unfinished poem – must finish

My love is an engulfing storm
And the calm thereafter.
My love is the best in me
And the very worst.

My love is all unquenched power
But it’s fragile to your touch.
My love speaks with silence
When words become worthless.

My love finds clues and answers
Wending in an emnbrace,
In glanced cheeks, in knowing smiles,
In the contours of your face.

My love is polished marble,
With a countenance as to admit
The things that cling to darkness,
Those suggesting promise.

My love sits in eternity
More permanent than anything carved in stone.
My love is our hurtling destiny
Whether I’m with you or alone.

Sing The Syllables

Sing the Syllables
Of sentences heard in your head
We’ve lead you to a phonetic oasis
From which you’re starting to drink
Think the thoughts and say the sounds,
Love the words and play around
Dance the jig of language bound,
Express yourself.
Know the words define your thoughts,
Caught in a cultural tryst,
Raise a fist to our monkey minds,
And recognise this domesticated ape,
Does he not the world define.

Leading on

Be it not be in perfect English,
Given over now to those my friends
All the things that we’ve done have bought this
Thing we’ve got to see out to the end

So, if I were to die this day,
Would anyone fondly recall,
The way I’d lived my life at all?

It goes on

And those friends go away,
The ones you had yesterday,
The ones with whom you had history.
As your life evolves and resolves.

Looking through your parents’ eyes,
Hearing children cry.
Wondering when you said goodbye
To your childhood,
It lasted longer than you thought.

And those friends go away,
The ones you had yesterday,
The ones with whom you share history,
The ones with whom you walk everyday.

And so I’ll speak boldly of destiny,
And of friendships and family.
Until next we meet dear friends.

No more bills, fears of an impotent provider

I’ve let a house define me.
Like so many before.
I’ve created a role which gives me meaning,
Thinking:
“I have to keep going, to keep us strong, established, stable, together.”
Head down.
“This is why I exist”

This thin veil is cut through as quickly as a guillotine dispenses of a long redundant royal head.
And as I am relieved of certain responsibilities,
I find myself to be not relieved.

To my surprise, I’m the one that struggles with the change, 
the pressing necessity to keep us warm and dry, gone,
Feeling:
Lost,
Spare,
Emasculated.
I see the opportunity,
But this freedom does not liberate me,
It endangers me,
It lands me on a line at a distance from my being.
Demanding of me a new definition,
A new raison d’être.

Like when the wings of an angel
Are clipped by god
At angelic request,
The consequences are read only by omniscient eyes and never wholly relayed.
Thus hoodwinked,
I’m left teetering on the precipice,
The normal restraints, retaining me, removed.
Left hoping my faith in my existence and that of my family will save me from a fall and from the worst of myself.

One of the few is gone

One of the few is gone,
But the people all around can’t see,
That this cold grey day,
Isn’t one of just any February.
For footsteps are heavier today,
And the wind whispers its prayers,
And a stare penetrates deeper,
Than would ordinarily occur.

One of the few is gone,
Leaving only those that mourn,
Leaving those that hunt for memories,
Leaving those who were adored.

One of the few is gone,
Too quietly for those that knew,
The days and nights of laughter,
Known truly only by a few.

It’s Christmas Time Again

Christmas blackens my door again.
Perenial hopes for joy and happiness,
Turn to dull realities of arguments.
Game playing,
Sniping,
Manipulations,
Veiled bullying:
All early presents shared before the big day,
Before the arrival of that mirthful sleigh,
Before the erection of the festively dead tree,
Before the hint of Victorian festivities,
Before early lights turned on by z-list celebtries,
When the thought of Christmas seems too far away,
When children count down in months,
And when tentative plans are made,
Messages relayed, like Chinesse whispers mutate.
My yearly fate.
It’s Christmas time again,
Great.

I declare my love (from Tennessee)

I declare my love once more,
But it’s lost to your ears,
Whispered to the darkness. 
I declare my love once more,
As though the world hears,
As though it may touch your heart.
I declare my love once more.
From half the world away,
From this night of day,
I declare to you right here now:
If the end of the world was here,
If society was broken beyond repair,
If humanity was engulfed by fear and despair,
I would find my way back to you.
So I could declare my love to you there.

I Like Being Fucked Up

I like being fucked up!
Mashed, Smashed, Messed up,
I like being fucked up!
Out of control, on my own, on a mission, blurred vision,
The night’s still young and I’m going to party,
I’m going to paint the town red,
Make a bed of a sofa or a floor.
Pushing myself for that little bit more,
More excitement, more thrills, more spills,
Living a lifestyle that is trying it’s best to kill
Me. I like being fucked up!
Not sure it likes me,
Beer turns to whisky far too quickly,
Sickly memories merge.
Mornings after demand retribution,
Bloodshot eyes. I laugh my way through the pain,
“No pain, no gain,” right?
Hair of the dog:
A shot of embarrassment mixed with shame.
I like being fucked up!
I want to lose control.
I want to wreck it all.
I want to tear down the edifices that restrain me,
I want to scream “You can’t retain me!”
Because I LIKE BEING FUCKED UP!!
And that feeling, I like it just that bit too much.

My Dad – August 2011

Awkward sod, my dad,
Had the confidence beaten out of him, as a lad.
He created for himself a new set of rules,
A new moral code with which to live,
From the tools he had to hand,
And from what others had to give.

He once met the top man in this and that,
And reminisces of things he’s learned, a lot.
Then he’ll chatter on about the things he’s done,
Bringing poetic license, often into question.

Handy man, my dad, was quick with his fists and his temper,
When he was pissed off we’d run for cover,
Then he got old and a bit calmer.
Still handy though, should have a PHD in using his hands,
His practical skills should be known across the land.
Fix your car, fit your kitchen, plumb your bathroom,
I’m hoping for a loft conversion!

On and on this progression is run,
Copied over from father to son.
Our selfish decisions perpetuated linearly,
Our y chromosome demanding commonality,
Tempered but with perhaps too much similarity.

Great man, my dad,
Thinks he’s somehow insignificant!
Lives for his family,
Has always made us laugh,
And he’s given us all he’s ever had, my dad.