From time to time a poem

Brilliant !! Alexandre, mind if I print this out and stick it on my wall ? this is great guys

Here I stand
Three me and
a band
of brothers and
sisters and yet
to be defined

I stand and fall
and yet to be
all I
not I at all
but to me the creek
and to you the tree

We’re all in
and
yet
to
be

In the forest there grows
a tree
In the prairie there grows
a blade

In the city there grows
a child
From start to finish
a pawn

In the universe there grows
a galaxy
Captured by gravity
and drawn

In the force there sleeps
a soul
Waiting to become
I

The Five

In the wind it rides
integers abide
in the formless
divide

Galaxies collide faculties
decried by secrets abide
the senses visualize
arrive

Gnosis overwritten deeply
indelible illusions
emerges all grumpy
volatile and attitudinal
surprise

Anathema the noble
inscrutable the fallen
clinging and craven into
haven

It sees the dream
it feels the scream
I in the end delusion
Force

Dark and distant, lightsrider sings
deep and motile seastrider rides
hear the crackle and the crush
deep within the universe and
deepening the rust

In the deep ocean light blossoms
connects
In the galactic clusters light pierces
the veil
In the earth’s ocean bioluminescent
glow
every night’s hunt writ in the
flow

Deeply connected each one to another
instincts erected in a chemical glow
Forced to acknowledge we’re tidally
At One

such a tiny thing,

to grant release,

but such a cold path to walk alone.

And if I am so sure

why does my body react so violently to expel what my mind craves.

Can there be no peace

amidst the raging storm,

each breath counts for nothing

when measured against time.

If I step of this path I balance on so delicately

will you let me fall?

If it is what I wish

and yet I ask if you will catch me

knowing that it is an illusion.

Fly or fall is only within myself to grant.

33

Driving home, a crow atop
The driftwood tree
His eye aside, beak up, he seems
Inquisitorial, while below
Ancient bodies
Turn to stone.

Arriving home, a zephyr runs
And voices come,
Voices murmur, murmur on
A sussurus of leaves which fall,
Letters from the
Hospital.

Aching for this ghost behind
The darkest day,
Through brightest night, no fear, no fright,
Just no more fight, spectral flowers
Summer perfume
Turning sour.

Lights Out – Edward Thomas

I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.

Many a road and track
That, since the dawn’s first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.

Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter, and leave, alone,
I know not how.

The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.

Over the mountain
tall trails
brake lights and gas
speed to no avail
rocky bottom diving in
high mountain lakes
challenges arise too
situations in joy
signals made yet
decisions awry
life carries on wherein
calmness abide
inelegant solutions in
retrospect to evade
brute force or finesse
do aptitudes advise
peace and good order
illusions soon fade
Noblesse oblige
universally inferred
life is the path yet
no exit defers

I find myself thinking of this more often nowadays...

'Dulce Et Decorum Est' - Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Grateful

Thank you, for the times you bore some of my weight upon yourself
and helped me walk through the darkness
I couldn’t know how heavy each of my problems were
and how much they may have slowed you down,
but I know I would be further behind, if not for you.

Thank you, for seeing that I have failed to mould myself
into the shape in which others have fit so well
and for daring to throw all the rules out of the window
when I made the hardest decision,
the future doesn’t seem quite so arid now.

And
Thank you, for being honest with me regardless of my state
especially when I was refusing to be honest with myself,
and for not hiding your suffering when I was busy with my own
so that in return I could support you,
I am grateful to call you my friend.

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/59/5f/0d/595f0d4287c79b3f9eac29fa7cdecca6.jpg

Holiday Memories (circa 1950) - Peter Dixon

Not for us the airport, charters to the sun
Marbella or Greek Islands
Benidorm and fun...
Not for us paella, octopus or squid
drinks as long as 'check-ins'
pizzas big as Spain.

No, we all went to Skinningrove
deep in Yorkshire land,
Yorkshire pud and gravy
Yorkshire wind and sand,
slag heaps grey as gasworks
beaches strewn with coal
fossils touched with mica
Brontosaurus old.

We played in ironstone culverts
we slalomed in the slag.
Caught fish in icy rockpools
anemone and crab -
we picnicked by lost railroads
viaduct and mine
built castles out of rockstone
red as autumn wine...
We hid in sheds of bramble
spun on rusted wheels
rims a rime of ochre
thistles, stings and squeals.

We caught the breath of mineshafts
their gape alive with fear
-attacked with hazel coppice
arrow, bow and spear.

So thank you for Minorca
where people go to play
but I remember Skinningrove
El Skinningrove
Olé!

There was a young man of Japan
Whose limericks never would scan.
When asked why this was,
He replied "It's because
I always try to fit as many syllables into the last line as ever I possibly can."

:laugh:

Well... finally another non-poem...

~~~~

The sound of a gong woke me from my sleep. It was not loud, but it was loud enough to fill the endless space with a perfect sound.
When the ringing of one ended, the gong would be struck again. The usually silent chamber had become a space made beautiful only through sound.

I could not remember having been tired, nor could I remember there being a cushion here on which to sleep; the space however always found a way to cater to one’s needs.
I lay there briefly, trying to remember if I had ever seen a gong or bowl in the cathedral, but darkness filled most corners both of the sanctuary and of my memory.

Raising myself from the cushion, I sought the direction of the sound. It was difficult to tell just how far away the gong was sounding, and from which direction, and it took walking in a circle to ascertain the direction from whence it came, but I followed it thereafter into a smaller space.

Beneath my bare feet were tiles, refreshingly cool after the warmth of the main sanctum, I stood for a moment to enjoy them.

The walls here could be seen too and were painted gold, glittering a little in the low light of a plain chandelier; five candles flickering. They felt appropriate for the warm tone of the gong that was still enveloping the room.

Before me, in the centre of the room, was a square and shallow pool, raised slightly from the ground and tiled as the rest of the room. I sat on the edge and looked down into the water… it was perfectly clear, but I noticed that it seemed to ripple slightly despite nothing touching it.

I watched it for several minutes, before it became clear that the sound of the gong within the room, echoing as it was off the tiles, was causing the water to undulate and move. It was as though the sound of the gong was emanating closely above the surface of the water, as every time the gong was ‘struck’ there would be a circle of ripples extending out from the origin of the noise.

The lack of a physical gong did not disturb me… things did not work exactly as one would expect within the cathedral, but it did cause me to ponder why it would bring me here. I was alone today, but for the noise.

Watching the ripple rings, I thought about the pastime of skimming stones across the water… each time the stone touches the surface a ripple would start, spreading further and further out, each ring eventually touching the next. Here, there was no stone, only sound… but things are connected, and whether they touch or not, one thing can still influence another… separated even by space or time.

The sound, the echoes, the water, the rings, me. All things connected, even when they do not touch. And the lessons I have received from Him, and others, will continue to cause ripples on the water of my life, even when I am alone.

You do not need me

You do not need me
Though I know you cling on
And hope I might lead the way
For you; and even though I walk behind,
Over your shoulder you look to see
If I am still in your shadow.

You do not need me
Though I know you call me
Whenever it gets tougher
For you; and alone silently pray
That I might be the solution
To take all that suffering away.

You do not need me
And I know you give me credit
For all the times you made it
Yourself; I didn’t actually do
It for you, only helped you find
The strength to bear it.

Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation’s OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Fe0ffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.
Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.
Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.
Pronunciation (think of Psyche!)
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won’t it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!

I wrote a... thing? It's not very intelligent, twas for fun and thought I'd share here; you can imagine it's a rap,

---

I ain’t a poet and I ain’t so sure I know it
Coz look at me in time trying to bust out a rhyme

Roses are red, and violets are blue, whoopsiedoo, joke’s too old when this is down to,
speaking with power, coz this is the hour, have a little fun, god son of a gun, I’m awful at this stuff, but is it enough,
to prove me, move me, mark me, an A, B C, D, E, minus?
I’m fumblin’, ramblin’, panickin’, mumblin’, fryin’,
fumblin’, ramblin’, panickin’, mumblin’, thinkin’… … …
thinkin’… thinkin’…
thinkin’, thinkin’, thinkin’,
quieter, quieter, quieter, quieter, quieter…
Shhhhh.

Yeah.

I ain’t a poet and I ain’t so sure I know it.

---

Vusuki 13 09 2016