Poetry | Page 4 | Fab Forum | The Beatles Bible

Egroeg Evoli said

*speechlessness yet again- bet you didn’t see that coming, did you? *

Those were wonderful, especially the last one, especially the last stanza of the last one.

The “Phoenix” Cycle is amazing (maybe I should find my thesaurus?). It really is. I went back and read it all again. The poems flow together so nicely. I love the story they tell.

Have you written any other poems? I’d love to read them.

I have written a few others. Last count I was getting close to 2000. I’ll put two or three up in the next day or two. Kind of slightly lost on timing at the moment because I’ve started a new one. I’ve already decided on one I’ll put up though, being reminded of it by the Pink Floyd thread.

I like positive criticism as well as “amazing!” though, and I know it doesn’t entirely work. The only one of the “children” I am happy with is The Whistle of a Distant Train. Lots of lines have changed during typing it up for here, including one line completely new. I’d like to hear the bits you don’t like, or don’t think quite work.

Egroeg Evoli said
 It’s hard to criticize something that I know is better than anything I’ll ever write, but I’ll try to think of something…

I dispute that. The couple you’ve put up are very good. You never know what you might do with time. When I first started writing, I couldn’t imagine writing something like it. For all the flaws I see in it, there’s part of me that wonders where it came from. The important thing is to keep doing…

Anyway, I promised I’d post a few others. The first, I tell the inspiration in the Pink Floyd. The last, a lot John Lennon  In His Own Write & Spaniard In The Works influence.

The Dawn of Yesterday

I am walking
far further than you could ever imagine,
attempting always
to reach those forgotten recesses within
the crumbling echoes of my mind —
the crumbling echoes found in Time Past,
Time Present…

Does Time Present lead always,
lead me always,
to those faintly whispering voices
who elegise constantly
their concern for yesterdays?
Does my mind stray always
to yesterday’s heroes?
to yesterday’s falls?
Sometime soon I come across her smiling —
warm once again or just worn?
Weary, wiser and world-worn?

But she approaches quite gentle,
her footfalls fall so very silent
as she stakes her claim to be
ever present on the verge of the cusp:
Venus always in the ascendant?

And I wish to find her way
but I feel that her way leads me nowhere
and so I wish to find my way
but know that, perhaps, I too lead nowhere.
Perhaps nowhere is all we are
and all that now we have left us.

But still I am walking
far further than you could ever imagine;
attempting always
to find that path which shall lead me back
for, whilst I have no wish to step backwards,
I still feel the need to somehow learn
just how this all began.

Mirrored

When I look at myself,
I see myself.
I am pleased.
I smile.
I pull funny faces.
Sometimes
(When I’ve drunk too much)
I laugh out loud.
On the whole
I enjoy being me.

When you Look At Me ,
You sigh
And turn
Away.
I wonder who you see.

My Love

She shines like the brightest of beacons —
the dark days behind her.
She can make me laugh.
She can make me cry.
She can make me choke with rage.

It’s all just blue skies and candlelight,
stars and late nights,
there’s not much romance here
(just that beautiful beckoning murmur
which longs to turn into a roar).

A Good Morning Poem for Jacqui

I cannot say I write this rhyme
Without this thought I thunk,
I have beside me cup of tea
But knot one single crumb to dunk.

Now back to thunk I fork before,
‘Twas all about spaghetti pie.
I fink I thunk I’d knit me one
To hang up bright within this sky.

When quite this quick upon a branch
Your little bird wood speak to me,
Asking all in twitter voice,
“Just quiet how aged do you bee?”

Again I have to fink a funk,
A new funk finked upin this tree,
I pinned the tree then spoke my funk,
“My age? 5 foot 8 upin the breeze.”

Because I Breathe

You ask me why I feel the need to write.
Just what is it that you want to know?
All those whys, wheres and therefores
which clutter the putting of my pen to paper?

I write because I breathe. I breathe therefore
I write. What more do you really need?
But you cannot see that these things have no pure explanation,
so again you ask me why I feel the need to write.

I write because I am lost in the reflection
of your eyes and wish to scream aloud
of the kneequakes you induce but find
my words are all lost within the silence of your breathing.

And the silence of your breathing wakes me
so I light this third cigarette and marvel at
the sheer satin sheen of your skin,
and this mind of mine is left to contemplating
the simplest of things, as the ash drops —
the existence of God , the meaning of life,
the lullaby of darkness and my love for you.

Then my hand fumbles the bedside table for a pen
as I reel from my very real need
to explore the craziness of these thoughts
I’ve fought here in the darkness.
Somehow I gain a little something from these cluttered pen marks
and sometimes I feel as if they could almost make sense
(even if they cannot make me seem any better a person
for they come from the one who knows not how to repent).

There is no real recompense to be found within the exchanging
of fluid thoughts for all too solid and concrete words however.
However strong and valiant they may appear to be,
as they bound from the top to the bottom of the page,
they are never quite right, never quite strong enough,
and I’m always left somehow staring at a page which overflows
with something less than the perfection I strive for —
the perfection found in the placing of a perfect phrase
upon this page in just the perfect place.

And once again you ask me why I feel the need to write.
I write because I am constantly searching —
searching for God , the meaning of life,
the secret of your smile and your love for me.

My hand fumbling in the darkness for a pen
proves little more than I am not yet anywhere near
strong enough to give up this lifelong search. I write
because I breathe, I breathe therefore I write.

Thank you. It is one I rather like. There’s another few I’m typing up to post either tonight or tomorrow. You do know you can download a free thesaurus from the internet. My choice is WordWeb which is a combination dictionary/thesaurus, and if you put in something it doesn’t know, will search the web for it.

That “You do not” was meant to be a “You do know”…  WordWeb has the other advantage that it also works offline.

I’ve got it pinned to my taskbar, so I can kick it up anytime. It’s much better than the in-built dictionary, and so when the in-built is telling me I’m wrong, I can pull it straight up to check, and then go online if I want to check further. This is the link

http://wordweb.info/free/

fabfouremily said

Yes, once I read the ones on this page I went back to see if you’d put any more up.

 

Hope it didn’t sound like nagging. You seemed to like the ones that you’d mentioned, and I just wanted to check you knew there were others if you wanted to read them. I’m glad you enjoyed them. I think The “Phoenix” Cycle is what I’m most proud of. Though I have just started work on something that looks promising.

Anyway, here’s a bunch of others. Most are older than those I’ve posted elsewhere. Some are darker. Some the language used may be offensive to some. Not all are autobiographical.

Seven Skulls Scream

Shrouded in soothing silence,
seven skulls sit
sorrowful at sins long since
forgotten by man.
Slowly they spiral to face me;
surreptitiously turn to accuse me;

send shivers down my spine.

Concealed in placid silence,
seven skulls sit
disconsolate at sins long since
committed by man.
Cautiously they pirouette to face me;
clandestinely spin to accuse me;

they struggle through my smiles.

Unseeing eyes mortify my soul,
then, on discovery of my inner sanctum,
seven skulls scream.

Disappointed?

I feel your so slender arms fold about my neck,
“Won’t you lie a little closer to me now?”
I feel all that tumultuous terror closing fast
as you fight the howl of this soul lost deep inside.

And in your teardrops, I can taste my own reflection;
in every tender curve, I feel myself begin to bleed;
I cannot locate my wound but am still able to feel it
and know it could well lead to joy I’m unable to hide.

You are the bronze against my all too sallow skin,
somehow reflected in my memorised life and death,
and as I feel your knees falling gently away,
I’m left to drown in the blue eyes and all I have denied.

Your lips offer me a pitifully poignant satisfaction,
leave me knowing all that’s yet to come is my blunder;
your hips are as close to perfect as hope can be but still
I am left to wonder if I shall ever be truly satisfied.

Suzy By the Sea

Parade me through sometime dream lovers
and sing me songs of Satan —
talk to me of broken hearts,
and of hearts which have been forsaken.

Dangle daggers in the dawn light
and feed me gin and ganja —
do to me whatever you like
only, I beg you, do not speak of her.

Remember me and her? we used to be lovers?
but that was way back down the line.
It’s all very well to hear she’s happy with you
but I don’t want to know she’s feeling fine.

Dangle diamonds in the dazzling dull
light of your winter seascapes —
just don’t remind me of Suzy in her room of mirrors,
instead just teach me how to hate.

The sun is crawling skyward
and breaking over rusting rails
and you’re saying that your coffee’s cold
while continuing with your tales.

Bridges

Tonight I think, and think alone,
of all that I have done:
the friends I’ve hurt, the tears I’ve cried,
the fact I’ve only just begun.
The winter it is drawing out
and the snow is starting to fall,
whilst walking by the riverside
I think I hear you call.

I sit here with my memories
and nothing seems worthwhile,
all that remains are photographs
and poems in a file;
moments carefully captured
and stored on bits of paper:
I hid them there so long ago
so I could recall them later.

They tell a story I never could,
things I’d never admit,
like how my words once spoke of beauty
but now just hint at it.
They lay there slowly fading
bringing forth thoughts of yesterday
(people’s faces, forgotten places,
times when things were going my way).

We’d walk along, hand in hand,
stand on the iron bridge.
Slowly you’d wipe away my tears
and silently we’d kiss.
That summer was made of a magic
that had to one day fade and blur,
and what once we viewed as beautiful
has now become a slur.

We’d talk into the cigarette light
of early dawn about love and life —
we’d comfort each other in sadness,
we’d comfort each other in strife.
But now those memories are long gone,
and only return in splashes,
when I’m reminded of your laughter and smile,
your silent midnight splashes.

Now I’m said to be dark and brooding
and in great need of a new love.
No one understands that after loving you
another could never offer enough.
And now I’m so cold and naked and lonely
and praying for a change of heart,
hoping that one day you’ll forget our ending
and dream up a brand new start.

Tonight I think, and think alone,
of all that I have done:
the friends I’ve loved, the smiles of joy,
the fact I’ve only just begun.
The summer is approaching now
and the snow is starting to thaw,
I no longer feel the bitterness felt
when you walked out my door.

A Last Glimpse

The house is boarded now —
something is taking its course.
Weeds strangle plants
I tended as a child
and the tree looks smaller now.

A plank at the back is loose
and with a little persuasion
I am able to enter —
I used to eat in this room.
I was smaller then.

The stair creaks protest
at my increased weight —
the room on my right
was the room where I slept.
When was the last time I prayed?

(One forgets. I forget.
The blessed do not really care.)

The lined face of my ageing father
comes back with a blistering honesty —
he laughed once
but drank far too often.
But there is no innocent work:

all these words I’m using,
they’ve all been said before.
The house is boarded now —
something has taken its life.
I am bigger now.

There Is a Charge

I’ve never asked for anything much
so I’ve never asked you for anything much.
I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
It would not do. It would not do.

I sit on the corner of your bed
as you lift my chest flesh to examine my scars.
There is a charge.
I paid a price so why shouldn’t you?

Please, kiss away this blood upon my lips.
I’ve never allowed myself to bleed this loud before.
I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
They said I would not do. I’d never do.

I’ve never asked you for anything much
because I’ve never been offered anything much.
Your arms, your hips, your empty promises,
that’s all I ask. These things will do.

Look at Yourself First

I used to take drugs to make my heart go fast.
I hated my body and, for pleasure,
I tried my hardest to ensure it didn’t last.

I destroyed my hair with bleach
and dye
and stripped it white like a fight,
a godawful sight,
a squalid Warhol acolyte.

I lived in a decaying slum
and cared about women who wouldn’t stare,
wouldn’t look, couldn’t care;
whores from the docks
who stunk like skunks
lived on spunk and too much junk.

I knocked around with men
whose blood was rotten with AIDs,
and helped them keep score of those sexy bitches
and Libertines they’d laid (to rest).

So, all the best, mate!
I dribble blood when I speak:
I’m brutalised and proud of it,
but sure this is my peak.

How about you?
What have you done
with your life?