Page 1, Poetry written since 1966 to the present.
Peter Kenneth Sharpen © 2000
I was born in Wanstead, England during a V1 air-raid in July 1944. I emmigrated to Western Australia in 1963 and could not get work and ended up on a farm in Narembeen. It was very lonely on the farm for me and I, for some reason unknown to me, ended up writing some poetry. I continued this medium of expression (as well as many others of a creative nature) for many years. Where the inspiration came from in anybody's guess. How I wrote these poems is likewise.
It is admitted by me (at least) that writing poetry is a solitary experience and probably self-indulgent, as some would tell me later. However, there are many voices in poetry. Poetry to be read as individuals; poetry to be read to others. Mine is no exception.
I urge you to turn to any page and start to read. Although the poems are almost in chronological order, that may not have been preserved in subsequent copies, although I have changed nothing in the poems.
You are free to quote me, given proper due to myself.
Please enjoy, be moved. Poetry from the heart is always universal.
Peter K Sharpen.
Like billowed sails on ships,
they sail on heavenly waves.
Like angels draped in slips
of pearly white in graves,
they speed onward, ever onward,
across the blue expanse of sky.
In hurrying flights westward,
they mourn the end of day; lie
in blood-red hue and distant shapes
of memories of the passing hours;
when trees alone did bend and sigh
against the background of summer showers.
Like mare's tails they stretch
and from the darkening east they sweep
Across the purple heavens to fetch
the darkness from the one's who sleep,
and bring once more the still of night
and the morrow of a little more insight.
Like silver threads they hang
against the stillness of the night;
while moonbeams play with gentle sway
between the rustling leaves.
And as a breeze of delicate charm
wafts like fairy 'cross the open paddock,
they laugh as if to say:
'O, what a lovely day 'twill be.'
And then the silence of the night
descends upon the trees
and all is quiet again.
Then when daylight paints the east
they stand with heads upright;
to greet the dawn with open arms
and gather up the heat.
Soon when summer warmth descends,
their leaves emit their camphrous scent,
to tinge the air with eucalypt
and lemon-scented gum.
Then, while clouds wing westward on,
they droop as if to say:
'o, sweet mystery of Life,
will you never end?'
The air is hot with humid smell
of wattles, paws and trees---note well
the birds are silent, still as Death,
and all the world holds its breath.
The sky, once blue with summer light,
now turns to dark with cloudy might,
and all at once a breath of air
becomes a wind without a care;
driving heads of flowers sound
against the dryness of the ground;
and suddenly from nowhere now,
the rain comes driving, diving, how
it feeds the earth once bare and brown
with life-blood in its passing frown;
passes--in a moment gone
storms are part of Life's fight won.
Now from heaven the thunder rolls;
Lightning strikes unwary knolls;
wherein lie gum-trees high,
striking figures in the sky.
Then the rain comes, slow at first,
faster then, to quench the thirst
of lonely wattles, paws and trees,
all now bending on their knees.
Then, as if it's gone for good,
or perhaps it never should?
But yet without it there could be no birth.
Soon it's gone forever, now,
and skies are clean and the dripping bough
of a tree is bright again;
gone is all the pain
of aching hearts for food,
and now the birds sing in the wood
and all the world is still.
It's great to have had one's fill!
THE TREE OF AMBIGUITY
They sat beneath the tree of Ambiguity,
The Thinker and the Unthinker;
By the Sea of Knowledge
Which washed upon the Shores of Ignorance;
The Thinker contemplating God
While the Unthinker glanced furtively at his watch.
The Wind of Change,
Blew from the Darkness of Absoluteness,
Rustling the leaves of the Tree of Ambiguity.
The Thinker spoke,
And thereby destroyed his mood,
While the Unthinker stayed silent and saw all.
It grew colder,
The Wind of Change had gone in full circle;
And while the tide of the Sea of Knowledge
Washed upon the shore,
Ignorance was lost for a while, yet
The Darkness of Absoluteness remained,
But the Tree of Ambiguity swayed.
So dawns the chilly morning.
Freezing facades of an inner warmth
greet the frosty air.
The late rise is scorned, warm in bed
and cold of mind. Befuddled. Sleepy,
hating to go to work.
Tea-cups rattle. Voices are loud
and the smell of frying bacon fills the air,
searching to find every dreary corner.
A cistern flushes. Water gurgles down a plug-hole.
A bolt cracks and running feet
descend the carpeted stairs. The house is waking,
but in objectivity knows only the activity within
as womb feels foetus, a refuge,
bounded by the littered pavements of Life.
A trickle of water runs into the grating
of a sewer. Footsteps in the street.
Legs. White legs seen between the coats and boots
of the pretty girls,
whose hair hangs limply about slumped shoulders
Worktime. Rush of sudden air in the blackness
and void of the tunnel. Heat.
A train, noisy on new ears, rushing along
the crowded platform. A litter-strewn platform,
waiting, cold and lonely in the early morning hours
for the multitude of pedestrian feet which
wear its surface, atom by atom.
Adverts. Gross. Alarming. Staring across
the platform. Sliding doors. Pushing. Faces,
bodies, shoving for seats. Inside. Warm, cosy.
Smell of bodies and sweat of underarms.
Crowded. Youthful girl pressing innocently
against a boy. Excitement of a strange touch.
A stirring. Uncontrollable. Blush.
A turning away.
Looking for pretty girls. Staring. Wanting.
Lonely. Stop. Start. Doors open, close.
More people. Girl gone. Utter loneliness.
Work. Busy. Paper, pens, pencils. Smell of
freshly sharpened wood. Voices. Bent back.
Joke. Laugh. Work.
Coffee comes. Refreshing liquid, taking away
the biting, acrid taste of tobacco smoke.
Cigarette. Draw, to satisfy the urge eating has left.
The laughter of children running to school.
Happy faces. Scream of girls. A fight.
Bloody noses. Laughing.
Then the bell. The stark reality of cold red brick
and glass. Playground. Cold, damp tarmac.
Looking. Across empty fields, misty. Freezing.
Light green. Chapped legs.
A bell. Silence. File slowly into school.
Register. Snapping of desk lids. Pretty teacher.
Music. Drawing. Maths. English. Sport.
Playtime. Chase girls, laughing. Smoke in lavatory.
Darned washing! Cold, damp day.
Clouds parting, revealing blue sky. Soap suds.
Tinny bubbles, frothing in the dirty water.
Red chapped hands. Clean fingernails. Wet hands.
And arms. Itch on nose. Swearing. Rubbing face.
Froth on nose. Water on floor. Bursting soap bubbles.
Clothes, soggy, dripping wet.
Clean line with wet rag and hang up clothes.
A touch of sun, like the 'hello' kiss
of an overworked father. Lunchtime.
Beans on toast. Quick. Roasted coffee.
Sensitive nostrils, sensing, sifting, savouring.
Shadows. Dying sun. Laughter of children
coming home. Playing, screaming. Never tiring.
In the brooks. In the fields. Dirty.
Late afternoon. Darkening.
Evening. Singing birds, those left after migration.
The family is home and at table.
A noisy radio, blaring synthetic music in a girl's
bedroom. A shout. Sudden quiet. Scampering feet.
Scraping of knives and forks. Teeth on edge.
Rattle of cups. Smell. Smell of cooked food.
Smell of drying washing by a fire.
Silence for a while. On T.V. noisy music.
Comedy show. Quiz. Play. Monotonous rubbish.
Passing time. People are frightened of having time
to think. Minutes of thought on a higher plane. Never.
Too much trouble. Simpleness. Ignorance.
Is bliss...is bliss...Sex. Eating. Wanting.
Darkness. Noisy cars. Late kisses in doorways.
Sunday. Quiet sunlight streets.
Rows of stereotyped terraced houses,
Embracing shadows of a warmer sun.
A tinkle of laughter, the innocence of youth
at play in a street of suburban charm.
Lunchtime. Vague sounds of cuisiniere.
A nation at table. The smell of roast beef
and boiling vegetables and new polish
from a busy morning.
A sound in the street--clacking heels
on a shadowed pavement.
A girl, pretty; walking back to home and lunch.
A new noise. Birds high on aerials.
Chirruping, basking in the watery sun,
against the stark, quiet realism, a whine
of a sports-car, pulling five thousand revs
in the indirects. Then silence, as before.
The aftermath of lunch. Sitting before a fire
listening to subdued music.
Outside it is noiseless, pregnant
with an expectation of noise which is not fulfilled.
Peace. A lovely tune; burying itself
into one's bowels. Overwhelming. Heartbreaking.
And sad. Sad with the melancholy that is that
unexplainable all-knowing that come not enough.
An unexplainable peace. Peace and sleep.
The sleep of contentment. The drifting eyelids.
The closure of a mind against the troubles
of a world that has no meaning except itself.
That it is.
A tender arm. White and slender.
It seeks the sleeping hand of time.
A movement. Soft. Delicate.
A stirring of a restless form.
The unearthly hush of day is broken only by
a yapping dog--a child at play.
The houses bask. The shadows lengthen.
The sun is tired, falling into its pillow of cloud.
Lips. Moist and pucked.
Parting. Seeking--exploring cavities of neck and ear.
Lips. Touching. Delicate. Pressing harder,
seeking to devour each other. To swallow,
absorb another creature.
A tongue. Wet. Hard. Crushing.
Pushing--wanting to be hurt and felt
lest the moment end.
Yielding flesh under strong fingers. Erect and hard.
Stroking. A myriad ecstacies from a loved hand.
Gentle, caressing. Heavy breathing.
An animal passion of aroused emotion.
Exploring, seeking out the other's inner self.
The holding. The self-expression of love.
Love--to love--a screaming agony at which
fulfillment comes, only when climax ceases.
Too brief. If only it could last. An inner crying.
Twilight. Orange-red clouds. Stretching.
One horizon to another like lovers' fingers.
The immensity of the universe. Sailing clouds
like galaxies over the sea and land.
Omniscient. Changing shapes and colours.
Roofs. Pale in the blue light. Chilly sparrows.
Gulls flying out to take a last look
at a frothy, writhing sea, before the nest calls.
A sign of life. A light in a window.
The tea is cleared. The crash of washing crockery.
is over. The blank eye of the television is lit.
The sofa, a seat of love, is drawn closer.
The seeking of an arm to embrace another.
A kiss. Brief. Spontaneous. A squeeze of hand.
A playful squeeze of breast. Relaxation.
Sound. Vision. A play. Long, boring.
Time passes. The hands of a monotonous clock
creep round the dial, as if bored.
The tick-tock, goes on, for ever and ever,
timelessly, fading into an inconceivable void.
Finis. End. The small blue dot fades.
Activity. Percolated coffee. Aroma. Satisfying.
Bed. Warm, comfortable.
Hugging sheets. Cold then warm.
Close and warm. Embracing. A laugh.
Noise of withdrawal of clothing. A rustle of silk.
The snap! of elastic.
A look at nakedness. Parting of the sheets
and slipping quickly between them. A shudder.
Goosebumps. A giggle. Snuggling together.
Naked flesh on flesh. Hard nipples. Cold feet.
A click! the light--gone forever...
Wafting in the netherland of the unknown universe
out and away.
A kiss. Silence. Deadly stillness and blackness.
Crowding darkness. Frightening.
The intimacy and warmth of sheets and bodies.
Silence at last...Quiet...Sleep...SUNDAY.
Too much of Life passes by
without a thought by people who
when they live the day, fly
from some hidden fancy that they may woo,
and step into the reality of some unwanted thought.
When might they have been happier if,
had they stayed and lingered as they ought,
and gained something, if but a whiff
of Life, instead of cultivating a horror
of what may happen on the morrow.
Oh, that this too short life should end,
as though it had never been!
When one's small and immortal soul
will live on for evermore.
Oft have I known the laugh of friends
and the sweet kiss of loved ones near
and now they are gone to the dust of earth
never to be again.
When the still voice of Summer sings,
I will never more be seen to roam
beside the brooks of love and life
nor hear the bark of a dog.
And as I go to my resting place,
with a heart that's full of sorrow,
I will know at last a peace of mind,
such as never felt before.
Oh, that the blood of life should ebb
as free as a bird on wing;
when one's small mind and open thoughts
will die in my bosom quiet.
Oft have I heard many angry words
and known the author's mind,
and now they are gone to the dust of the earth
and never to be again.
when the rainy days of Winter groan,
I will not be here to see;
nor listen to words of wisdom sound
nor hear a sparrow call.
And as I go to my resting place
with a head so full of reflection,
I will know at last a peace of mind
And I die now a happy man.
There's a story to be told in each cloud effect
if you look and imagine it there,
as one sits by the sea at the end of the day
and contemplates Nature's might.
While the sun sinks to bed in a blood-orange hue
and the clouds float gently to rest;
one can see wondrous cities on rolling hills
and be taken to the dreamland of night.
It is quiet there, with the sea frothing green
and a moon aglow's seen in the east.
Bright and new seems to add a castle which rides
upon clouds which are rolling plains,
'til it sinks like a ship in the sea.
The shore, twilight,
Lonely shells and sand;
yellow sand, grey sand, sand all around.
The sky, darkening,
Blood-red clouds, and grey;
Purple clouds, orange clouds, clouds all around.
The sea, swelling,
Green sea and foam;
Grey sea, blue sea, sea all around.
Some gulls, calling,
Stark white gulls and rocks;
Large rocks, grey--black rocks, rocks all around.
The sea, moving,
Frothy sea and waves;
Large waves, small waves, waves all around.
A boat, sailing,
Writhing on the sea;
High sea, low swell, rocking with the boat.
White horses, falling,
Riding on the sea;
Foamy sea, seething sea, sea upon the shore.
The night, dark now,
Lonely greying clouds;
Darkening sea, incessant sea, sea all around.
The night, quiet,
Nothing but the sound of sea;
A high sea, crashing sea, smashing on the rocks.
WHAT MIGHTY WORDS
What mighty words we pen
when we are sad.
What mighty, sad and lonely thoughts
are put to paper when the mood
in solitude takes us, wandering
into the depths of a melancholy mind.
How be't that it is only when we are sad
that we pen our thoughts in so eloquent
a manner as when we are moved thus,
searching for words we should have said
but never came?
How to express ourselves when needs must
if not by a show of feelings,
which steal as dawn, seeking, searching
from such a frail frame as a man.
O, Life! that I knew the answer!
SO WHAT, LIFE
Can't you feel that wanderer, Time
slipping past the slender fingers of Life?
Can't you feel the senseless melancholic rhyme
whose very metre beats out strife?
What is there that makes this life so precious
that it's very heart can be within us?
IS THERE ANY MEANING?
Is there any meaning
to the meanderings of our closed minds?
Is there any meaning
to our senseless belief in some other world?
Is there any meaning
to a life of constant torture?
wherein our minds and lives
Is there any meaning
'tis love that sows the seeds of life
but when it's gone, the seedling dies
and bends a weary head
back into the solitude and darkness
of the ground.
When love is lost--
a passion of some older past.
the heart is shattered
and a little piece is lost.
No expression or word profound
can ever hope to bring you round
But turn! the Dawn of Life awakes.
A new love begins,
where once the old has stood.
It is only through others
that we can learn of ourselves.
And it is only through ourselves
that we can learn of others.
Paradox, where is thy sanity?
It's the beauty of Life
that sees the willingness
of the observer
to discover the talents
of the Earth
and portray with emotional instability
the causal effect
of such a passing shadow.
It's the envy of Life
that makes us inspire
to commit such hard won notes
to memory and
create within us
the score of a musical dream
where Life's delicate metre
strides the quavers to the end.
It's the glory of discovering
each atom of joy
that send emotions craving
for the molecules of Life
and the elements of the soul;
when suddenly, in ecstacy
we discover how we,
are One in All and All in One.
What a hand omniscience has
that can sweep through the matrix of life
and create a destruction of ideals.
How vast the thoughtless thought
that can pervade the tiniest minion
and produce a wealth of chance.
What awe is produced
when such a minion thinks of Life
and sets about to sell the world.
Such cosmic frailness is ours,
such minute strength comes from us, Man
and the Universe shudders.
In the essence was the beginning
and in the beginning
the nucleus for all things to come.
In the far reaches of the Universe
and order was, the Universe.
The ruptured caul of creation,
bursting forth its might
in awesome genius
bore its fruits in splendour
and Awareness became aware.
They were as lost children,
crying, unwanted, unknown,
in the infinity of the Universe;
where Time's distant finger
pointed only one direction.
Theirs was to find the way,
the goal, the Purpose of Life,
and in that finding,
at all costs.
So it came to be:
Man invented God,
and God created Heaven and Earth
and All things.
Search, said the mind
and you did.
Find, said the mind
and you did.
Yet for what did you search?
And what did you find?
Did you find that for which you searched?
A SONG FOR ALL TIME
So spoke the Universe,
dimly lit in Creation's womb.
And so it came to pass,
out of the pangs of amorphous omniscience;
then we were created
and rose our voices to the air...
a song, a song for all time,
searching a meaning for our existence;
a fluctuating metre
for all our moods;
and when our song is ended,
its finality is like a death;
yet in its passing,
the inspiration for another reigns.
ONLY I AM ME
I spoke a million outer words, and cried,
for the inner word was lost.
I cried a million tears of hope
but the inner tear hurt most.
I saw a thousand fading forms
of people passing by;
I felt a thousand eyes on me,
but none of them could see.
I stood a hundred hours or more
but time went passing by;
I knew a hundred facts of things
but none of them were real.
I keep the one I am to myself,
knowing only I am me;
I hope the one I am stays cool
maybe to others, I am a fool.
Universe within Universe.
Love within love.
Motion within motion.
Time within time.
Mind within mind.
Without within, nothing.
Did some-one call?
Was not that the voice of Life?
Did some-one shout?
Was I not listening?
Did some-one whisper?
Was that not myself, I heard?
A bubble burst.
It was out love.
A bubble burst.
It was my mind.
A bubble burst.
It was my life.
So much for it!
not even the flash of past experience.
Not even the shadowy forms
on some material plane.
Not even the whisper
of past thoughts,
It's the end...You're gone.
Quitely, ticks the padded clock of Time
Within the robes of Life;
Quietly, the padded feet of Time
Cross the infinity of mind.
Sit ye then upon some chosen rock
and let it pass momentarily.
Tarry awhile between the beats
Find peace within yourself
Time wanders not in jest,
Time strides the strident notes of Life.
Consider. Be at peace.
Care not for materiality,
for a minute
Between, that is,
This one and the next.
Consider. Find yourself.
Such is tranquility.
Fall not from your rock,
Hear not the next beat of the clock,
But find yourself within
Nor love nor hate yourself;
Thus thinking the time doth go.
Yet consider yourself.
Think nothing about nothing.
Listen to the music of the soul--
Yet be not frightened by it,
for it has been there
And if that wanderer Time,
Steals the minutes with icy fingers,
Think not on it.
Feel the Life within yourself.
Be truthful with yourself.
Yet think not too deeply,
Lest any moments pass
Onto the next.
By not thinking.
For thinking may be a stranger.
Such moments as these are precious.
They seek not to be sought;
They are found by those who consider.
A man could search a lifetime,
For minutes of peace,
Yet in searching
The minutes are lost.
For the minute next,
Is the minute now,
And is lost forever;
Since the minute now
Is the minute gone.
Such is the order of the Universe.
So, consider now,
And the moment
Of realisation of Self
Will be a remembrance
Of peaceful thoughts
And is not lost,
What was I a second ago?
That which I am now?
What will I be
In a second from now?
Surely not that which I am now.
A GRAIN OF SAND
You're nothing, without me!
He shouted to the desert.
Not so fast, cried the Wind of Change,
Howling through the vortex
of Man's evolution.
Not so fast, cried the Spirits,
As Man trod clumsily
through his life.
Not so fast, cried Life itself,
Rushed onwards into oblivion.
Remember your minds,
They all cried;
They are not all ready.
Stranger in my mind
Lest others think me, strange.
Come not quickly
Lest I act without thinking.
Stranger in my head
Lest you mock my sanity.
Wisdom is born of age
And I am but a youthful traveller.
There's treasure in a moment of joy;
Yet such moments are short,
Far between, precious.
Search, then, for such joy
As harvesters' reap warm golden wheat--
With the scythe of Life.
Such a scythe shines with use;
Dulls with the passing of age
When harvest stops.
Harvest now, your moments of joy;
Let melancholy not rise
Like the waxing moon;
Liken the fullness of that moon
To your life,
Golden moments of joy
Clasping together like lovers' fingers,
Enriched with the knowledge of Love
My mind is wandering
Out, out and far,
Past the twinkling entities
That we call stars.
And when stars end
And darkness enfolds,
Search on, mind, search on,
And see what you can find.
Great thoughts flow thus,
And in darkness one sees
All that's gone before
And all that's left to be.
See lonely souls, like travellers
Time-bound in this life,
Weaving through the Universe,
Dying; to be free.
See mind, boundless, spiritual,
Seeking all that's known,
Drifting through the shadows
Of Life's infinite home.
My mind is wandering,
Out, out and far;
Past the twinkling entities
That we call stars.
There's a sadness in living
That cannot be dispelled.
There's a gladness in giving
That cannot be quelled.
Life is all thus;
Even for you and us.
What then, Nature's call of freedom?
When bones rattle with the age
Aye, there's the rage.
There's trouble in laughter
That cannot be bought.
There's no peace ever after,
As there ought.
Keep to the road, wanderer,
For it is long of years;
Keep to the road, wanderer,
'though it's washed with tears.
Keep to the road, traveller of Time.
Allay your fears;
Keep to the road, traveller,
See how Nature cheers.
KIRSTEIN--A PRAYER (my daughter)
You are a daughter of Time,
More beautiful than Nature's
Most delicate tear.
May peace and love keep you
Lest the tear dissolve
Into Life's harsh burden.
May your mind perceive
The intricacies of the Universe
And find peace in searching.
Question all about you,
Even my love.
Find happiness, sweet soul,
Where you will
But be not taken in by Man's desires,
All motives are not good ones.
Let Nature make her way with you,
Then let the Allness of One
You will be a daughter of Life,
More beautiful than Nature's
Most perfect tear.
May Peace and Love keep you.
Speak not to me words of love,
For love is as a lost child,
Crying in a wilderness of discontent.
And the sand of that wilderness
Is as the sand of an hour-glass
Of infinite depth,
Of infinite height,
Running into oblivion.
Yet, then, who is filling it?
Think of all the music written
Yet never heard by you.
Think of all the words written
Yet never seen by you.
Think of all the music
That's yet to be put down;
Think of all the words,
Never put to paper.
Think of all this, and wonder.
What finery you weave
In the cold morning light;
What intricacies unfold
As you, your matrix make.
What delicate, hoary frost you spin
As sun rises to stars;
What majesty your throne
Of deadly threads.
Wonder not what the day will bring,
Stay not your work;
Let your fibres speak for themselves
Lest you do not eat.
I saw a man the other day
He was talking to the world;
He stood alone amidst the crowd
Who turned the other cheek.
I saw a woman the other day
A bible in her hand;
She stood alone amidst the crowd
Unknown, unloved, unheard.
I saw a dog the other day
A leash about its throat;
It stood alone amidst the crowd
Lost and far from home.
Today I saw those self same souls,
I passed them in the street;
They stood alone amidst the crowd
Their shattered world about their feet.
ADVICE TO KARON
What wisdom speaks
That innocent, immortal tongue.
What laughter rings
That cracked bell of Time.
So this is you,
First born in love.
Child, give only yourself,
For that is the matter of the Universe.
Seek not others thoughts
For your tongue,
Yet hold wise thoughts
To yourself, and such
Wise thoughts you will know.
Be not frightened by that fugit Time
For it can be held
In the palm of your hand
For an instant.
That is your joy.
Mine is you.
The voice sang in the wilderness;
A sad song for the desolate.
What weary feet have trod these steppes
Searching for Life.
A voice spoke to the Universe;
A poem, sad of words;
What weary chords were asked of that Infinity;
Searching for the truth.
MORNING ON THE HILL
There's a morning on the hill,
Where the grey dawn bird awakes;
There's a silence in the wood,
Where Nature's children wait.
Soon when crescent moon has gone
And the stars' night is done,
The world again unfolds anew,
Splashing earth with petalled dew.
There's a stirring in the wood,
Where the creatures make their homes.
There's a running, babbling brook
Where the scented flowers grow.
And when you find your shelter there,
And try to find your proof;
You only find a fox's lair,
With pale green wreath for roof.
I like to remember
Tomorrow I'll remember
Write not the written word with a pen;
Speak not the spoken word with a voice;
Write with your heart--
Speak with your mind--
Thus the blind can see,
The deaf can hear.
Can words be the internal parameters
Of the Self?
Can feeling describe
the soulful gaze
into one's own mind?
Is it not dangerous to look?
Are lysergic means necessary
for this inner trip?
Or cannot we get there by
Is it because we are afraid?
Look to yourself---
He, is their salvation.
OUR - SELVES
Is not the man
A myriad selves
Each at conflict
With each other?
Could not an understanding
Reduce the embittered
Opinion we have
Of each other?
Moods belie the belly
Which belie the man
With gastronomic fulfillment.
Man's myriad selves
Could be the moods
To which he is subject,
Dictated by the gut.
Wisdom is born of age;
Seek not wisdom,
Nor try to buy it--
It comes not cheaply,
It is purchased by living Life.
So the young man spoke
And the old ones laughed--
They were of greater age than he.
A thousand words,
A million thoughts;
Yet no words
For what should be real.
What art is all about
The Life Force-------
The power beyond words.
As a thinker,
I suppose I write
that there are others
who might get an inkling
into what I mean--
what I am trying to say.
writing is only a Rosarchian inkblot
to be interpreted
by the few
This most difficult life
cannot be determined easily.
The more one thinks
the more egotistical
it is easy--
I say easy! (not lightly)
Yet one begs to be interpreted
to stay the madness
of a great fall into the abyss
Of being misunderstood.
So the soul cries out
Yet without words,
is felt to be seen
and we are lost in ourselves.
Have we then lost
our animal spirit of communication
or are we to find it
on some indefinable plane?
far into the eternity of the Future?
Have we, the Thinkers,
been born 'out-of-time'
or are we the product of the times?
Or, are we never to be?
And thus speaking
am I not falling into the trap
of my egotistical downfall
by such lofty thoughts?
If I humble myself--
prostrate myself before Humanity--
am I still not interpreted
who am I, that I should dare call myself,
Each man is unknown
He is an island
in an undiscovered sea;
the sound of a clock ticking
in an empty room
when there is no-one to hear it.
What then am I to do?
I cannot say that I will become famous
since I am not yet 'discovered'.
Until 'discovery' I could not be famous
(and to be famous I mean to say
only to have one's ideas accepted--
or infamous, not to!)
As others before,
I am having to wait
to be discovered,
to be interpreted,
to be understood,
or their contrary.
Thus, I will not be considered
to be egotistical.
My position to myself
is not clear;
I fear--trough misinterpretation
to rank myself with the 'famous'
who felt and feel as I do.
Yet such it is!
Thinkers are alone.
They are a ticking watch in the Universe
with no-one listening.
One can only treasure
the odd moments of rapport
amongst the trivia
of everyday sense-perceptions.
They don't come easy
(moments of rapport).
One works hardest
for the Simple Life.
For most Outsiders
Life was too expensive,
and they paid for it,
with their Lives.
For them, the Ultimate 'YES',
I could weep
with the dischordant tears
of Nature's tune.
Such, as Life
moves me thus.
Does not poetry,
We should all be
artists and poets.
We all pretend to be.
What poetical fancies
Then are we lonely,
Music is great, yes!
It moves the beast to tears;
It moves the soul to despair,
disturbs the organs.
But when it is used
for hidden persuasion,
then, is it decadent.
O! ye solitary man!
Is the world against you?
Do you not feel the pangs
of the death of humanity?
Yet do you not rebel
against the yawning chasm
Is it you, who is sick?
Some would have you believe so.
The Beatitudes In Bungling
does this not sicken your soul?
which is your very Self?
Do not then the sightless followers
make you nauseated
and fill you with contempt?
Yet do you not still love them?
Is this not one of your problems?
Does not loneliness trigger your melancholy,
when living wears heavy and your thoughts
feel too deep to reach?
O! Solitary man!
Weep not for Humanity.
It cannot find its own level.
The moon of its collective soul
draws them as the tides.
They ebb and flow as their passion
(which is theirs),
borne of others.
Therein lies your danger,
For if they, with their collective wisdom,
their collective hate,
are against you...
Find your life from within.
Find your goal from within.
Find your passion from within.
And let the passion for your goal,
be your life.
Do not fight it, let it
Thus you may be solitary
but the Universe is waiting for you.
Each star is alone,
Millenia from the next.
Only you solitary man,
can contemplate them,
and make them One.
There's a darkness alive
with the myriad plastic fantasies.
borne of the last notes
of daytime's flute;
where harsh notes have mellowed
under the player's fingers
and the sodium lights.
Alive! I cry,
where darkness shrouds the desolute,
the results of Society's hatred
the dark corners of the world.
For solitude is epidemic,
a neoplasm of the world.
What is Life, but a passing...
a passing into,
a passing through,
and a passing from.
Night's lilting shadows creep
and eyelids flutter with gathering sleep;
stories merge with night's own dreams.
The world is never what it seems.
Soon the body's tensions scatter;
days events don't seem to matter.
Sleep's arrived! with fresh new schemes,
which play with mind in cool moonbeams.
So are we drifting...
A scurry of dust in the sunlight.
A liquid warmth
of sleep's tender mattress.
Orbs sticky with sleep;
an unfresh mouth to rinse.
Alive! dreams are gone
like sobered candle flame,
where once was light
now creeps a whisp of smoke.
Alive! rumpled clothes fall about the legs,
no longer stifled round weary shanks.
Barefoot to the misty window
prismatic light invades.
There is a peace;
not now the birth-cry of the day,
but yet another calm before the storm.
I passed through the forest looking upwards;
sunlight flickered through the trees
leaving after images in my brain.
Save for a slight scented breeze...
leaf-mould squelched beneath my soles.
so I trod tenderly.
Nature's wildlife was waking now, noisy, wordless.
I dared not speak,
even to myself.
Here was happiness.
Suddenly, a squirrel leaped..a gray squirrel.
Such was the only activity.
I passed a stream, gurgling; tiny lives within.
Stones glistened, wetly.
I broke a spider's home, sadly,
with my clumsiness.
Yet I was, trying to be careful,
No values. Vales of an unnatural world.
I must concentrate...
no, not concentrate;
take it all in. Savour it. Experience it, proudly.
I wandered on, aimlessly.
Two ducks flip-flopped into a pond.
A tree bent to it
as if to drink
the muddy water.
They hitched up their webbed feet
and paddled gently
into the ripples of fish, mouthing for air.
A lark sang high in a tree, it was happy...
Values, again! Human values!
Twice I looked back; I'd covered a lot of ground..
I glimpsed a buck rabbit, darting for cover,
...t had spotted a doe
and ran back.
Field mice scurried towards the corn
as I came into open country;
the forests behind, the fields in front.
Were such moments as these gone,
only to be remembered?
Who knows, where it begins
or where it ends;
that non-existent line
that is each one of us.
So, in saying that,
it follows that these lines cross
and bear upon each other.
at the intersection.
these indefineable lines
start in the infinity
of the Universe,
where Time does not exist.
They are born in us
and cease in us;
when Oneness is born in Death
at the intersection.
There are no words to say
that these lines are thick or thin;
not that they are continuous
or tangible in form.
Yet they do exist;
they flow through us
and join, in an instant,
at the intersection.
Each part of what we are,
is such a line in space;
a constant broadening matrix
through which we ebb and flow.
Yet each line is a purpose,
decided by some Fate;
of which we have no knowledge,
but point at the intersection.
The ships that pass at day's due death,
all travel on that line;
and out meeting with another Self,
create the graph of friends,
And each day that passes,
each bloom that bows to us;
all meet some time or other,
at the intersection.
There is no parallel of lines;
they criss-cross quite by chance;
and such a chance of crossing so
is incomprehensibly large.
Yet in that immeasurable chance,
we find that many lines;
can find each other and meet
at the intersection.
I came down from the mountains,
within the cold and courseless stream;
I flowed over rocks and gravel,
into a still night's dream.
In trees tall leaves and shady nooks,
I sought the light of day;
my sun bet down and heat's rays fell
upon the misty blades of hay.
An ant climbed wearily,
though forests of green/yellow grass;
a mystic instinct drove it
to a hill outside the pass.
And in that bare, lonely clearing,
a deer gently grazed;
it started at some sound within
and ran away amazed.
I found others waiting,
deep in forest glade;
their eyes aglow with freedom;
their faces, wordless, made.
I came down with the summer rains,
and lay upon the ground;
I made the puddles, reflecting,
all that lay around.
I soaked into the blistered earth,
my insects quenched their thirst;
the grass ran green in silence;
the trees, their flowers burst.
I looked around my world,
rain or sun my laughter;
here was the happiness I sought;
my peace of mind came after.
I whistled with the wind,
I blew hard, long and cold;
I crept through cracks and chasms;
I stilled as oceans rolled.
I crashed and splashed on rocks,
I broke upon the beach;
I frightened Earth's explorers;
Lost, yet still in reach.
I glowed in silent hues at dusk,
and crept into Man's soul;
I flushed the youth of faces;
creating each new goal.
My life is never ending,
For I cannot die with words;
I'm not anything you care to name;
I wing on, like homing birds.
Each line, you see, in our bland lives,
Bears a heavy load;
each line of eternal thickness grows;
and meets an infinite road...
at the intersection.
'I can speak all languages, simultaneously.'
sad the wise man.
'How?' asked the student, perplexed.
The wise man placed his hand on the student's shoulder,
So, one comes from the darkness
where even one's thoughts
and that darkness hangs heavy,
loaded with perturbed spirits.
But yet where there is darkness
is there also light;
and that light is too bright...
Yet, close the eyelids
and it is dark again.
We can turn on the light
and switch on the darkness;
not so easy in despair
can we turn on the light.
Perhaps thinking is our curse,
that we can seeneither the darkness,
nor the light,
nor even the shades of grey.
I've just killed a fly.
Just like that!
Shouldn't I be sick?
I sat and contemplated
on the idea.
It had no form
but yet was so real.
It drifted through the breeze
out...beyond our universe,
yet at once,
parallel to it.
Sometimes it took shape
Sometime it took flight
and I could not grasp it.
Sometimes it was lost
in the plethora of body sensations.
Yet it was still there,
and would not be lost;
since nothing is lost,
that is not discovered
by some-one else.
The old ones,
Not the new ones...
When I was a boy...
But that's what I'm supposed to say.
Here I am, feeble hands,
(Those that are mine),
The new one..
Well they don't make them
Like they used to.
Here I sit, scribbling
These jagged lines,
Trying to make some sense
Of it all.
But there isn't,
There couldn't be.
I've lived, yet not lived.
I can say that I've passed through,
Searching always for the rainbow,
The pot of gold;
But finding only the drops of water.
They say that wisdom comes with age,
Yet I'm not wise.
Somewhere I'm sure I've missed the point.
You know, I remember the time...
But you wouldn't
Want to hear about that.
You're young, fresh,
Yet so old in many ways.
The light's fading,
Or maybe it's my eyes;
Denuded of experience
To keep me awake.
Yes, I'm sleepy.
I remember when I was...
Only my memories,
(The old ones, not the new ones)
Blanket me and keep me warm.
Even the fire doesn't warm me
Life was better in the old days...
No, it wasn't!
Remembrance only makes it so.
I'll put the kettle on...
I'll use a tea-bag.
See how modern I am.
Here I lie,
bounded by these eight walls.
Lined. Yes, lined!
I was bourgeois, realise.
I had nothing to do with it.
My own universe is bounded
Though my bones rot
my hair still grows.
My nails are grotesque;
I used to have them trimmed.
I was bourgeois, realise.
My clothes have departed.
Yet I'm not cold.
I was never cold.
South of France.
I was bourgeois, realise.
Above me, the seasons pass, gently.
Flowers grow, winds change.
I can feel the vibrations in the ground,
it's own life within.
I never noticed these things before.
I was bourgeois, realise.
I sit here, in this old armchair;
its arms ingrained with age,
She, sat here, many times.
Mum, I called her;
that's what everyone called her,
although she was my wife.
Her picture's there
on the wall, next to the clock,
fading, like my memory.
I used to mend clocks;
I could mend any,
at one time,
providing the main-spring wasn't broken.
I think I'm wearing out,
like that clock.
I write poetry.
I wake up in the long night
and I scribble it
on odd bits of paper;
they're in my wallet.
Mum gave it to me.
It doesn't hold much;
my pension book,
a few odd stamps
out of date,
(postage went up again last week).
I used to collect stamps,
now I'm too old;
I only collect memories.
I always feel I'm nearer her, now;
every creaking board
holds her footsteps, ghost-like.
But I don't walk much,
I usually sit here thinking
and perhaps writing;
but it's too shaky to read.
I have to use my lens;
but even that's an effort.
I suppose my memories
are like looking through a lens;
some standing out more than others.
She used to be here to listen
to my ramblings.
Now, only the paper listens,
in its own way.
She would listen,
look up from her knitting, or a book.
We didn't have much in common,
but we cared.
We made a go of it
and it wasn't easy.
At least I always worked and we ate,
not much, sometimes;
but we ate, when times were hard.
So that's it.
There's a lot more.
Probably you think it's a bore,
INTO THE LIGHT...one
Oh! there are books written,
There are plays acted,
There are discussions held,
people, crying, trying, dying.
It doesn't make a blind bit of difference.
Let's take it from the darkness,
this world of ours;
let's take it, for all our sakes,
into the light!
INTO THE LIGHT...two
I trod the blistered road,
searching for the light
and from whence it came.
The path was travel-worn
many souls had gone before.
Sunlight hid the wind.
It was grey, the world,
overcast with blatant clouds,
some heavy, pregnant with storm,
some light, joyous in their freedom.
I came upon the castle,
aspiring to the sky,
its windows, dark,
Yet I was not afraid
as I came to the portcullis,
(lowered these aeons since).
There was a silence
I dared not break.
No life stirred within.
I left the portalled entrance
to the sentry of Time
and trudged in,
the fatigue of a life-time
(heavy as the ruddy clouds)
announcing the impending storm.
The darkness wrapped itself round
Rain began to fall.
He, sat in the corner
of what I took to be
an ancient eating hall.
Moss grew lazily
between the flagstones.
The cold sapped my body
of its remaining strength
and I sat down.
My company, opened a weary eye
and a voice filled my head,
so profound was the silence.
Sharing my frugal meal, we talked
And spoke of many things.
He gathered his cloak about him,
starring incessantly with his deep eye
(as though to see a mirror of himself).
I felt a sadness;
he must have felt my aloneness.
Outside, the rain weathered the stones.
Next morning, my joy was dawn.
Gladly, I followed the ragged stairs
round and round a tower, inside;
until I came out on the parapet, outside.
Already he was there.
He said he'd been there
since before dawn;
he was frightened
in case he missed it.
I could still not see him well,
even in the daylight;
except for that same eye,
staring into me.
We could see the landscape
before us, stretching. Nothing else.
Yet it was alive.
It was powerful
Full of its innate self.
Risen from the desolate night
it was cloudless
and I felt I couldn't be alone
even if he, wasn't there.
I wanted to be off.
Despite our talk
and the seeming reliance which I felt
I took my leave.
I didn't say goodbye,
it didn't seem necessary.
His cloak closed about me;
I closed my bag
with the few possessions
(which I'd come to love dearly
on my travels).
Then it was gone.
That castle might never have been.
I turned with the road
and it disappeared.
Some of my melancholy returned,
I don't know why.
I was happy.
I whistled a nameless tune.
I stopped; found a spring coldly exuding from a rock,
and washed the night from me.
The day grew exquisite and hot;
but later it grew cooler as the sun turned off.
I'd covered a good distance.
My feet, which had been light in my joyous state,
now felt heavy,
and with this, my sadness returned.
I hadn't seen a soul all day
nor has I expected to.
I had been in open country.
I'd killed a rabbit earlier;
more by luck than skill.
Yet I had enjoyed it,
laughing at myself.
Not the killing (I'd hated that)
but because of the sport.
After all, it had given me quite a chase!
I prepared to camp for the night;
trees, rocks and a fire for company.
The crackling flames
played with the very shadows it created.
My sated belly was telling me
how contented it was.
Glanced with a sudden animal fear
over my shoulder.
He, was sitting there;
calm as a tideless sea;
sitting in his usual manner, by a tree;
that unwinking eye, staring.
Again he shared my frugal meal
and we talked, deep into the night.
I didn't ask how he got there,
it didn't occur to me.
We just talked, until I fell asleep.
When I awoke, he was gone.
I washed in a stream,
greeted the day with a cheerful grin
and went on my way.
The road began to grow colder.
I had been climbing all day into the mountains;
isolated patches of snow fused into drifts,
much as my ideas.
My happiness seemed to stay longer with me
I was seeing things.
I was not looking, I was seeing.
I was living each minute
instead of even thinking
of being sad and alone.
It was evening. The wind was chill.
Mountains cut the sky and were lost.
Yet I did not feel alone.
Cold, hungry and thirsty,
but not alone,
as I had done previously.
I found the cave quite by chance.
The previous occupant, a lion, I determined,
had been killed, or had run off.
Soon I had a fire going.
Another rabbit had found its way
by luckless graze into my pot.
Smoke drifted with my breath.
I did not even start.
He held out his hands to the fire,
although I got the impression
he didn't require the heat.
Our talks got shorter, I noticed.
Or I was learning more quickly
what he had to say;
yet they affected me deeply.
I did not have the same melancholy,
that same aloneness.
He didn't seemed to mind my falling asleep
and I didn't think of it.
I awoke to a blizzard.
My fire was out.
As usual, except for that first morning,
he was gone.
I had to go on.
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