Tag Archives: Poetry

Where clouds merge…

Mad-Max-Fury-Road-Trailer-2-22-1280x532 (2)

Too late to paint the shades of darkness;

it’s after midnight, don’t you know?

So many wounds, and so much harshness,

of deaths outrunning lives too slow…

 

Do we remember our own image mirrored,

the smell of revenge on edges of time,

of tenderness scarred and hopes littered,

of poems unworthy of paper and rhyme?

 

Is this the end of all our beginnings?

Impossible lyrics to unwritten songs;

factual statements for obvious meanings,

no rights in the graveyards of all our wrongs…

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Shelves to nowhere…

Andromeda

 

I need one more day to remember tomorrow,

a page underneath old volumes of pain,

stolen perhaps from where’s nothing to borrow,

oblivious libraries of not much to gain…

 

Pacing intrigued through shelves to nowhere,

wars of empires coveting gold,

buried beneath my belonging to somewhere,

echoes and voices of stories untold…

 

Stay where you are, impossible dancer,

blind choreography of a footless shoe,

growing a handful of hopes like a cancer,

a mirror between your image and you…

 

Tired and selfish at nobody’s table,

condemned to repeat your only dream,

able to live, to die unable,

vanished crescendo of a voiceless scream…

 

https://wiki.uiowa.edu/display/theatre/pictures+-+stars+and+other+deep-space+images

A metric analysis of impossible rhymes…

Flaming sword Eugène_Ferdinand_Victor_Delacroix

Life’s like a lobotomised impression
inside a golden skull;
too cheap to bury,
too expensive to keep.
A Stradivari of motionless complexities,
all sailing south, monstrosities,
as forbidden banners of condemned rebellions…
Tied to the mast of someone else’s travels,
on sleepless waves of no more dreams to catch,
blinded lighthouses
towering over shipwrecked carcasses
still flickering inside
the cheapest postcard of a better world,
conscripts of chemical genocides
fought over ivory ashes
of forbidden rattles
echoing impractical Edens.

The flaming sword is still there,
a metric analysis,
of impossible times…

Amazing traces…

Please watch before reading, and listen while you read:

The Idan Raichel Project – Hakol Over (Everything passes)

Idan Raichel clip 2

I need you to dream the colour of spaces,
the time between midnight, tomorrow and trees,
I beg you to fathom amazing traces,
layers of clouds returning to seas…

I dare you to picture small shells of forgiveness,
buried within improbable fields,
requiems sold to merchants of stillness,
swordless battles of useless shields…

I want us to marry in a destitute chapel,
by ministers chanting untimely hymns,
with broken pieces of soft marble,
exchanging a lifetime of broken dreams…

Abandoned eagles…

Dreamcatcher

A flow of matter,
crossing bridges
paved with idle rivers,
of constant wars between no sides,
for kings and kingdoms rather old…
How bitter all the odds,
when knights die young
and simply for no reason,
alone with horses
mourning by their sides,
while all the humble flowers
of each season,
spell intricate mementoes
on their hides…

How strange each morning,
when misty eyes set memories
on fragile pages of honesty.
Uprooted trees of good
and bad, and life and evils,
abandoned eagles,
nesting in my chest…

Rejoice my queen,
you’ve got no symptoms
of anything to give you rest;
I’ve got some tea, you bring the branches
of something better,
never best…

Agnosis…

Greek_atheos

It’s not important to remember days, and wonder
why has our time become so slow;
it doesn’t matter anymore if there’s no thunder,
after the rain, before the bow…

It matters not why in our backyard’s desert,
there are no camels and the Bedouins have left;
what truly matters is a sense of water,
illusion wildly clenching to my chest…

Tired, alone and ravaged by disasters,
battled by winds having no taste of sea,
sold by myself to unforgiving masters,
too thin to die, too obvious to see…

In no-man’s land they’re selling cheap allotments,
graveyards to be, or not to be;
some weird biochemical arrangements,
for my abandoned christmas tree…

Damaged goods…

Shadowless candle MbY

My mother,
pulled the trigger over my head,
leaving deep patterns of blue,
motionless artefacts,
resembling fountains of lost youths…

Amber, left cold,
around pavement stones,
imagined every night by owls
guarding flickering souls,
hiding behind shadowless candles.

Darren, open the window, my son,
and let us dance,
like none of us has ever danced, before
legions of merchants might have lost
every heart of Venice…

Damaged goods,
need no re-packaging before midnight;
lazy mail deliverers
might be chasing toothless cogs
around clocks,
never showing northern lights.

On each and every envelope,
our DNA tells the true story
behind the empty meaning
of printed feelings…