Tag Archives: poem

Dementia

Save the patter of the rain, for it might save your life one day,

What was taken slowly from you, it can not easily be repaid,

But may in time give lessons of past virtue and proove,

What once was lost is not gone forever, just moved,

Whilst you still remember what was once there,

It lives within, deep down, a marker of time,

The certainty burnt to you forever more,

Curcial to who you have become,

A marker for your stride,

Should it still atest,

You may know,

For I am now,

What was,

There.

God

I hope god is there.

Keeping a balance good and fair.

For if I am but a figment,

Naught but a swipe of his brush and pigment,

It matters not what I can bare,

For decisions are made from lofty chair.

I hope god is kind.

So they would be in heart and mind.

But what is love, when cast by creator,

Is creation kindness enough, spoke the debater.

Could all their actions leave love behind,

And shed responsibility of thoughtless mankind.

I hope god is wise.

Not the instigator of their own demise.

As thoughtful as their very silence predicts.

Rather than shadow to a world that contradicts,

A very presence past serene skies.

Could a world of cruel logic, be their disguise.

Broken things

To break is to build,

For what you know is the start.

All the ingredients instilled,

For your project fulfilled.

Oh won’t you make haste, with heart.

Crack open your mind,

With weapon of choice.

Embrace the parts you find,

For it is our future, redefined.

For whatever you make, rejoice.

Know that it is yours,

Made from the broken things.

Even if you should wait and pause,

No one could take it by any clause,

What pour out innocent, from sins.

Creation

I train my mind not to wonder,
But it’s most precious thoughts are those,
That I did not try to build or find,
But float into my waking repose.

My mind’s sight no longer clouded,
By creative whims or urge,
For in it’s age brimming full,
With darker thoughts, all converge.

And would you wish to break free?
To lay in that inspired light,
For liberation has a cost, a price,
Could it be idleness and plight.

For only the tragic are moved,
Do the inspired seek the forsaken,
And keep their purpose drawn close,
Are we to know what truely made them.

So why not wake into my own story,
Shape what was truly gifted to me,
For aren’t we all cursed and broken,
If I plead my creativity to be wild and free.

Celestial bodies

To capture the stars and their perfect form,

A dream of preserving their light.

Like trying to capture the eye of a storm,

Oh how could you keep something so bright.

To us they sit quiet, on night’s dark platform,

Just out of reach, from any grasp or might.

But in systems they burn as a swarm,

A life cycle itself, it’s own death, it’s fright.

Distance hides their terror, their reform,

True nature a mystery which passions do insight.

In it’s mystery a wonder stirs, keeps warm,

Those far off pieces of our puzzle, our right.

The Green Flash

Peace and serenity,

As I look to the burning horizon.

Pertinence and attention,

Soon the sun takes to the sea it lies on.

But the sea itself,

Unpredictable as any that hold the waves.

Refracted a new display,

One that any observer anticipates and craves.

Skyward reaching,

The swiftest span of green light.

Explosion and beauty,

An emerald hue radiates before the vale of night.

A blaze so short,

But this jade fire drops no ash.

My senses know,

This was that fisherman’s tale, the green flash.

Treasure

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I once did walk on shores so kind,

That I did forget to worry and curse.

For in those shores I did so find,

A feeling I could never reimburse.

 

If I found that feeling so special again,

Unique it could no longer be.

It would be lost to the realm of the vain,

And to those no longer free.

 

To search for beauty, a privilege.

To treasure the fleeting, divine.

For how could anyone take from my pilgrimage,

That irreplaceable feeling, it is mine.