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Little wisdoms take you
nearer - ‘They don’t have to listen
to hear’ Stopped me screeching “Listen to me” “Listen to me” And added promise To the hope of relationships Few As such wisdoms might be We can see the ‘me’ Our full discovery Will not be By looking out Of you’re boney dome skull With eyes Or – Realised Within But by being In another place Looking back at actual Serenely visual This mystic temple Where your everbodies speak Know each They teach You how to be - Me And if you ever make it Into even understanding Who you are Reach You just maybe Could go far |
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This is the first part of a,
not all that helpful, series. (A lot) More to follow. |
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Don’t delve into the creative
well Some of us were always meant
to Tripping round about the edge Slowly, luxuriantly, stepping
forward Bathed in exploration of
within Finding pools are
subterranean Shouting discoveries through
canyons Echoes reach the light of day Chilling listeners to gather For occasional returning Crushing, eager for some
wisdom Laughing, worshipping the
diver Seeking ways to live and move Journeying involves return As ancient waters, timeless,
spill Emptying lungs, and heart,
and bile Spewing dark, rich words is
easy now Somehow envying those who
didn’t listen Dancing in the meadows –
laughing “I can’t reach back to you!” This fish is gutted,
splitted, splayed The facets now exposed Will never go away This caver envies you – your
simple sanity “Help me! – Help me!” ”As I seek help for you” |
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Crippled Preachers Driven to poetry, inadequate,
insecure victims. Strive towards the day of, “I am a poet” Esoteric. Yes. And
outward of society they rave. Long and hard they press upon your tolerance.
Months of anguish cover well worn paths, for what? Little harvest, most
despised by picking author. One grain. One grain germinates and demonstrates.
The moribund and mundane, secretary servile. Rise upon a line and this time,
this time only. Appreciates quite fleetingly, the age of hewing. Not enough.
The so called poet carries angst. Remorse and avid inner urging beyond
madness. Never knowing. The world is better for you. Being here. Transient.
Crippled in-turned bastard that you are. |
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To Seek Urg! Been busy digging Deep for gemstones Got some good finds but An Ammonite's an Ammonite Even huge ones Need something bright To see (And show) It’s dark down here And every now When chipping stones Ancient amphibians Slide lizardy Then leap When not just shattered Bit. The light reflects Cheap crystal finds Then all my mines Deep dark emotions Rumble forth As in a flicker Shadow show This wicker digger Displays – Displays Every flaw And fashioned flow Is spilled |