80S poems – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

Poetry Round Up For These Troubled Times

Boxes of Light

Boxes of white light, seven boxes of white light, seven boxes of hope and joy, seven spaces of white light in the clouds. Please stay there, please don’t rain. I don’t want the pain. I will stay you’ll never be gone and I am not done with opening doors that you walk through. With a smile I can see you and just say hello I am here, let us open our boxes of hope.

I Breathe Out

I breathe out, the breath becomes yesterday, turning the corner ah that is also yesterday it has gone, unless you walk back in time, gone and yet we are in the moment, we are upon the earth the goodness terra bequeaths us each and every day, man has a lot to learn, let us in the moment learn anew.

A Hand

A hand for every occasion put it on, and you can get it on. I mean it is your day of course, warm and convenient. A face to hand and here it comes, a dull grey face. An ugly mouth full of promise, just try him on your right hand you will soon see you’ve got your hand full, OMG man you’ve got a world to save.

Pastel Atoms

A chain of peaceful, passive pastel atoms, whispering a trail around a troubled planet. Bursting in flames and destruction. It weaves before your eyes in a vast colourless sky, we inherit from the pollution of twisted human minds. Waking up day after day, the colourful weave of atoms grows stronger in a band across the atmosphere. Wider and blindly determined to land as coloured rain from lingering clouds to land in variant forms. With new spirit on a crystal clear day to form a colony anew to reignite the purpose of new human form, as super animals no higher than a slumbering element. In a new jungle flora of wonderous fauna.

Reflections

Reflections on glass divides us with it’s shining I see others I used to know, but cannot reach out even my fingertips won’t do for there is war. Much war, humanity reaching its ends overshadowed by smoke fire and death. What is tomorrow when we won’t see the the end of this day. Is this the price to pay for evolution for God has no grace, and just in case you wonder Gods work is all around amongst the fire and hell for again this is still war as it always has been among humans who never learn

a collection of poems from the warrior…

Deserted Beaches

A side reel of fire that is the matter deposited upon earth’s deserted beaches. In the silence of thousands of desolate nights under a myriad of stars, guiding and benevolent moon lights of the sandy weaving coastlines. There is no-one yet to hear the auld pulse of crashing waves into stubborn rockfaces. But in the coves and caves tiny fires are now seen and shapes within shadows. New life is forming around fires, naked and hairy for now. But forms from the matter are bursting forth ready for the inward march under thousands of sun mornings.

Gods Return To The Sun.

God’s return to the sun within. Simple it is, all life molten drops of energy that we cannot touch we only harvest the rays that lift us to our feet every day. Alive with the absolute in dilution breaking past the seal of limitation that halts our burning and nurtures crops to harvest and eat for the simplicity of life and faith.

Particles

Particles in the pipeline I shone my torch down a length of pipe the light captured the particles within I have no doubt the particles will posses the nuclei for another life by the time the end of this tunnel is reached I may even suggest that whilst they are spinning in this swirl another life will emerge upon their exit to an awaiting galaxy the new world my friends.

Xmas Poetry & Audio Poems Ep 1.

Audio Poems

Tramps are everywhere…

Hurried Stuff, mother is in the living room.

It’s Grim Up North

A Time.

A time when nothing is in your hands, manipulation occurs, from another source. It comes to visit by surprise it does so in doses to convince you literally your mind is not your own wait. And you will feel them sleep, then see forever.

Boys Who Were Kings

Boys who were kings at ten, now sit on their own, when they were old and grey cobwebs were spun around the stiffness as the chair rocked to and fro a long nose of nobility hit the shadows, the lightbulb swung. A shadow in the gap where once burned a fire in the once living hub of familial energy, a forefinger raised still above the right chair. Arm pointing, but the direction has gone. A figure walks past the glassless window a cool white full moon is helping the voice shouts out “anyone at home” “silence man, the king is dead close the door”. All reposed nothing to report

Hurried Stuff

Hurried stuff dark rainy day strained brain sat on me Todd watching a wheeze of a sixties slice of life semi biopic of the cultural time now gone it is but madness Norman Bates is here mother are you alive or dead no it is a slipper behind the door , where is mother she is but with axe ready in the front room still watching soaps whilst I’m still in a lather looking for an open door

The Overseer For The Lord.

The idiot in the village, some five hundred years ago amidst the foul stench of what was known as the village. The abhorrent stench of everyday life was on the move, figures of dark brown attire matched the muddy surroundings it was as if all blended and to some extent so it did. The village idiot Brown John flapped his hands and danced around yipping as he went.

Talking was more like grunting more a mix of point and gesture, no Latin here, for brown John unknown to others was the supreme interloper an observer for interplanetary development seconded from the great ship in the sky that had mapped development from the birth of Christ.

The overseer for the Lord in heaven a cosmos away, John was half way through his present earth life there was much intelligence in his mud caked apparel and on this very day John had to go, for the execution of village idiots was night and as far as John was aware upon given instructions he was to avail himself to the hovering star when the moon became full and powerful in gravity.

The village was becoming noisy low drummers were sounding from afar down the track Sunday was approaching far dawn the track, death was coming for Sunday. It would be the villagers who were foaming at the mouth for bloodlust that day.

John is behind one of the camped village dwellings, crouched was he, the night of his personal ascendance moulded near an ale barrel was he. The large moon she was pulsing slowly John stood up immersed in light was he absorbed, was he John fitted within an egg shaped aura and also emitting an astral aura and he began the process of retrieval to the command of the white light.

To report to seven masters of the universe who would with precision place John within another timeframe of evolution to inspect the development of what we have come to describe as further versions of man in the universe. We go with the mark of God upon the palm of the right hand.