Venting poetry into the atmosphere. Twitter at us @Clod14
So what in times of gnarled beige shade
Can promt us stop our promenade?
To put aside this march for grief
If grief still stands now gravestones lean
Perhaps some shadow flying through
Caught the eye, drew to view
Some sky that’s tinted blue or black
Enough to pause us on our track.
Now no one knows what it drags
For none are left who packed it’s bags
And some do think its best not known
Where the heaviest sack gets towed.
Some cloak, I see
Through smoked glass
That a sun provides no warmth
And growth is secondary to consumption
Stripping rock bare of soil tainted
In the search for stars
Cold in their distant beauty
Cloaked in smoked glass.
From what plane do creatures crawl
From depth of shade to sunlight’s fall?
Declaration of hate lays crooked
Shadow’s step mouth an angled slit
Warping teeth through unknowable
Spite? Perhaps less
Less than contempt
Crawls from the beast unknown.
Some cargo cult
My bells and whistles tore
Worship for a week
Then the weak grew strong
And competition’s engine has
One hundred raging horses to spare
Impassioned speech buys minutes
And with these minutes I pledge
My cult following for a trip to the heavens
Without having to be buried for the privilege, if it pleases
My charge lays at sea
On stilted waves I find myself
Jilted of mud and wire
Left with salt in my teeth
What whit i had in a seldom sat space
One not known for the choice of grace
With fevered eyes supping dry
My words, the sparkle of my eye
Causing those with depth to think
I’m nothing but a pose but – what a wink
Who said that time has to move forward in that forward does mean movement and no one should stay still?
Who knows what we mean when we say ‘I can’t go on’. As if on was something we could get on top of or even be part of?
Who really means what they mean even if they don’t say it after a respectable time of mourning, when morning comes each day whether we stay in this realm or pass?
Who says that English is a language you can speak first? First off it’s a language stolen from the poor to feed the rich with a healthy dose of post imperialism to flavour, not that you can fit enough stamps to go anywhere worth seeing.
Who says these things now our platform is screaming at ourselves in a virtual mirror? We can’t stand very well on such smooth surfaces let alone vertically.
I’ve taken to writing on paper again. It’s easier to stumble across old thoughts when you can feign ignorance of a bad hand writing.
I’ve taken to slowing down. And feeling down before looking at that long climb up.
Who said we should strive to better ourselves?
Who said I can hear what I mean when I say the opposite from pure exhaustion?
Inhale. This steam replaces smoke in flavour only.
Exhale. Find that starting point again. Who says i shouldn’t?
On moving on some things were lost
And found of course in a dusty box
In losing things I once could not spare
I’ve never lost the small odd chair
It seems to tag along with me
No matter how I feel or who I see
The chair will be as it always is
Small and useless till someone sits
Hi all, sorry for the hiatus! I’ve moved. And I’ve had some strange things going on that led me to prioritise my spare time. But, just like the chair this blog just keeps coming back.
Hope all is well!
Dim But Bright Poetry
Root and cause
You can’t be sure
But tendrils are all you see
It’s for the best
A starting test
Chopping whilst your keen
