Poems — 2011 Collection

Last day (21 Nights Later)
Man of the moment,
you say party I say die.
‘Down with words,’ esoterrorist.
Ergonomic king of my castle.
D-Day.

Lost in England

Where are you from?
This is the hardest question.
Do I say the Lancashire hills?
My place of birth?
Or the Cotswold dales,
where I was raised.
perhaps amongst the Welsh,
where I was educated.
Or the Cornish sea,
by which I now live.

I find myself –
too British to be an international.
Not English enough to be a patriot.
I’m a transient,
shaped by localities I have no attachment for.
Yet forever bound by this small island,
I am part of.

Numbers in the Book

There are texts filled with figure,
rows of digits proudly sat upon a page.
The 7s are my favourite,
cheeky little devils who chase me to my wit’s end!
So someday I play with the 5s instead.
One cold morning I plan to dual an 8,
although I doubt I’ll emerged unscathed from that encounter!
For they are a violent new breed.
These numbers are my guides-
markers in a life lost to obsession.

Taking Stock

Ripped fingers, broken toes.
Cuts under hand and under foot.
Fresh scars atop the old.
Dirtied clothes now much too big.
Scraggly facial hair, sunburn.
Out of food and out of skin.
Low on strength, full on psyche.
Six days left.

Gravity Kills Me

Falling is the strongest state,
a moment of stasis,
the curvature of fate.
My mind races as the body does fall,
a collection of matter
responding to the call.
Who knows, maybe I’ll be forgotten,
an escaped forever to fly,
in the empty void between land and sky.
But probably not.
Life’s a bitch, eh?

The Problem

I sent a problem today.
Worked it out thoroughly first,
wrapped it up in tape –
and went at it!
The devious thing struggled long and hard.
At one point I nearly let go,
(how terrible that could have been!)
but finally the beast relented. Submitted.
And I sent it.
Its somebody else’s problem now,
but I do miss the fight.

Ascent

Imagine a reality composed only of lines,
now add points of weakness,
scattered and varied nodes of assistance.
Forward movement will be hard won,
earned though skilful manipulation;
brutal strength.
Success is never instant, nor can you cheat.
Failure returns you to the beginning.
In this austere dimension time pulsates,
what occurs in moments lasts a lifetime.
Set eternal as lines of the future,
attempted by those who come after.
They will know your names.

The Words Are Missing

I’m rather embarrassed to tell you
I can no longer control me tongue.
Once it would wave the most complicated of notions,
brave new worlds springing forth with the ease,
inspiring a few who would listen.
Now the words are missing.
Structures laid incomplete, half finished.
Straw houses devoid of detail.
Its pace has changed,
where once we danced, now we stumble,
slow, uncertain, enfeebled.
I miss the energy of the words,
yet until I leave here my tongue will not listen.

Conversations in South Africa

Last night a white man told me about his country.
Scotch Whiskey loosened the tongue.
“The blacks, they are criminal, lazy and dumb,” he did cry.
Shocked, “you do not say such things where I’m from,” I reply.
He looks at me, PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP!
“There you see; they’ve killed your wife and two daughters.
Now you tell me why I should talk civilised.”

To Whom the Years have Parted

I shall be gone, then,
since you insist on walking the way alone.
Far from home, I sat beneath
the Eucalyptus trees
and dined with ghost who have long since left.
Although, the memories linger still.

Look you! The place where time does slow.
Keep low, lest it demand the toll.
Staring back at I, the image of a man,
body wracked by the long passage of life,
years apart from the boy I used to know.

What did he say?

A Reply from the Barefoot Boy

You. Do not blame the rushing of days
they are not responsible for this difference,
this parting of ways.
Remember it was not I who reneged on the pact we made –
to dance we demons,
no matter how afraid.

Don’t forget. I am problems; contusions of fate.
Branches of wood carved into figurines,
A lowly king ignoring its mate.
I sorrowfully sing to shoulder the blame,
Whereas you my oldest and dearest friend,
Quit! Followed the path and played the game.
We have been parted ever since

So you must forgive me if Im not the one who mourns,
your passing to a realm anew.
For you see I am also ensnared within the thorns.
And whilst yours will be a life filled with love and trust,
in the long years ahead.
I, that barefoot in the dust,
will forever dance alone instead.
Under the setting sun of a world you left behind.