome and governed

By a record of past excitement

Which soon became present dismay

---

Interested in nothing but myself
This sphere around me
This bubble
My health, my wealth, my future
My…

Invested in nothing but myself
My own wellbeing
What I’m seeing
How I’m feeling

Only concerned when it concerns me
What’s in it for me is key
My name on the bottom line
My money, my time
My…

Self-centred, selfish
Self-serving, tight fisted
Seldom selfless
But always ready to
Remind you of it when I am

Doubt

There are no words running through my mind
They were there (Now they’re not)
As if the thought of speaking them made me numb
I thought them
But can’t say them because the thought struck me dumb

I still know these thoughts (they’re in the core of me)
They’re my hearts desire (they’re my whole being)
Yet still, I can’t quite seem
To say the words, which my soul means

Just three little words (not words enough)
I bandied those words around before
The words I want now must mean much more
They can’t be little, of that my mind is sure
For if they were little, what would I hesitate for?

Perhaps my soul isn’t sure
My heart, my being, my core

My mental block is doubt

Letter With No Stamp

Dear Stephen,

I really can say without the whiff of a lie
I really wish that Stephen Walrond would keel over and die
And without irony I can honestly confess
That I hope Stephen Walrond will suffer in death
And without an ounce of remorse or doubt in my mind
I hope Stephen Walrond will meet an end of a horrific kind

I really do wish and I really do pray
And I know its not right or just in anyway
But I really do want and I’m not afraid to say
Because I can’t breathe the same air as Stephen Walrond for another day

And whilst he is still alive
There’s only one goal toward which I will strive
So I clean up my Glock and sharpen my knives
With a view to use a spoon to gouge out Stephen ‘s eyes.

To keep from being idle and getting too bored
I practice with a samurai or a broad sword
Seldom when money and time do afford
I’ll make an effigy with a melon and some cardboard
I’ll make it walk around a mock grocery store
Pulled by rope on a skateboard

Then I’ll ambush it from under the frozen goods
And chase it into the organic foods
Then with a chainsaw I quickly dispatch
Some punishment followed by gasoline and a match
Or sometimes high explosives because I stock pile a batch

Oh Stephen, Oh Stephen
With one eye open sleep
Because if you sleep to deep
Six feet under you’ll sleep

Yours truly,

X

Not my Decision

Dodged a bullet
Ducked a noose
The cat was amongst the pigeons
Held it’s tail
Let it loose
My mouth quickly found religion
Held my breath
Pulled out my hair

Worried it wasn’t my decision
Powerless
Out of luck
The future haunts my vision

Stroke my ego
Touch my leg
Your laughter is infectious
Hold my hand
Lick my beard
You’re wicked and you’re wretched
Lead me bad
Astray and lay
I’ll let you choose positions
Take me in
And hold me down
If you’re taking I am giving

Ignore my retreat
Bat my eyes
Notice me without looking
Row right past
To drum’s beat
Sodden wet, not sinking
Taunt me
Snub me
Stretch me
Text me
I’m yours if you are givingLead me astray
A bad lay
Worried it wasn’t my decision

I hope that you read this as a narrative and not just a collection of words that sound nice together, because that's what it is. Ok, now read the poem from red, to amber to green instead, it's a whole different 'story'.

Have I created a groundbreaking new type of poetry? Or did those guys with the fridge magnets get there first, don't know, don't care.

Poetry: Writers Block

Ok, so you've got your pen
Your paper and wit
You got your time
So you wait and you sit
And nothing comes
Nada, jack, zip!

So you just write and hope that something will hit

But in all this time that ain't once been the case
You've never ran this like it were a race
You've never felt the threat of being red in the face
When you took this commission you had your own pace

Now you're making poetry for cash, dollar, cream
Hoping that each penny will fulfill your dream
To make a profession from what once did seem
A joy, a pastime, for the moments in between

And now?

Its for the roof overhead
And the threat of losing your flow keeps you awake in your bed
And as each pause gets longer you fill more with dread
Has it always taken this long for words to come to my head?

You're dried up - You're old news
Your best has been and gone
You won't face it - You refuse
But what else could be wrong
You don't have it - You're done
You're dead and buried mate
You don't know what you got 'til its gone
And now it's too late

So you've got your paper
Your pen, sans time and wit
You sit patiently and poised
But get nada, nothing, zip

To arms good man

Smashing down gauntlets and picking up swords

To arms good man, to arms

And Godspeed the brave who faces his demons

To arms good man indeed

For he is a man of spirit and light

And his heart trembles less than his hand

For when he picks up his sword to strike

His heart knows for sure he’s a man

To arms good man, to arms

Strike deep and strike true

Tremble not and strike through

Face the monsters outside and within

Slash once and slash twice

Hit twice and hit thrice

And cast no stone where there’s no sin

To arms good man, to arms

Poetry because I have a keyboard

I would be wise not to become

Invested in expectation
It’s always weighted in trepidation
And as often as there’s elation
There’s disappointment

But,

Where as one leaves a soul enlightened
The other is burdensome and governed
By a record of past excitement
Which soon became present dismay

For Nanami

If we leave our hearts in the hands of fate
In fate we must have the strongest faith
That fate’s plans and ours don’t just relate
But our interests are fate’s greatest weight
Else we may as well throw our heart away
And sail along a heartless plain
Moving, but still, in a world with no pain
But a world with no joy without fate to blame

For Nanami who has been dealt a harsh blow from a throw of a dice.

No Time

With all the procrastination I've been doing I've just had not time to finish my Thailand blog entry.

So again...! Here's some poetry.

Haiku’s

Rabbit:

pupuna voisin
nussia puputyttöjä
päivästä päivään

I won't tell:

haluaisinko
laittaa kielikoruni
vasten kieltäsi


Modern Parvenu... Tiring Ascension -

Saw you at Tesco,
Alone with Loyalty Card,
Won't Stop say 'Hi'.


Woken by housemates,
Still feel so tired,
Better wake up now.



No clean knives again,
Could use a spoon for spreading,
No clean spoons again.


Bin day tomorrow,
Better take out the trash soon,
It can wait til morn.


Girl with broken home,
Boy with golden heart on sleeve,
Heart is broken too.


Sex only as bait,
Attention is her main goal,
Gets neither, says no.



STD Clinic,
Wait in line for one doctor,
Behind twenty men.


Big spot on my nose,
Talk to me not my spot please,
May take a long lunch.



Drove into work slow,
Couldn't sleep so left early,
Felt alone again.

The first two were by Elinoora Bloom and were posted without her permission, but she's a bitch who stole £180 from me so... bovvered.

Poetry to break the silence

Eeek! Stagnant blog alert.

Whilst I'm writing up my holiday entries here are three poems. Two short one and one mammoth work in progress. All feedback welcome.

Grunts and Groans of JETS
Jets like to bitch and moan
To complain grunt and groan
About other Jets and how
Things aren’t like they are at home

I like to listen to Jets moan and groan
And might have a little moan of my own
Because as much as Jets dislike other Jets
Jets hate to be alone

Humble Pie

Those eager to make something of their selves
Will tell you just that
They will tell you where they will go
As if where they will go is fact

I refuse to be so cocksure
In case one day I have to take it back
With a helping of humble pie
To supplement the humility I lacked

Death Sings


I don’t know what the future holds
But tomorrow is another day
And for my future to have tomorrow
Is all I’ll ever pray

Tomorrow brings hope
And for hope my heart sings
But if hope no longer tomorrow holds
Then all things end but Death who sings

And Death in darkness marvels at what he’s made
With the end of all things for eternity in the void
He waits
And nothing tomorrow brings

But death sings into the vast dark unending void
His words are swallowed whole
By the space left by what he destroyed
And the hollow in his soul

Yet death sees past the endless void
Past time and hell itself
He sees and longs for where I reside
With life and love and health

Yet Death knows too well
He must remain in his eternal gloom
So enviously he decides I too
Will join him in his tomb

And for eternity he will sing to me
Of destruction and of doom

So Death sets to remove
Hope from my tomorrow
And in its place he leaves a void
Not mayhem, not chaos nor sorrow

And for eternity he will sing to me
Of destruction and of sorrow

In eternity Death sings to me
And never a song of mercy
Each word he sings damns me
And each verse he sings curse me

And for eternity he will sing
But never once of mercy

Poetry: Verisimiltude

The truth
The undeniable fact
The writing ‘twixt the lines
Repeated for thoroughness
On the bottom of the page
The one thing alluded to
But never said
So obvious it stares you down
Stare back!
Don’t flinch!
It’s only the truth
Fear not as its’ keys jangle
It will set you. . .

The fact however
Is that your liberator
Had a firm grip
Upon those keys
For the term of your sentence

I wrote this poem with my left hand after being told it may tap into some creative well or something, I'll let you be the judge.

Fish Poem

Fish with mouth agape
Giving it the sideways stare
Black beady eyes
Holding my gaze
A dark, disturbing glare



I stare right back
It doesn’t acquiesce
Just looks at me defiantly
And I look back silently
Until I protest
And devour its head violently

"You're quiet, is anything wrong?"

That question is one of my bugbears.

It just annoys me that the immediate assumption made when someone doesn't talk to you is that they're in a mood, or something is wrong.

I have little to no interest in what you're talking about

How about any of these for an explaination:

• My internal dialouge is wittier and more charming than you.
• You're mumbling and I can't be bothered saying 'excuse me?' again.
• You talk so fast its near impossible to get a word in edge-ways.
• You've not once asked me a question or tried to include me in the conversation, and this hasn't bothered me because...
• I have little to no interest in what you're talking about, I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

Anyway... here is a poem, sort of on topic (not that I've established a topic, just had a moan really).

Open Book

Imagine if you will
If it doesn’t scare you to
Imagine how you'd feel
If your voice abandoned you

Imagine for a moment
Take the time to think
If you no longer made a sound
You could only lip sink

Imagine the everyday trials
Mundane becomes so hard
Imagine what things you may need
Those dreams you’ll have to disregard

Some people only communicate with words
Your gestures, your tones go without note
Each word is processed and farmed
Each sentence understood as if wrote

Imagine you met someone like this
Your voice still unreturned
She asks you for a frank answer
You shrug and nod in return

Imagine how vexing for her
When she finds everyday
She would ask something of you
You would respond in a similar way

Imagine this peculiar pairing
One person reliant on their hearing
The other communicates
With the expression he’s wearing

So many things go unsaid
Oft reliant on other types of talk instead
A curl of a lip a tip of the head
The things kept secret and put to bed

Every glance, every smile
Every pause and intonation
Every intake of breath
Has a simple inclination

Every time I speak to you
I speak with more than just words
I speak with actions unnoticed
Like words unheard

And anytime I speak with you
You should take note how I act
‘Cos not every word I utter will
Reveal what is fact

And if the truth is hard to find
Maybe you need to learn how to look
Cos’ although my words aren’t clear as ink
I’m still an open book

Out of site out of mind...

Rather here with this mentatlity than there with that.

I’ve lost your number
I’ve lost that link
I saw the email
but accidentally deleted it
I think

My numbers changed
Did I not say
Oops, yeah,
You can catch me on this one
By the way

I meant to write
I lost your address
I was getting round to it
But must confess
Out of sight out of mind
And I couldn’t care less

Poetry

A certain smug know it all with a penchant for telling me what to do is making me feel, well, none to smug.

This is an old poem, but I wanted to pull it out in honour of said know-a-lot.

There’s a reason I don’t rise
To the fight
There’s reason I don’t retaliate
When I might
Have reason too
I’m not seasoned too
I sit back, relax and
See what you do
Because hatred and violence can only
Lead one way
And I’m not ready to take
That path today
You’re not worth it man
You think you’re worth it man
You talk trash to me but
You’re far from perfect man
In the game of life you’re
Never dealt the perfect hand

Two Poems about My Week

In lieu of a real post, here is some poetry.

Enjoy.

Culture Day

It’s Culture Day tomorrow
And I should be here preparing
But instead I look out the window
And looking becomes staring

Then I drift in my own thoughts
With no fear of what tomorrow brings
Until I catch a look at the clock
And reality bites and stings

I have to stop my procrastination
Need to rewrite my speech about my nation
I have things that I want to impart
But have trouble thinking where to start

So instead of just putting pen to pad
I stop and gaze outside instead
And whilst caught up with
The thoughts in my own head
I lose an hour and gain some dread

Looking Good

I find if I suck in my cheeks
And turn my head to the side
The man in the mirror
Looks back at me with pride

Oh, sometimes in a certain light
And if I suck my stomach in
With my abs tensed nice and tight
I actually look quite thin

Then there are times I don’t groom my hair
But leave it wild and rough
I find it adds some character
But wonder if it adds enough