Poetry (words)

As you were


The last leaves fall, heavy with droplets from the morning rain. Too damp now to ever be skeletal.  The blackbird will find nourishment in their shadows. 
To leave things as we found them, this impossible task. Half open doors  where invitations once warm no longer stand. Thresholds crossed and farewells unspoken. 

This transcends chemistry, it overlooks the peripheral view. A new light is cast where nothing hides in the shadows. 
So this is where I exit. Listen to the absolute bones of this. As you were, undisturbed, taciturn and constantly searching. 

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Poetry (words)

My father’s pen

A pile of letters from a time gone by. From my father’s pen to my mother’s eyes. They smell like books from a favourite shelf, tattered in places not unlike myself. 

The ribbon that gathers them tightly is blue, stained with history’s adornments all of them true. 

I’ll never be closer than where I am now, to this wonderful gift I am tethered somehow. I can see where the ink flowed a little too fast, but time is reflected in all that has passed. 

I know every word on every page, the tear stained blots, the passion, the rage. My fathers pen, my mothers eyes, both still now, but still so alive. 

 

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Poetry (words)

Meat


I am sentient. I eat I sleep I shit. I graze on this land. I am beaten, I am milked, cut and hanged on your orders, by your hands. That’s the irrelevance of who I am. 

What’s the difference between you and me? From where I stand it has nothing to do with intelligence. Admittedly where I stand is encased with a stench of every horror you inflict. 

If I could scream I would be heard on every corner of this planet, if I could fight you’d be crushed underfoot, but I possess neither ability. So I await my fate here at your side with your god given rights. 

If I could  offer you a glass of every chemical you inject, would you drink what you eat on my behalf? This cold chalice of medium rare that spills on every prison I’ve seen. 

Meat? It’s what you’re made of. 

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Poetry (words)

Rain


Rain runs through the gutters of our concrete existence. Giver of life filling potholes as our fume spewing rages on. Reflective puddles of light mirror skylines of how far we’ve come. How wonderful we are.

A short journey and the rain still falls, droplets cling to foliage like tiny explosions of sustenance. We thrive here, because of here. If there is a map of how to just be, it’s this. Nature invites us, but how rarely we attend with respectful actions.

I don’t understand humanity. If I could be excused I’d close the door to this unsustainable landscape. I’m forced to remain in this machine because “living the dream” is just a phrase invented by society to keep us prisoner. Fact is, we don’t all fit into concrete enclosures. Suburbia is the dream we’ve come to crave, but my nightmares are created there.

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Poetry (words)

We always want


I lay silently beneath the boughs  looking up at the arteries that filter the sky. It puts perspective on everything. We assume too much and we discover so little in our clumsy lives. 

We want, we always want. We possibly die wanting In our ignorance. Perfection is dictated and we chase what we’re told. All we gain is someone else’s vision, but only because we want to. 

“What makes you happy?” 

The sky at dusk as the birds fly north. The sound of the wind in the highest branches. The roots of the oak underfoot. There’s no ladder I could climb, to match what I hold dear. No rocket built nor planet discovered that surpasses nature’s ability to capture my gaze. 

Peace isn’t a declaration, it isn’t  silence. It’s something that changes your soul. 

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Poetry (words)

This is not war

I am not daunted by the stop and start, the disappearing footsteps or this seamless heart. The teardrops glow in the moonlight like a blanket of stars, but I am not daunted by these scars. 

I’ll bend like the saplings in the storm force gale. I’ll wrap around your indecisions assuming crash position in preparation to fail. I am not daunted….at all.

This is not impulse, this is ingrained, I emptied my soul, but you still remained. I am not daunted by what holds me here , of the mist laden path I’ve always been clear. This world no longer daunts me….

I am not courageous and this is not war. Things born of beauty have settled that score. Every battle I face I face alone and I am undaunted through it all.  

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Poetry (words)

à la lune et à l’arrière

I took a leaf and pressed it between pages of words I’d written for you. It kept its colours throughout every season, but it never grew brittle under that weight. There were times that my heart would shine in reflection of what had passed. And the leaf still glows, like affirmation,  a mirror of my heart. 

Life is passing, it’s path is ours and I feel no urge to move mountains or even scale their heights. I’ll tread gently and heal any scars I’ve inflicted. What can’t be healed will fade in time, like a leaf pressed in a book of words and the colours of my heart.

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