poetrytownsville

BIRTHDAY PSSING THOUGHTS 030913

What a birthday this day foretells.

Promise full.

 01/09/22

But I hope my death is not too sad for those around.

Funny to think of on such a day.

But bears thinking to take away some of the sting.

‘We are stardust, we are golden …  a billion years of carbon…’

Carbon, never created, always was, will be.

Where is death if there is no beginning?

No ending to behold

 if you’d don’t hold too tight.

If you let things,

people,

places slip away,

if you don’t try to grasp the moving blade.

I sleep in peace,

You who are left, awake in peace.

HIPPIE 13/06/22                                                                                                    P1                                                                                                                  

I was too young

to be a hippie.

Free!

Free of what?

To be free of me,

of longing.

I would have made music, made love.

but,

‘Too young to really be in love.’

What is this wondering all about?

What might have been,

What I might have seen.

So complicated like tangled string.

I want, I need simple now.

I’m over the hill

But

when you’re over the hill you

pick up speed.

10/01/13

I can find south

 from the Cross.

At this time of year

 it’s strange to even see stars.

But what does it prove

for one in the city to see south?

To see stars?

In still, quiet of morn.

The moon is sleeping in shadow.

Her light wrapped

 in clothes of cloud,

the more

 to let light shine.

But why find south,

or north

 or either?

 A need

 to know the way?

City dwellers know

 more the ways

 than the way.

WASTELAND (Apologies to T.S.) 03/02/22

Having read in the poet’s own voice,

having travelled wastelands of regret,

he laughs.

What is the purpose of these musings,

these lives,

ghosts of thought.

Having travelled the wasteland of regret

he recalls lost memories,

found in the fondness of time.

Are these real,

these recollections?

Did they happen or is mind a trickster

who, for want of something to do,

creates spirits to haunt the present?

The questions spawn questions,

spiral round, round and down

into a wasteland of regret.

SILENCE RECALLED

 I wish we’d talked,

 so much to say ‘bout so little.

Life is little

bit of this,

little bit of that.

So much to say ‘bout so little

and still

I wished we’d talked.

So much to say ‘bout so much.

Life is brittle,

break off this,

break away that.

So much to say,

it’s hearsay.

Backstage,

Black,

Quiet.

Nods and hand signals.

Ropes,

Black figures,

Actors.

Anticipation,

Nerves strained to remember.

Backstage dark.

20/02/20

Back mind  

follows in concert the

 action,

real or not.

What is reality?

This fabrication unfolding

 more real than reality.

Each line rehearsed,

 known,

certain like the workings of giant clock,

moved by watch spring of anticipation.

Front of house voyeurs,

peer

penetrating the fourth wall of reality,

suspended in disbelief of disbelief.

Side stage,

 watches,

counts,

calls the scenes,

omniscient.

On cue creates another scene,

seen but not heard.

281021

The world needs righting.

It has strayed from it’s course.

Who knows where it will end.

Who will save us from this,

 from our selves mostly.

The answer roars loud as thunder,

 lightning like signs illuminate sky.

But we don’t see,

don’t hear.

Will our children see,

 tell us?

 ‘Mummy,

can’t you see,

 can’t you hear?

So bright it hurts my eyes,

so loud my ears ring.

Look,

look there, it is.’

‘Where child, where?

Am I so dulled I need borrow a child’s ears?

My eyes so addled I cannot perceive.

Tell me child,

tell me.

Show me.’

‘Mummy, reach out your hand – touch,

if you can’t see.

There is nothing child,

Nothing.

I knew your world once, but now I dwell in a different place.

Stay child, stay.

Your world is better by far.