andrew149 Poetry (264)

Lost, lost in a place that I thought I knew so well,
The fog has descended,
My footsteps muffled,
Not the vision I saw yesterday as clear as a bell.

The cure that worked before, no longer works,
Visions of yesterday,
Are broken dreams of today,
And in the dark shadows, the black dog lurks.

I may shake and cry, though hide my tears,
Think of other things,
Take one minute at a time,
The black dog just laughs and feeds on my fears.

When I’m not good, I fight this battle every day,
Praying for tomorrow,
Getting through today,
Wondering, how many times for yesterday, I have to pay.

See, the fears are so intangible,
Can’t grasp,
Can’t sort,
They’re there though, dark, invisible.

Then, one day I wake up free,
No worries or fears,
It’s a clear blue morning,
I smile, maybe have a coffee…
I laugh,
And….For a while again….I’m me!

Well, that's it then!
The end of my day,
Got some ideas for tomorrow,
But, that's a whole sleep away.
I'm sleepy and tired,
All poeted out with not much more to say.
So thank you one and all,
I hope I have pleased some of you,
Be you, handsome, sweet and short,
Or beautiful and tall.
Whether you're here or there, doesn't matter
Because all around the globe, in poetry, we natter,
So May your God go with you,
And bless you one and all!

I sat down beside him.

"I like cheese on toast, wiv peanut butter on top, and jam,
But...Sardines and tomatoes... That's my fav'rit",
Pulling a face now,Shaking his head,
"Don't like ham".

I smiled.

A four year old boy,
sat in a rubbish strewn yard, rats running around,
Playing with an old wooden toy.
He had dirt engrained hands and face,
Short trousers, scuffed and bleeding knees.
"I falled over, it's only a scratch",
I dabbed at them with my handkerchief.
Tough little blighter,
Knew better than to ask for anything at all with a "Please",

"You're a copper aint'cha...?"
"I can tell.... Mom'll be back soon. She'll give you 'ell".
No I thought, she won't,
She's gone to prison for a long time...Right now, she’s sat in a cell.

I took a deep breath.

"Come with me", I said,
"I'll take you away from here,
I know where you can get,
The greatest sardines and tomatoes you ever saw,
On best bread".

His face lit up.

Not looking back, we picked our way to the broken down gate.
I held his hand tight, to the waiting car I led.

Like in a mirror,
We feel each other,
Asking nothing of one another.
When we look in each others eyes,
We're lost in something,
No words can describe.
Worlds, passing by in ignorant blissfulness,
There's just us,
No joins,
....Forever....
Seamless.

I came to you in your dream, last night,
I didn’t mean to intrude,
Didn’t mean to be rude,
I was just responding in kind,
After you came to me in mine,
And, it just seemed to me,
To be right….

I enjoyed reading the poem by Bill that seemed to be about my poem “The Pedant”
I don’t know what it is about this poem that makes people think that it is about “Them”,
it just seems to strike a chord in some people I think. Indeed, when I first posted it, a good friend on the corner wondered if it was about him, and he asked me as much in a private email, which I happily answered in the negative.
I am ashamed to admit that I did actually write it about a “Someone”, and confided to the aforesaid friend at the time that I wrote from frustration at the mails I was receiving at that time, about my first book of poems, “dreamweaver”, from my publisher, that, being the “Someone.”
Now, unless I was gifted with extraordinary foresight and malice aforethought I could not have written this about Bill, as, if anyone would care to look, it was posted Fri. July 16th 2010.
I wanted to set this right, because whatever anyone thinks of this particular poem it was NOT written, to the best of my knowledge, about anyone resident now or ever at this corner.
I hope this clears the matter about this poem now, and that it is put to rest.
In my opinion, this place was always a respite, and a comforting haven for those on CS wanting to get away from the Forums and Profiles that can be very brutal, and forthright. Also a place for people wanting to write poetry for whatever reason. When I last looked it didn’t say anywhere in the guidelines that spelling had to be perfect or that everything had to rhyme….Or, that you had to even be an aspiring poet at all!
However, it does ask that if you cannot be constructive and offer encouragement in comment, (I am paraphrasing here), pass it by without comment. I think mainly, this above all should be followed, after all not everyone is very literate in English, and misunderstandings easily happen.
Thank you for reading this explanation and my opinion. I truly hope that it clarifies a “Muddy puddle”. Please keep writing everyone, in whatever way you feel fit, for nobody’s poems are here to be judged by anyone, just enjoyed, and by many more than will ever comment or contribute to this corner. There is no such thing as good or bad poetry, only good or bad opinions about poetry. Remember, what you say here is read around the world.
Yours sincerely,
Andrew.

Seeming effortless,
As if with small intent,
First updraft caused,
Emptied lakes of content,
Concocted, boiling mist,
Of circled rainbows did consist.
Natural ingredients of no lack,
Huge anvil,
Whirling nimbus, dispersed cirrus,
All collected,
Coming storm, in eyes reflected,
Centers of obsidian black!
Together in friction,
Tossing fireballs, his predilection,
With mind focus,
Fork lightning crafted,
By high speed wind,
Boiled, cooled, wafted,
Stood ‘stride mountain top,
Flying hair, arms raised,
Rain now streaming,
Gods of mayhem praised,
All calm commanded wild,
By supernature,
STORMCHILD!

A full moon drifts across the clear night sky,
lighting a silvery path out to sea,
I sit and think, then realise, oh my!
could that silvery path really be meant for me?
In the distance a dog barks on the beach,
then, to myself, I laugh,
for no matter how I stretch, the stars always seem just out of reach,
once again I close my eyes, walk slowly along my path.
I sit down, light a cigarette,
think a little more,
I'm not beaten yet,
after all I'm not sinking, yet I'm far from shore.
I don't need to stretch my body,
just my mind,
for the first is unlikely for anybody,
but, in my imagination, nothing is impossible, I'll find.

Sixty six years ago today,
After 43 seconds of freefall,
A city was turned to trash,
So many people,
A poisonous mushroom of glowing ash,
Enola gay,
Had just given birth,
The chain reaction still goes on,
Nothing stands in it’s way.

So many,
So many.....
Countless the number through the ages, who have this worn path trod.
It discriminates not, it holds no distinction between man or woman, or those that have and those that have not.
All start out, end never in sight, with spring in step no matter their condition or age,
All striving in their own way for tomorrow, always tomorrow, that just out of reach thing, the next unseen page.
Across deserts, up hill, always just over the next peak, fording treacherous rivers, wading through slippery streams,searching tirelessly for the means, the way to find themselves, write their own destinies, live their own dreams.
The way has no set route, no beginning, no end. Some fall by the wayside,
Needing to rest, to sleep, some, forever in that spot, having found their home, will reside.
While others, rise to take their place or miraculously re-awaken,
So many......
So many,
Countless the number through the ages, who chose to tread this path…….
The one..... Less taken.

Lost, I travelled far and wide,
Searching for the window of your soul,
Now I need your warmth from the cold,
For I have seen life through the silken blue depths of your eyes,
Seen the remnants,
Shattered fragments of life’s echoes past,
Like Molten, fiery, flecks of gold,
Witnessed your despair, your strangled sighs,
Hold me, I need you now,
For here I stand,trembling on your threshold…..
Feeling like a frightened child,
Home, at last..

He crosses his t’s, he dots his i’s.
Whenever he finds someone else’s mistake,
It’s always a very pleasant surprise.
No matter how small the detail,
Even if it’s minute,
Nothing to him is quite beyond the pail.
Even to call him a perfectionist isn’t quite right,
Disingenuousness is his rule,
When taking compliments, he thinks, to be polite.
Dots, commas and apostrophe’s are his stock in trade,
All the tools are there,
He can’t understand, how, many mistakes are made.
Nouns and pronouns are the laws,
It doesn’t matter what "You" think,
He doesn’t believe in just be-cause!