Realism In Poetry

I reflect upon this rose tinted scene, that speaks only silence,

When the wind whispers become incoherent,

When the beauty of the land dies,

First with hope, then with empathy, and finally with flowers,

I watch clouds gather soulless, till darkness seeks to destroy my very agnosticism,

I wait for beauty, the shape of a woman, the rawness of intimacy, the savagery of life,

For beauty succumbs unto death, and I yearn once more to taste the life I so desire

Needs For An Opinion

In ignorance they stay silent,

In isolation they shout,

Not as many but as one,

They however answer all as one,

Though silence does not listen to the cries of the individual

The En

Time Circle

We step forth together

treading steps like esher's character,

With no meaning, forlorn and sysyphian,

We gather each thought similar, Incidents deemed familiar,

Will make us consider, if all time together,

Has existed from beginning to end,

And merely goes round again and again 

Hierarchies In Poetry

The Centre is infected ,

It goes around itself, whilst outside all seek what they reject,

Once the Janus Man would cry tears, and smile at the same time,

Then he chose to sleep, and so they supped his sickness unto him.

Now he only smiles, and so we all smile,

The Janus Man cries not to be heard, for his smile already speaks volumes,

And whilst the centre pretends all is fine, outside it is not,

For poems speak and are discarded,

Because sometimes they refuse an audience,

And so as they drown unheard,

You reach out, and your hand is pushed away,

Your colours run so bright they are despised by their glowing truth,

Your words are inaudible, and even if they were clarified,

No one could pronounce them,

The Centre is infected, yet we believe outside all is pure,

The purity, of friendship, love, family and the cross upon the hill,

Yet when these seem to fade, we turn to expressions of literature,

Hoping one day the centre will die of it's own septic irrelevance,

And hopefully we will be heard and above all understood

The End

Grandmother;s Tea

We all went to Grandmother's for tea,

I remember when I was young how things used to be,

it was quiet in the country; there were no fireworks at Grandmother's tea,

No loud sounds to frighten me,

The only hierarchy there has to be, was the cakes and treats at Grandmother's tea,

On a three lined cake stand,

First of all, tiny cakes and petit fours, each one colourful,

Then there were sandwiches,

Some of ham and cheese, cut in neat white triangles, if you please

On top were smoked salmon, cream cheese and chives,

Grandmother's tea was a place in time,

Where all was quiet and no large noise or sounds of hate,

Would spoil the friendship Grandmother had made,

These two women now sat tall,

Both from different sides of the wall,

I was too young to understand,

Why green and orange were colours of scorn,

Unlike those within this Battenberg, White and pink,

And there were scones,

Jeweled Strawberry Jam.

Strawberries that kept their shape, though covered in an ooze of red,

Away from this all lay the dead,

Those that did not sit and talk, but instead kept to their side of the wall,

there is cream for the scones, it sometimes covers them entirely,

And if it does not,

They are colours that bring us together,

Grandmother pours tea from a white tea pot,

it is brown tea that flows into white cups,

There are biscuits, chocolate, Cinnamon and plain,

Mother tells me that's why we came,

Yet I know and Father knows too, that it is the stillness of it all,

A place in time were we are grown, to hate and stand ourselves alone,

There is homemade lemonade, it is refreshing to drink on a hot day,

Yet slightly bitter I must digress,

So as to express the memories of bitter hate,

That made us turn this land to waste,

To bring about the hated wall,

That they tell me will one day crumble,

It is explained by Grandfather giving us all shortbreads have been made,

And then he proudly announces,

Guinness cake made with the exact fluid ounces,

I take a piece, It is dark and moist,

yet compared to the fireworks it would be my choice,

They brightly light the streets and town,

And bring the scornful troubles down,

One day they will not be found,

And we will all be friends,

And as this tea begins to end,

Grandmother and Grandfather tell us they are taking Grandmother's friend to church,

Mother and Father agree,

Since we all worship the same God you see,

Perhaps an explanation of Psalm 23, Where a table is anointed to replace enemies,

and now I am old, And all have gone, yet I try to keep their memories,

As they encourage me, to make friends as it should be,

Perhaps it is not always tea that we drink, or cakes that we eat,

Yet friendships encourage memories of Grandmother's tea,

And one day everything will be,

Like my childhood spent at Grandmother's tea,

The En

Nothing Gained

Think outside the box,

Do not use colour pen or paper,

Put your mind in discarded mode,

Use a non-colour, One without touch, only feeling,

Watch the fleshly image dissolve into lights,

Cast it from your mind, See it's outer garments float,

Then eat and drink,

Do not read a cookbook,

And either slice, cut or reject, that which has no substance,

For colour is true when it is dispersing.

The End

Compromising Acceptance

To caress spiritual when form is not known,

To realise the subtle ignorance and kill without doing so.

To revert euphorically when you are loved by that which you criticise vicariously,

So that praise comes out of beauty and realism,

That which fabricates and burns the created individual.

Whom is a lie vicariously so.

The En

People As Baggage

People as baggage

Needed to quench,

To comfort and sweat profusely,

To drown and pity,

To reflect within our tears, to resemble.

To caress, to arouse, to love, to bury.

To replace,

To use only for a while, to understand and finally to accept those we can mold,

And despise your own kind, whilst never truly hating yourself

The End

A Shakespearian Poem

Miracles are not unknown to be,

For they are perceived of chance,

And yet I know the hope I have that our love will one day flourish

Is more than a certainty,

For as seasons come and go,

And desires rise and fall with tempting despair,

The feelings I have for you will always stay the same,

And even if touch eludes me and words are not uttered,

These senses will one day form into a reality far more structured,

Than the universe itself,

And this hope will form as one when desire comes upon us,

And with confirmation will rise onto the heavens,

For reality will replace the mythology of despair and loneliness,

That circles me like the empty vessel of time itself.

And when the beginning arises, at whatever stage of time,

It will bring forth a reality that for the moments dwells within me,

A world waiting to be created,

And when that time comes,

We shall be joined as one for eternity,

Through life, through longing, and through even death itself,

For neither aged despair, or worldly desire,

Can deny that which will one day come into being

The En

Cold And Illogical

The love that disperses, like shadows on snow.

It is formless. It is without hate or malice only because of it's desensitivity.

Shadows are superfluous, mere images that outline desires.

Though never show their true feelings,

Snow is cold, So are people sometimes.

So in a World of individuality and selfish desires,

Would it not be more appropriate for shadows to be cast on snow,

Rather than on a wall where sunlight gives hopefully

The End

Explanatory

There are so many stars in the sky,

Do not be fooled, whatever your views on religion or science,

Stars are masses of gas that burn up when they fall to Earth

Perhaps meteorites or comets, or debris, Never fallen angels,

Punished for their deeds,

My beautiful friend,

One day you will not be in this world,

Though in the next we will hopefully one day discover