Don’t Bring My Body Home

One thousand worlds stare down;
we don’t really matter at all.
But in that moment I could have sworn
we were a microcosm of colliding stars.

Crash against the rocks, exist again as a sea mist.
Pull me from the stream, the water then shall have me.
Don’t bring my body home.

Passing through the centuries;
this Earth imbibes all time.
The ground on which we stand
is saturated with moments.
We don’t really matter at all,
but matter’s not on my mind.

Stand beneath the sun, stain shadows on the stone.
Wrap me up in arms, I shall burn within my blood.
Don’t bring my body home.

Transcending all but time
was a world that mattered not.

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Beyond The Stained Glass

This is a poem about someone who has been fascinated by what they have read about the Renaissance in books and what they have seen in paintings. They are totally entranced by the beauty of it and they would like to go five hundred years back in time to Italy and see it for themselves. This poem imagines that they have found themselves there and have found it to be a more complicated place than the picture they have been presented with. A place of danger and persecution, as well as artistic and intellectual enlightenment.

I’ve only seen the Renaissance in books and frames,
and in my mind this is such a great shame.
If I could charter a ship and sail through time,
I would talk with all of the great thinkers and minds.

Be a muse for Da Vinci and even more for Botticelli,
then return and wonder ‘have I lived once already?’
See a face in a painting that’s awfully familiar,
yet I’d just put it down to someone similar.

Dante’s circles may not be quite my thing
but neither are the angels that do sing.
Florence is hot in this Summer of flame
I must take care to not join this game.

I gaze in wonder at the grand ships of trade
but I remember the woes of those enslaved.
Who paid for the splendid basilica dome?
How much blood was sold to construct Rome?

I bring to mind what Machiavelli said,
keep yourself alive and bow your head.
These are the cities where the saints do sleep,
I should go home lest I wander too deep.

Melting Walls

Maybe some may say that his sounds like a strange acid trip, but I have never actually used such a substance. This is my sober mind, high on thought (I suppose), and perhaps reaching out into darker recesses of the potential of dreams. Where can they take us? And, more importantly, do they themselves have limits? How far can they bend the structures of sense, or does sense exist as a concept within the strictly unconscious mind?

I take footsteps down a hallway that doesn’t feel so solid.

Every move forward supported by condensed shadows,

as if I balance on a balcony of darkness.

A soul guided by a direction not yet chosen;

every second, I could plunge into unfamiliarity.

—-

Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

—-

Paintings are weeping the spectrum’s breadth,

the tears spiralling through the floor.

Where do the colours go when they flow?

Is there anything lying beneath me?

All I can touch upon is a staircase of air,

must I hold on? What will it be to fall?

Every move upwards makes the black sea rise.

—-

Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

This hallway’s a serpent, swallowing me,

but in the acidic darkness, this is a dream.

I daren’t move backwards, then I shall fall,

fall through the vortex and the melting walls.

—-

No one else inhabits this world.

I can see human figures glide past,

they’re just hollow reflections of a memory.

Entrapments turn into a wade of tar,

with naiads tempting me to wade further in.

—-

Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

This hallway’s a serpent, swallowing me,

but in the acidic darkness, this is a dream.

I daren’t move backwards, then I shall fall,

fall through the vortex and the melting walls.

Embargo

This was written about writers’ block, and my struggles with it, not being able to know exactly what I should write, and how perhaps I should inspire myself. As I thought, there were no ships sailing in my mind to the shores of poetry; it was an embargo. I still suffer from writers’ block now, and to a worse extent. It is hard for me to write poetry, but I do try and occasionally something gets finished.

Blank white as a cloud drowned sky,

hiding shy blue like the shrouds in my mind.

They say, touch pen and paper, just write,

but what have I to say, even if I might?

—-

A writer’s embargo, or my shortcoming in verse?

‘not a creative one’, my label and my curse.

Only adequacy resounding, mediocrity abound,

my severed poets’ hand, oh I hope it is soon found.

—-

Listless little words, structured to fitting metre,

there’s no feeling, no force so I am a rhythmic cheater.

But I’ll carry on, employing celluloid phrases,

until sparks emerge from the hedges of these mazes.

—-

I arouse myself through the smoke of incense,

but cinnamon visions do not gift me with sense.

I sit within the haze with my thoughts still locked,

the gateway to the muses seems never unblocked.

—-

Perhaps I am ordinary, with imagination too bland,

the poetic sides of my mind mind are vast plains of sand.

I see nothing but desert, when stood atop a dune,

unable to visualise an oasis coming any time soon.