Warrior of Poetry AKA Mason Cult in turk’rs wood once m’re twas early evening mason ent’r’d his creepy did abide upon the f’rrest track t hadst only been m’rely two years since the black pixilat’d six foot traveleth spirit hadst blink’d hence behind that gent not wanting to beest seen t blipp’d and did vanish , but int’rmittently bawbling clust’rs of his black did shape youngst’rs hadst been hath caught playing speedily. Anon those gents w’re becoming m’re brave in behaviour and in the v’ry recent timeth has’t been spott’d dancing upon a concrete wasteth transf’r platf’rm in carefree abandon, I concludeth the dark figure hast a family his new home in turk’rs wood remains undisturb’d and Mason Cult did get some catch but a wink.
The Poet Speaks Detune…
We must simplify to survive the current model, detune, detoxify, accept humble worship. The light and day, we are given we can be anywhere just from our minds stop the vicious calculations. Listen to a breeze that filters subtle change, accept gentleness as a moral change. Within your hearts replace to live in peace instead of race to win and above all listen to the oppressed people’s of the world, hear the cry and proffer hope.
I Saw Your Shadow
I Saw Your Shadow
I saw your shadow so I thought I’d retreat, there was nothing to say all blown away the wind rolled us like a carpet. We’d had blanket coverage we were not famous anymore we had done with lifetime served and we threw the clock away. No hands were moving, no tick went with the tock the land was his after the third war, let’s hope our spirits survived for our shadows were forever painted on a wall. Yet our very souls were saved I don’t like things so final however I found this pathway, climbing between the high clouds. It is only me I made a fluffy shape I’m gone and this cloud vanished far away from the mayhem
The Fog
The fog in the room, spirits collecting I thought my eyes were foggy then I realised what I had seen the gathering the final time, in early morning not aware of my presence they just gathered in density, intensity and with no conscience whatsoever. They pick their time obviously. I was no offence to them so they carried on with whatever they had to achieve, then a few blinks and later in the day they were gone. Were they not good to hang around I guess not and so onwards with the day.
MORE POEMS FOR OUR EPIC POETRY ARCHIVE
No Man’s Land
No Man’s Land it all is from now to wherever no man will ever rule again, waiting for those chosen and those left and those chosen they wait hidden in hides. Submerged these are pick up points for tomorrow they wait, men and women pockets of good against the greedy prototypical that have destroyed earth for thousands of years. So many unseen, we have been tried and tested found wanting and this species must vacate. So the clock is set and soon the ascending will start extraction and the gnashing of teeth will be heard, but it is the only way.
Vortex
Vortex wheel spinning of many colours, colours that travel for all, make a better man or woman maybe nothing at all. Indeed is this experiment coming to pass in overload, the same madness happens. War, famine, peace for awhile. yet the planets are adjusted, life forms brought forward to be approved by a thing unknown. Silent yet in mass moving as a liquid, the mixture within deposited secreted upon all silent shores, pulsing under the glistening full moon.
Ghosts
The house is so full of ghosts the door won’t close, did you know this oh Gillian Anderson of X Files fame, they all had a happy time but it is now hollow pleasure, as these ghosts can only get a sense of time gone, but never had they been brighter than in Hook House on Bromley Street Mr Hollow is the only live relative and now to the ones gone before, but now he knows every one of his former beings.
Gathering my resistance in the homeostasis day by day, dust by dusk, it settles footprints and finger prints. I make it, builds it layers, lovely over all shapes only the cats are clean and oblivious to the way it goes. The huge TV in large dazzling pixilation’s of projections, the shaft of light strobes through the gap in old draped curtain dust. Falling particles are stunned as they fall over hours the TV giving virus talk, but here is just a building resistance in the homeostasis my impression remains constant and growing, in this seat tell me, am I dead.