Category: Poem

Pendant que le monde brûle

candel

The world burns in stages.
First and most succinct,
The partial flame, a pyre to the dead,
An ode to those who suffer.
Burning silently among the detritus,
Memories of the past lay broken and strewn.
Naught but ephemeral bodies in a graveyard of dreams.
The tallow burns, it burns dispassionately
Creeping inexorably towards ruin
It is a lustful flame, it consumes
Even the ashes of its own passing.
Nothing is left to mourn.
C’est la dernière flamme.
The world burns in stages,
It burns completely.

Do Better

We lose each other on days when the sun has not shined for a while.

It is in that darkness that we grow and are able to weather the light.

You and I have not spoken, we have not shared in some time.

Welcome back to my world and the dark little corner of my mind where sits my desires to express.

Expressions of nascent ideas, or perhaps ideas not fully realised and as such unfulfilled.

 

Bonjour mon amies, êtes-vous là?

Sinon, j’ai besoin que tu viens avec moi!

 

Do Better

Viscerally coerced into your world,
reluctantly poised on the edge
flowing intermittently through fractured consciousness.
Grasping at the engines of lost inspiration.
Seeking to clothe new ideas in old tropes
Yet, falling, flailing silent and quick
Envying the agency of the last drop of blood form a cracked lip.
Following those that came before
Yet seeking distinction in a world already saturated.
Stained red with ambition.

 

 

Synaesthesia

Often, I think adding context to what I try to expressing will – somehow – extract appreciation from at least one person who reads or experiences it.
Why should I shape your experiences? Where is the joy in having a fruit eaten for you?
its juices extracted and regurgitated. Tainted and tinted with the perception of another.
What I intend and what is received by the reading may not be the same.
There is some fun   – perhaps – in wading through this small stream in the presence of one’s own company.
Thus, I shall remain tranquil and be satisfied with the reading.


Synaesthesia 


In moments of silence
I converse with the multitude.
We revel in the sensory,
No why’s or wherefore.
First, tastes blossoms
My tongue , heavy with
The nectar of summer’s flower.
As it blooms my vision alights
O’er awed in its fullness
Colours flits across a rippling surface
Suppleness flowing into taut awakenings
Brilliant green melding into cerulean blues
A synaesthetic orchestra.

Midnight Wanderer

Often, I am the mercy of my internal critic. It waxes and wanes like tides under the influence of a full moon.  Each word of my creations eroded by the crashing waves of scrutiny.

In rare moment, inspiration sails over the waters, no longer in search of the Isles of perfection.

Rarer still, when the object of inspiration is  as perfect as the tranquil waters in a cerulean cove.

Midnight Wanderer

My lovely lady dreams,

in my waking moments.

Within these alabaster halls,

your presence permeates.

Like a somnambulist

You are forever in motion,

wading along the the depths

Arrayed in the matter of stars

Silently, I voice my longing.

Unwilling to disturb the weaver of dreams

As she settles at the loom cloistered

betwixt life’s echoing chambers.

Freed Spirits

Freed Spirits stare hopelessly

A gormless grin adorned in a new guise.

Suddenly.

Lights and signs lapping at the shores,

Diluvial reflections pervade

A vision of beauty shrouded in mists.

wading into these depths

Lust, Fear.  Desire

Cascading endlessly.

The Knife’s Edge

Precariously on  the knife’s edge

I think about you, I do not love you. But I tell my self that I do.

Because loving you would make this okay, right, meaningful.

Wading through ever shifting sands of granular emotions

I reach for you like a man dying of thirst in this desiccated

wasteland of relationships and social interactions.

You see right through this intricately constructed facade

Behind, the lid of my eyes, I hide , I burn with shame

But there is no water here, these wells have been dry

Nothing exists here but memories , phantasms.

If I were still the old me, I would seek to elevate,

I would gush eloquently, rant  in grandiose form,

Extoll my appreciation, my desire , my love.

Yet, these are nothing but  my walls, my bastion.

I see the disdain in your eyes , I imagine its intensity,

Yet, my need  for your burns brighter still.

As if feeding off the flames of your indifference.

It seems I have never quite understood,

I am the moth and your flame burns like a beacon

Signalling my fall from grace, from equanimity.