The Little Lantern Peoples of Hanger Hill, we are now approaching the year three thousand, many world downturns later and the fashioned nature of the time is producing smaller peoples of what is left of a world, what is left of houses is little more than rubble to hide in. Food is a combination of the wild fayre, wild veg, and disheveled crumble. Warehousing full of water-soluble dry packet foods, water is now wells and dysentery is high. Public health down to the volunteer medical people now fighting over supplies. But there is a strange phenomenon upon a mountain hill on the edge of the Lake District or more correctly the edge of the North Yorkshire hills. It is a disused gliding school hanger with its sliding doors half-open upon a metal beam in the far corner of this hanger up to a thousand paraffin lanterns can be seen one small knobbly kneed strange human form can be seen standing in front of this lantern keeping warm as it states into this ok light and heated device most primitive. By eight PM a procession of stunted shadowy figures can be seen trailing toward the grey rusting building each being picks a now lit lantern and proceeds to form a circle within the hanger waffled chit chat I observe and then there is the whistle and shaped being called pointed hand and it’s hand goes through a gap in the grey hanger door to alight upon a higher hill. The thousand little lantern peoples must prepare so in procession lamps on they waddled out the big hanger door toward an Auric horn higher up the trail glowing deep and moaning in sound and steam the little lantern people marched in a train of light to the Auric horn.
Tag: Poem
One Way Ticket
One way ticket to blank so my friends this is immortality the colour was black bleak, to say the least considering I was supposed to be no more further on a mass mess of activity, chatter a thousand miles away but non-audible in this outer state. What was left of emotion was like trying to ascend a verticle mud bank the faces at the top laughing. I didn’t know any of them they were not human I concluded I couldn’t go back so I wait for arms and legs as Jesus rotating in space to who knows where.
The Seat
The seat we didn’t go to for judgment, we went for calm, ah we are the sheep that follow told to believe when murder and hate were on the loose, no peace, the fuse had gone. So death and destruction occurred one last way, out to the light. Upon the trial of a white pathway miles more than you could ever see or imagine.
Me To Mine
Me to mine, my thoughts need an exhaustive cleaning. Too much dirt I cannot live without the purity, I seek upon new pasture like a grazing bovine. I need new pasture so I can chew things over till I decide how to survive and indeed I ask myself is it worth it, as the bastards grind me down or try they won’t succeed tell that to the universe, oh yes the force is on the move.
More Poems From The Poetic Warrior
Life
How Did I Get Here
Life closing down so we can be remodeled, no descent, no words, just sour faces. But some people must pay and they will happiness and laughter must show through with a new vista. Nothing should defeat us we are a world of huge energy the dictators must go one and all the moon’s a giant grin to smile in the twilight zone to hell with grim tales of woe we demand the best show so we can hear laughter for miles and forever and another day.
How
How did I get here I’m still waiting for answers in the meantime I shall try and live another day, this is the dry run for either heaven or hell there lays within an imbalance of feeling. I have to will myself on and I am lost for inspiration as God’s physical hand has never stopped me from falling so I tread with caution in my older age looking side to side for potential enemies which are often unknown. It’s hard to get older without being reassured but there is no choice as so far religion’s intervention has failed I remain a mortal till I die and death will turn the page for someone or something to start again.
The Ghost
The ghost skins they lay upon the floor we walk, all over them we little know of the truth in these matters, ceaseless reincarnations on and on a remodel every week the ground groans with the weight of action, a face greets me upon every waking ripple. Is it a face I’ve seen before, is it even my own once again it’s the confusion you know what I mean nothing is permanent.
Senseless
Graduates of distress somber yet senseless, wired yet worried. Every cause for concern amplified OCD the lot of them. Wild and lonely are we unable to change the media children. A different kind of food among the dangerous criss-cross of hedge knitted congested radio waves rolling in the sea of unstoppable change.