Poems

First Glass Bauble

A glass bauble hangs first,

Itself, upon bristles flat, fat and green.

In relief, windows shatter the surface

of the dome.

The canvas is cracked,

into several shards

Illuminating on
the curve, where the shine

Peaks.

 

Green bristles, flat though they are

Exist in as a life in the current of living,

A Christmas tree extrapolated,

From it’s homeland, and shipped right in

Through European borders; past migrants,

Lapping up the water, a tree’s lifeblood

Keeps it living, in motion.

 

The evergreen fingers, thread

Hung suspended, black mirrors.

Tree looks at it’s self- a picture of health

Whilst the light trapping sheen,

Coat of decorative, glassed bauble

 

Reflects an illusion of shattering,

The twiggy, naked sleepers,

Beyond doors- Willow’s Weepers.

 


piano inner organs modified vintage

 

Original Manuscript

Sing. Sing, Sing.
Revealling, in a moment so sudden
That other, distant sound
Breaking softly, the glass cage
Of noise, to which you were bound.

It is melodic, and harmonious.
Serene, so as to distinguish itself
As being unique, and deviant,
Distracting, to behold.
Sing. Sing, Sing.

Amplified by recognition, it feeds
On realigned senses,
Inviting and enticing
Comprehension, of the proof
That there does exist, a brighter path

A different path, stripping out
The discord, the friction, the clash
With undeniable rhythm, it leads up,
Up. Up. Up. Up Up!

The refrain, the song, and the new
New, and the old, old harmony

Remembering,

Acheing muscles relax
Instructed by the compelling,
Those tones, those beats: Enabled,
You soothe and you slip,
Dropping into dance, allowing lost chords
To become your own teacher.
The song is reviving, the song
Is exciting, and you begin to remember
A Cappella, a cappella!
Where there was dischord, now hear
The choral rhapsody.

Settle back in,
To the symphony you created
In the beginning, out and beyond,
The tangles and the set-backs.

Original manuscript, so completely,
Totally,

Your own.



Gorgeous strong roots mother fucker

Save the Sheffield Trees

Long live the branches which stretch and sprout like alveoli, backwards, into Sheffield’s skies.
Long live the liberators of fresh air, rebels of the smog which was
The fumes of the factories and fudge worth in soil
The smack in the back thanks for hard worker’s toil
Soothed by those branches as the lung dies
That it might live, given that green philosophers still drink
The toxic from the cloud, to salvage all that lost sound to the cough
Which kept from the people the gift of some silence to think
Of other, better things, greener things.


Dedicated to Sheffield’s trees. To find out more about Sheffield Tree Action Groups, follow the link:

STAG- Sheffield Tree Action Groups on Facebook


Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

-By William Ernest Henley

 



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