poetry

The echo

Time makes such amends

For what’s missing in time

Just when life seemed hopeless

Along came time to soften wandering through the pages

 

Maladjusted by my unravelling

Depth and meaning were the challenge to my soul, but

Time had a way of healing,

For relief from superficialness.

I found soothing in an echo from time

The breeze blew toward me,

A grace I was assigned

Misaligned, I was, but saved despite the swirl of agony

In a moment of time

poetry

Praise

Taking the sheen off the praise

When what was delivered was good,

I got to get away,

Get back to the place where I am understood.

Many years ago, an utterance of certainty,

Which I forsook,

Could they be so right,

When the praise is so good,

And delivers in ways that are wonderous.

I lift my soul and hand go up, the arms raise

Wonderful release,

No more the exercise of pain,

Inflicted by something unseen,

The shine comes back,

And I’m found again.

poetry

A life giving word

As crude as the priest put it,

The answer he gave made sense,

Although I questioned the expression,

The answer resounded in spirit

I knew he was right.

I knew its truth.

I, myself, did.

The woman he was talking to listened

Wondering if this is the answer to

The dilemma in her life

(Her fatal suffering)

Albeit God was with her and

God was in the solitary voice –

Even when it’s not the prevailing wisdom.

The water flowed tranquilly,

To rescue her on hearing.

If she took it.

poetry

Bittersweet to hunger

Kind of nice, but bitter

The taste of convenance

Easy.

Homemade.

Over there, not.

Nowhere to find.

In the place I call home.

Kind of nice, but bitter,

Going cold, always sour.

My Sweet,

You never complain,

Alternatives, what?

I wouldn’t change a thing!

Except if it was mud cake in the face.

I am glad you are here

You will not go

For this is bitter to a hungry man,

And it tastes good.

 

When will thou arrive?

 

By Peter Veugelaers.

poetry

Strait through

A straight line I go alone

Steps along the way

The spring is infectious

Buoying me every day

Veering not to the left or right and not by design,

The course I am is full and sublime.

 

Remember me? Shouted a boy by other means a man

Are you still who you are,

Or have you gone lame?

I was who I was, I said.

And that is all I said.

 

Wanting to probe some more,

I anticipated a shock,

A meeting of no mere reunion,

A rude interruption.

 

I kept on going

Not fearing what lies ahead.

A bit maimed and bruised,

But I must cruise

Just get me to the other side.

Even if I die, alive.

 

A straight line I go alone

Steps along the way

The spring is infectious

Buoying me every day

Veering not to the left or right and not by design,

The course I am is full and sublime.

 

poetry

Feeling today

I better write this

While it is not compelling me, but

Impelling me to.

While not knowing why,

I have an idea,

What it’s about.

The day only comes once a year,

The smell of it, I know.

What it’s about I don’t.

So, what does today mean, to me?

A rather lonely sojourn?

While everyone’s in the know?

Why should I bother?

But I do. The day is another beautiful day

Isn’t this why we are free to celebrate,

Because it is another beautiful day?

Unhinged, unfettered.

Unleased with light.

Since that day many years ago.

 

poetry

Alive

The rain is about to fall.

So, they told us.

But it didn’t come.

They all breathed a sigh of relief,

So, did I.

I enjoyed the sun, while it was there,

On a day,

Of heaven spent joys.

The rain might have fell,

But was kept back for more,

More of you, the sun,

Love of the rays flowed through

My heart rejoiced, for the sight,

Not blinding,

But alive,

And death did not gnaw.

poetry

We

Weatherboards, straight across—

A roof, four walls.

I see.

Over there, I see you.

Close and near.

Not in that house they built.

You are to me,

A person.

Not etched in a wall

In the pew

The one who gave or did not

You are not a plaque.

But you are you

And I do

See you.

That’s all I see.

poetry

Looking up

I looked up.

peace overcame the dreary sky.

the clouds left behind,

a ray of light broke through

Shining bright over the heads of us

as I looked from the window,

inside the room.

I was watching the change,

I was looking up.

I remembered God,

the Father’s light shines on the

righteous and unrighteous alike.

He remembered me,

Just then.

He can send the rain,

For now, the light he sends.

poetry

Ways

The plan is this.

That it goes to plan.

What is the plan?

No pain in the game that’s lived in this life to get to where I need to be,

The need is great, no doubt I feel it strong,

Needy me, needy me,

Needing to get there,

Abide by the plan,

On hand,

Focused and dry,

No doubt in my mind

Got to do it do it do it

There is no turning back

Going forward, on track

Cannot stop, got to go,

Get in that place,

Where I want to go,

All obstacles I will put asunder

Until my life has got to where it wants

Then will I be?

Will I be settled within?

Calm and collected?

There will always be room for the break –

Into something new,

Jump right in.

I’ll stop what I do.

And go that way, the way

For it’s as fresh as new.

poetry

Help me see

You think you know it all. I got to help you, son.

The other guy is coming with a message you better here,

It will help you, I’m sure, son.

You are missing a few brains of that I have no doubt.

A bit dumb around the corners:

You sprouted wings like cauliflowers and cabbages on the sides of your brain.

But I am here, to help,

Unless some other together guy would get at you first:

The head guy. Amateur.

Bar the humble guy.

Who asked you,

Help me see.

For you see better than me.

poetry

Integrity

Whetting my appetite on a diet of malnutrition things I am supposed to not eat but eating them anyhow no one will see my diet of mental malnutrition but nevertheless I go ahead and hope for the best making sure no one sees me and I die a death, losing myself, my integrity, did I even regret the impulse that came over my brain in a haze of momentary lack of mindedness set on just one thing and forgetting I said it was mental malnutrition. The death of my soul, now a hole, and no one knows, but I die, alone. I jumped from thing to thing and the desire grew and blew and blew until it flew, and I’m left with the residual hue nothing like I wanted.

poetry

Appeal

No, not laughable

Breezy, uplifting and touching

A hint of how much I love you

She’s rich but not annoyingly so

No self-indulgent phony

Sounds the most honest

Apt considering her title (she’s not channeling a future divorce)

She’s surprising

How is she really feeling Mostly sentimental gut feeling

Don’t ask if I think this is better or an embarrassment Her appeal outstanding

poetry

Porridge and poetry

Free verse is all porridge and poetry

Mixed and thrown together like a whirlwind of expressive rage

Hot in the pot and bubbling away

An orator who’s been told life is poetry and anger swirled all together,

Sounding like a dear old bird chirping,

Not so. Beaten into life by the wordsmith’s device

Heated words used in free verse candor

Sounding like he’s got a grip

Dying on the inside, the boy’s got lip

When a wind is getting closer

The poet dives for self-respect

The free verse expresses regret.

poetry

Illusion

It is this way, so the illusionist said to the one he called the magician.

The illusionist saw it no other way in the vision of the magician he seen

There was no grey ground and no questioning He had it right

And woe and before him the magician came creeping back who he viewed in a suspicious light

There was only one way of looking at her, and this way was right:

The magician was a wicked old willy.

Who happened to be a loved one gone by,

Never seen the same again,

The love he had was broken,

As the magician was seen through the illusionist’s eyes,

Never to be blown.

poetry

Smelly

Commercial intent, he said.

They said his nose was out of joint,

Because he smelt commercialization.

“You just hate anything commercial.”

But he grimaced at the candy smell in the foyer of a cinema

That was in the shop of a petrol station.

It was the smell that made him bark “Commercial intent”

And the manager was there to hear it.

The candy smell was smothering and moldy

No wonder he cried out

As life was choked out and inseminated with artificial popcorn, but

Could this be a matter of sour grapes?

As just the day before he had been given white bread for dinner.

Like the times he had been at the cinema he brought down curses on the place he was now standing.

In the shop of a petrol station.

There was such a mess.

poetry

Understanding “The Persian Rug”

How does one understand today’s poem “The Persian Rug”. Although it may sound like red carpet service for politicians despite their misdemeanors, it does not mean that at all. I can imagine a politician’s flaws being overlooked, though, and life goes on as normal, but this has nothing to do “The Persian Rug”. Quite simply the poem is spiritual. I am not using a strict religious metaphor from the Bible. I could have used another idea than the one I did, but I use “Persian rug” because it sounded like something exotic and transcendent which fitted in with my meaning. It is about how Jesus treats a person despite their flaws and sins. He died for sin but is not condemning someone for their sins. In a way he is treating the person in my poem like royalty even though he does not deserve it. This is God’s goodness to that person.

poetry

All I need to know

In moments, words were said,

Were they two divergent things expressed about the same thing?

One moment straight as an arrow that pierces the soul

Another moment as cheerful a schoolgirl chatting

Two divergent things expressed about the same thing? What’s the point, my friend?

She says one day coffee’s the killer

Next day asking if I’m getting a coffee — with a light touch of fun.

One day it’s one

One day it’s another

And the same

And the last day sinks the nail: you drink too much coffee.

Coffee is the cheerful killer she so wants to rid me of.

Dare I ask for more explanation, other than her innocent smile.

All conceived in love.

poetry

Intent

The previous ‘poem’ I wrote, “The Friend”, was written out of more a matter of intent than designing something artistic. There is a debate that says one should always write or create something excellently or this does not matter as much as what one is saying. Well, “The Friend” is inclined to be in the latter camp. I had intent with my idea and the art was second on my mind. I don’t think this poem is really that artistic as there are uneven spots; sometimes it rhymes and then it sounds cheesy in a way. But I trust the intent gets through and that’s felt in the poem’s effect. I was wanting to show that Jesus respects women after hearing the song “Everyone Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears. Jesus never came with a iron fist, but was gentle. I was reminded that Christianity can be regarded as an oppressive religion but this isn’t so when you read how Jesus related to women in the gospel.

poetry

The friend

An oppressor they called him;

Two thousand years of oppression!

And women are down?

Blame it on the Apostle Paul (some would say)

Women got to be submissive in Paul’s day

So, what does this say

About the Lord?

A misreading others say, as

Jesus was good to women–

And they loved him back.

By the mere, more than mere, fact they responded to him,

Was their love for a man who revealed his pure heart

To their souls

Jesus included women,

He did not reject them,

Scold or deny them

He showed them respect.

Maybe a women felt she got no respect

But Jesus friended them as they were.

Guided them where he could;

With gentle loving wisdom,

Which was understood

And despite the wrongs that were done to them,

Jesus gave them the grace to rise above.

If they feared a ruler,

They get a true servant instead.

Who is respected back

For the love that he gives.

poetry

Upside

Upside means the sunny side up,

The bright side of life,

The brighter side.

But there’s the upside down,

The opposite of the sunny side up,

Where something is down,

Something is wrong.

But I believe the light side can be good

In getting us through the upside down.

For if there is an upside down in the places we meet,

There may be a sunny side up that makes it seem neat.

That’s because there is still an upside in ‘upside down’.

poetry

The case

Departmental assistance not required and unwanted

In the belly of the artist living off the love of the Lord

Found in him.

Assign a case manager to this poor soul so he will prosper they said

And earn his way in.

For he will belong when his stripes have been attained.

But he had remembered the Lord in his youth,

The case manager did not know Departmental assistance not required.

We do life a certain way, you’ll belong that way they said.

Where indeed you will, dear man…

But in the belly of an artist living off the Lord

Was found the deeper recesses of water

That had nourished his soul

If they hadn’t come

He might still be at peace

In the deeper recesses of his soul.

In the artist living off the Lord

The Lord was still here,

Abundant life had already fashioned

Departmental assistance was not required.

The artist’s spirit could not be broken.

Deeper waters already brooding.

poetry

Day’s in

Uncomfortable he yelled deep down inside subtler than a scream but more telling of his distress than a deep down scream would say, he fell into the day with a stumble, getting breakfast, but falling asleep, he worked his way back into day from a disadvantage of a sleepy head, tumbling onto the street with a leap frog trying to keep up with the momentum the day set, and keep abreast well, entering through the door and the lady swiped the card and in he went, a one-sided chat indeed, she was alright, he was the center of attention for a change, and the test was done in a fashion of a bruise and hit around the head, leaving him wondering is she really was a nurse, indeed she was, and again he was in influx from the morning step out of bed falling down the side and getti8ng back up with one leg and two heads, unbeknown to him the right one wasn’t shining outside, too early, too fine, too lost. He felt good after the meeting.

poetry

Risk

As the intersection of two souls meet,

One soul hopes for more than meet and greet.

She took a risk, Is needing him so.

The other oblivious to all this,

Is caught up in the appearances of the show,

A way to get to know you is all a design

Farcical

For souls to intertwine.

But how else to get love to shine?

This man had no intentions,

And when truth comes out in the open,

And appearances are put to one side,

The efforts she put in to have him,

Will leave her feeling on the downside

One soul will be left to die.

He hopes the prayers she prays

Will make her all fine.

And once again her love will shine

To face another day.

I wish I could have been there

To be more than I was,

To help you through this,

Is what I should

But life did not turn out the way it should

And reality’s hard cold stare is what you are left with.

I remember you,

And my heart is laid bare,

I am at least sincere.

If things had been different

We could have had something better,

But where would your heart have been,

If I had said yes to seeing you

To only let you down again

And set your foot in the abyss.

We all must face the slings and arrows

All is fair in love and war

And for this we can be sure.

poetry

Graces

Grace besides the shadows, but

The shadows overcome me,

I could tell they had,

I was there to see

The consummation of her beauty.

Grace, grace, God’s light shines on you

Created by him, the graces you possess

Charm

Joy

Drowned.

In shadows, darkness fell on me

In that moment

The darkness winks

I don’t know what’s happened

Your beauty, your beauty

God’s grace shone on you.

Maimed, I am awaiting you again, as you were.

I may never know

The Light waits, it waits…The Light will come

So I will see you again.

poetry

Being

The calm sea comes to the busy street, merging into stillness,

The tide rises to the moment

And all is laid low.

Over the sea, I can see you.

You are over there, and I am here.

Alone in our bubbles.

I can hear through the padded walls.

But the sea cannot tell.

Nor can the walls.

The breeze carries me away

As I feel something strong within

Hope is still here,

That overcomes the unknowing

Of being still.

poetry

Down real

I am not hiding

In this shell.

In this shell

Is what I am really feeling.

I don’t need to break out

When I am within

Calm.

The energy around me is panic

It affects me

But it is not me.

Deep down inside,

Calm and quiet,

I attend to my business

With a peace of mind.

Making sure that my inner sanctum

Is never disturbed,

I try to run away

From the crowds that clamour

And get back inside

To the things that matter

My life

It’s deep down inside.

poetry

Struggling to the way

Not exactly magic this service of mine,

They got me throwing, flipping pancakes

At the Café Dime.

I wait around most of the time

I could wait on you with pleasantries

And a cool calm smile.

And wean you on my charm,

Every Time.

It’s not that I hate this,

But you can tell I take my time.

I must do things right,

Because the boss says, but

That’s fine.

I’ve got a baby and a husband,

And a family, too.

We’re all in this together,

I try to play the thing cool.

Mortgage piling up, heavy going some of the time

Many other things I want,

I am terminally out of dime

It is my life,

I know it is,

I cannot feel it so well now.

In the middle of the day,

A line sinks me down in

The here and now.

I think about tomorrow as I come and go,

Then you’re the customer who comes through the door,

I pretend I am blind.

But I see you all the time.

I know you see me: Am I just an object to you?

To do this and that

Without a care. Do I even care about you?

I turn over another day at the office,

The Café Dime pays the bills. But I pray for solace,

I want to find the way through.

poetry

Come back

The world is running,

Going forward,

Hopes it will stay,

Getting better every day,

Around the corner, something bright,

News is upbeat about the plight,

Doom and gloom a thing long gone,

Just do not get caught up in that thing gone wrong,

Plenty time to stay in the Sun.

Remember the days when the sky was young,

Are coming back after not so long a time away,

They’d been waiting for today to come.

poetry

Lan of Nod

Almost sleeping, but aware.

Almost dreaming in the light, during the lamps of day.

Reverie. I have been pondering in a mind of my making, escaping from D-Central.

Too far way.

Too far way.

Shall I say it again?

Pinching the air with the gasp of my breath in the room I was missing,

When the far off unreality was a step beyond,

Too far for my own good.

As I wake, from illusions of day light flickering across my mind,

I find ambience waiting for me, wondering if I should have seen worse.

But there I was, stationed, sanctified.

poetry

TV

Surprise, surprise

It is a new story this time.

I watched with wide eyes,

It had never happened before,

That way.

It would not happen again,

That way.

I would not see it, again.

There was a lot about this,

So much I got emotional,

A different emotion watching the TV,

In real life, the emotion different.

While not there, I saw it on TV,

Th emotion different than real life

It happened beyond my four quarters,

I watched with wide eyes,

Surprise, surprise.

poetry

Reflection

Dearth ahead.

Me, seeing it, seeing you there,

My head above the undergrowth.

Just able to hear

Just can see ahead

To feel something I see

But not as you feel

I am deep in the undergrowth

I don’t grow anymore

I stopped growing in the undergrowth.

My head just above the undergrowth,

The rest of me below,

Waiting to come through the undergrowth.

I feel something

But not as you feel.

I want to feel more than I do,

But I am stuck in the undergrowth.

Without seeing you,

I would not feel anything at all.

You are hanging there,

I am sinking.

I see I can feel you.

Without seeing you,

I could not feel you.

My eyes sense your pain

My mind is above the undergrowth

My heart and soul in my head,

You keep on hanging there,

A reflection of my grief.

Note:

Experiencing grief for the sufferer is not the actual inner reality of the sufferer. He only sees in the sufferer a reflection of his grief.

poetry

Changes

Is your name a pretence?

By you, but who are you?

You are, aren’t you?

A distinctive scowl and careless attitude.

That is in you.

Your song.

Why is your name so different?

Have you had enough of being yourself,

That you had to pretend?

Am I wrong?

Have I mistaken your character by appearances?

When I saw you as you are it was for the first time

Then I had enough already.

You call yourself 1980, but by many other names.

You are known as more and this we know well, so well, by your

Distinctive scowl and careless attitude

This blew me. 1980 is just a name, isn’t it?

You were more than

Distinctive

More than a scowl

More than careless

More than an attitude

For underneath,

You were saying,

“I come as a whist,

But also.”

I was never the same again.

poetry

Background to today’s poem

The poem I published this week, Widow’s Mite, may seem harsh on the rich, it seems to have an attitude. Yes it does. That’s because I don’t like the pretentions of the wealthy where it appears and their negligence of the poor where it appears.

My attitude may be personal. I try to listen to my Bible as well. The Old Testament casts down the greedy and criticizes their blind eye to those in need. The rich man went away from Jesus sad when he could not follow Jesus and give all he had to the poor, in the New Testament.

Greed is not good where it comes in its various forms. I don’t like it in myself when I strive getting another rare CD, but try to bring it into perspective and change my priorities.

I always admired the widow in Jesus’ story who gave all she had to live on, presumably what ever she had left over after paying her expenses, to the poor. Jesus was pleased with her more than the people who gave out of their wealth, presumably they had plenty left over after their expenses were paid and only gave some of it.

It’s the selfless giving to the needs in the community that commended the widow, from all she had. But the rich had much more to give out of their wealth.

poetry

Widow’s mite

You give more than you can—

Every day you give a widow’s mite.

What more can you?

Rich man:

Why am I so afraid to give to someone who begs?

To support a busker, what a dredge

Her songs are no good, she likes her small pleasures.

Her pleasures come and go.

They’re free and gone forever.

Why should I pay for hers? She cannot live by songs!

They are fools.

Needy fools!

She does what she wants

I have to work

Let God give to her!

I do not!

I don’t lend money or give free of charge

Whoever wants my help shall be charged!

I am not untrue

I do my work and so should you.

Poor man:

Why are you afraid to give to a beggar?

A beggar does not pretend

Why wouldn’t a rich man give a widow’s mite?

To someone who cares to sing?

And fill the air with prosperity.

Good things

Why would you begrudge two miserly dollars?

For a performance from the heart

What do you know about charity?

You wretched man of deceit

You don’t do as Jesus says

You like your small pleasures

You just can’t let go of two miserly dollars

One day you’ll do it

I bet you will

It will be for a bet on the races

I know it will.

Rich man:

Busker and beggar,

You are human beings I don’t know

I don’t have to let go.

Poor man:

Why are you afraid to give?

Rich man:

But I tried. In the cold, through the wind, and under grey clouds,

I waited for her

I waited…

To give more than I would, with the feet and hands of Jesus I should, not knowing what may come

She says to me:

I do not need your money.

For when one sings from the heart,

Reward fills my soul.

A pocketbook then, one does not need.

So, the rich man sang with all his might

A widow passed by,

And threw him a coin —

Her left overs from the wages

What she spent on food and rent —

All that she had left to live on.

Money meant for the poorest —

The coin fell by the rich man’s feet.

So he sung even more.

Not to make some money,

But to make his soul

From sweetness and honey.

Every note a hymn, a

Prayer to soothe.

He’ll come to his senses,

Soon.

poetry

Drifted

I was alone when it happened.

But I felt a calm around me.

As if taking this pain without feeling a thing

I was in the East that day, in the middle of the world.

It was sunny, on a river, and I was standing in my paddle boat.

There I was chased by unknown bodies, vaguely resembling figures,

They had a shape,

But no form

The arrows they shot at me flew by and I laid low.

And paddled my boat to a bamboo dwelling, where I hid.

A thatched house.

Those accusers would not find me there, my thoughts.

I paused for a moment as the figures went away.

Around the corner, they vanished.

Some arrows got me.

I felt long arrow shafts moving down my chest,

At the same time, I saw arrowheads protruding.

And the arrows I saw were removed, almost supernaturally, as if the wind blew them away.

I felt no pain.

Regaining strength, I saw yet again my pursuers who were waiting for me, my thoughts.

And the river looked kind as I watched it appear before my eyes, thanking providence.

A man I recognized as he came beside me. He was my friend.

An older man, wearing a robe, and with beard.

Light in spirit,

Lighter than anyone I knew.

As if he could be carried,

But he carried me by his spirit,

As we travelled by boat to an unknown destination.

To get away from those thoughts,

Which brought me no pain,

But only worry.

My friend gave me great comfort in the days ahead.

I forgot about my attackers and neither did they come.

The days came and went, and I drifted away down the river, with my friend by my side.

I was glad. For we disappeared into the mist, and I was at rest from those thoughts.

poetry

Guilt

The sky turned on me,

I looked, and saw

Arrows shooting down, piercing me one by one

My soul bent over, crippling me.

I screamed in the silence, but even I could not hear myself.

The deadly arrows had no archer.

Was the Devil to blame?

Did God do it?

Or was I dreaming?

The air screamed, was deceived with lies and evil,

Haunting me in my failure.

I was to blame for the arrows shot down.

I brought them on myself.

For I had failed

And the guilt almost killed me.

No, it was remorse.

poetry

Am I Poor, am I Rich?

I see the rugged hill

Where my saviour was

Once crucified

Blessed are the poor in spirit, Jesus said

On the Mount of Olives.

Now we live in poverty.

And now we are spiritually poor.

Our redeemer, rescuer has gone,

And he would be Messiah.

We are now poor

For Jesus has gone.

But we are rich

Yes we are rich

For having walked with him and talked

With Jesus.

Yes we are rich.

And although I do not understand this crucifixion

Of an innocent man, I will understand this crucifixion.

And I saw the man next to Jesus at the Skull call

Jesus, asking forgiveness. Today you will be with me in

Paradise, Jesus replied. The other man insulted him.

And yes, a rich young man amidst the riches…

Of a slum? Amidst the riches of disease? Amidst the

Riches of not knowing God?

He rose again on the third day! Yes

And is coming back to take me to Paradise.

Jesus’ agony. Am I poor, am I rich? Do I know this God?

Do I know that he cares for me?

–Written in 1992

poetry

In safe hands

My first published poem was in a church newsletter and it should have been left for the back page as the matters of church life would be of more importance rather than a mere poem. This rather negative estimation in view of ecclesiastical concerns which would take up much weight in the minds and hearts of many older middle-class members.

As one of the youth I expected a rejection of the poem I submitted to the church newsletter (can’t recall precisely how I got around to submitting to a church newsletter, but I did have a affinity for the people) I expected a flat out rejection, but I was pleasantly surprised by the forward thinking pastor who gave my poem the whole of the front page! It was a poem about Jesus and especially the cross he died on and the mountain he was on…the poem came straight from my heart, out of my relationship with Christ. The words just flowed.

I wrote the poem and thought it was kind of a napkin type of thing. There was no real attempt to submit professionally to a real publisher—I guess I did not consider a church newsletter the real thing. But I was graced by the pastor who saw something good in it and decided against better ecclesial judgment to have put it on page two. Page one will do, though.

poetry

Alternative rock

IT’S THE alternative rock, suitable for kids so they say, they says it is a play on the word absurd to anyone in the know, infectious for those who do not Musically a blast and produced for effect the “alternative rock” is not easy-on-the-ear and neither indie some say it is not Christian with references to reincarnation and copulation without a marriage context but tongue in cheek playfully uses the word to effect that scratches where it itches for they might be giants after they pass through

poetry

Soul

I listened to this bubbly Canadian upbeat folksy pop with more than enough highs her simple compositions of conversation bubbled over with one or two lapses in continuity self-titled album she gave me for free I would have liked to have liked more, but I could not hear her soul the time when we talked, which made me feel very sad

poetry

Fan

Another interesting conjunction of prose into poetry?

The rebel reviewer petrified by rock’s raw beat and easy listening whips out dreamy pop, the sounds of cotton wool and sheepskin a cushy pillow to lay his head on. He drifts into soft-pop dreaming, as the disturbing subtleties of quiet angst pass through idealized and romanticized in pleasing lyrical covers, he thinks he is not a fan.

poetry

Drive

This is supposed to be a poem. I do not think it is. It does not look like a poem to me. More like an interesting conjunction of prose turned into poetry. From a review which sort of captures how I felt about a product.

Sad, melancholy, nothing that distinguishes itself, imagine listening to this driving, makes me feel dreamy and laid-back, but do lyrics ever resonant?  

poetry

Plastic

I was real in the last post, this post is being eloquent, even experimental.

Plastic means to me as far as I can tell, it is not poignancy, does not sound well. Artificiality false image. Not a sense of irony in kind of dynamo-echo, does not raise a smile and what comes through is not very much a synth-pop ambiance or art pop. Punk roots are obvious, though, clean pop art chorus synth bridge. Tends to tail off into a slow descent, but The Plastic Island merges with synth-pop exotica, a bit of reggae as well, not quite soulish enough, but ambiance indicates something more translucent. Represents 1980’s focus on surface images but is hollow and not transparent not being the most soulful. Something I did not see coming. It is plastic.-

Notes on an album transformed into freestyle poetical form or transformed into Plastic.

poetry

All right

He held the card and read it,

“Not her again” and threw it in the neighbour’s garden patch.

She was Deborah.

Who loved him,

And sent him a Christmas card, hoping to be his girl.

They were young.

He was fine, she was lovely,

Yet his silence. Yes, his silence was ripping her apart.

And the hurt went deep down inside.

She had a choice, in how she would reply,

To react or respond.

The way she goes could shape her entire life.

Wondering how she would be later on.

And if the same thoughts would still be there.

And if she would be free?

But Deborah stopped by the pavement

And her eyes brightened up.

Singers were there.

For her?

A bit of beauty.

The crisp, fresh, silent night spoke to her senses,

The song on their lips filled her soul,

The people who listened with an ear for hope.

This she knew, would stay, with her, inside her heart.

And the rhymes and rhythms of the night would remind her:

Life goes on.

She clung tightly to the thought that everything is all right.

poetry

Balance

It was a long year.

All that thinking,

The ins and outs of precision,

Measured as it was.

All for what?

A tidy result at the end,

But somehow empty,

Not fulfilling,

But lacking that sense of ACCOMLISHMENT.

The year ended down a notch,

But with two more DVDs to go,

To even things up a bit.

Knowing it wouldn’t be enough,

Even with everything on my lap,

And the likes of the world to own.

Nothing else is what I need,

But PERFECTION.

What will I do when I don’t find it?

I’m left with you,

Designated to me.

And how I should pray for you.

To come up to the standard.

For I want you a certain way, and

My vision is not complete yet.

But for the balance I didn’t want,

I would rule for you.

But would I rule for me?

Thankfully, my friend, balance is a slip of my destiny,

A straightening of what should have been,

Overseen by the watchful, good Lord.

poetry

Cool view

A powerful force arrested him

And pushed him down the alley

Where he heard a clown

Speaking jests

I must have been so fooled by the sight

Like a vision made me see a whole other world, behind the wall

It blew my senses

Then, I was lost in my thoughts

Intrigue surrounded me

And I slowly felt my myself submitting to the sounds

Of my heart beating

To the rhythm of another unusual sight

Then, I saw this man standing there, this awkward looking guy

I kept going back to hear his ditty

It was kind of magnetizing me

I could not resist

He was so uncool

Then he showed me how cool he was, just for a moment

I was curious and wanted more.

I am his editor

poetry

Paused

To do research.

For?

Whatever. Just like to research.

A particular interest of yours?

No, just research.

Any research in particular?

Um, yes.

What?

Annuals. Years in review.

You seem hesitant about telling me more.

What happened in 2020. I got to find out more.

Why?

We paused. I mean, there was more to it, wasn’t there?

I guess there was.

But what?

I don’t know. I wish I knew. Do you mean some sort of sign?

No. A brush with something.

I don’t try and find meaning in events. It’s too unknown.

But I do.

Why?

Because I just do. There must be more to this. The things we see.

The parameters.

That we put on life.

You want to see more.

Yes. I look for more.

What do you see now?

Tragedy. But I’ve never heard it said that way. It’s all been called death. Can anyone articulate why we can’t say it some other way? We’re too numb.

How would you say it?

I can’t. I just can’t. It’s like we can’t express the feelings behind compassion. We just say facts.

You feel deeply.

Yes, I do. I feel deeply.

poetry

Lonely

How can they offer the world hope if their houses are filled with lonely people?

I lift my heart to skies and give it to God and see what was meant to be.

Caring to see rightly, tenderness holding tightly.

But just another club sandwich at the café.

The walk of life grinds on stuff, somehow, it affirms the very life in me.

poetry

Waiting for you

I’ve been watching you, the way you’re so fine

It’s not that I want you or need you at all

But I have this heart that without me you’ll fall

It’s not that I cannot live without you,

It’s not that you’re ready for me

You’re stronger than that,

But with me, You’ll be stronger still

When I take you on,

If you’re heart is beating for me

When you invite me in,

If pure love is what you need,

I’ll be here waiting

poetry

State

State of the world

Without you to say so would make a better world

What lies behind those words of yours?

Describing the effects of the fall in today’s world

Can you say it more honestly?

Until I know you mean it

And the hints of sincerity become

Soulful rhymes.

Maybe I should listen to a soul album instead.

poetry

Is this all?

In the maelstrom of bustling street-life, I am unperturbed,

Content in my way and yours

But we are all going the same direction.

Going and going on, never-ending,

Journey, stops and starts

Every day the same.

This is the life I have come to see, and love.

What about the ever-increasing void?

Seen in the stress in my voice? As I lay out my plan before you.

I saw an opening in the cracks through the skies

Of a shine that was coming through,

Promising me something more,

I wanted to catch and embrace it,

But it slowly drifted upward more

Until I couldn’t see it.

And again, we took to the streets,

To meaningfully engage the existence that we brought.

The opportunity to begin again,

Lately more than a puff of smoke from that old engine of mine.

poetry

After

Street sight is long,

Run by the forlorn.

A cloud settling across,

Street mastered by a turn, as ghosts come and go.

Darkness one thinks she sees.

Ghosts flashing across trees, deafening cries of the lost souls from purgatory,

Lingering in her mind the fraternity,

Their callings exciting the moon

And along comes the white and spot of lunar light and valleys of doom,

There she finds rambling, the day languishing, but not in the heart of someone lying down.

Curious she bent Surprised to find one who rose to meet her, with a crown.

The light brighter than before. Enlightened, wonder-awed, by the face,

She fell into the calm, the breeze behind.

And saw the street unlike before.