Poetry selection B

Glistening like ice,
thawing at midday.
Gleaming bright jewels,
in a golden array.
Such gentle eyes!

But to gaze into them,
for a day and a night.
I would renounce all pleasures
for that great delight.
Such gentle eyes!

They must see my soul,
cancerous and ill.
Yet they don’t turn away,
but remain so still.
Such gentle eyes!

We’re two trains running on different tracks,
One pushing forwards the other going back.

We’re comets orbiting distant spheres,
Using our mouths but rarely our ears.

Don’t the things I say mean anything to you?
Why, oh why is nothing getting through?

I’ll repeat everything again and again,
I’ll speak real simple and plain.

Please understand me, please let me in,
‘Cos I can’t shout above this din.

Don’t the things I say mean anything to you?
Why, oh why is nothing getting through?

I’m quick to talk but slow to listen, it’s true;
So do you feel logically private too?

I do not understand how I,
can laugh and play,
just like any other day;
can have no need to cry.

When elsewhere in this land,
beneath the same blue sky,
are faces that will never dry;
people who will always weep.

I can no understand how I,
can lose no sleep,
have no need to weep.
Why Dunblane, oh why?

Even when I smile,
I’m often hurt inside.
‘Cos in a world so vile,
Your soul learns how to hide.

I’m angry, I’m angry,
But I don’t know why.
I try to find words,
But they sound like lies.

Am I angry at you,
Or angry at me.
Or angry at the world,
I just can’t see.

Where do I stand?
Why don’t I fall?
I can’t find the sense,
To make sense of it all.

What do you promise?
Does it come true?
My hope’s running out,
Can I still trust you?

I’ve found a peace,
But it brings turmoil too.
I want all to know,
But what can I do?

Everything I say,
Seems to guff things up.
I haven’t got what it takes
To drink this cup.

I ask for help.
I ask for a sign.
I pray for us all,
Oh hear my whine.

Fill the sky with lightning,
The earth with rain.
Unexpected and unimagined
Wonders once again!

Now I’m calm.
My storm has gone.
But thick clouds remain,
And linger on.

The search for meaning is meaningless if more meaning means meaning means less.
And if the more you mean means the meaner you get then meaninglessness means more.
And Solomon in all his wisdom could not understand
How the good could fall yet the evil stand.
And Solomon in all his wisdom could not believe
That whirlwinds can be due to sycamore leaves.
And even Solomon in all his wisdom fell to flesh
A year’s revenue, a gift for Molech.

.[Unpleasantries]
Grin nod smile wave hand.
Fine. Fine.
Umm
Work, must rush, can’t stand on time.

There it goes.
Another revelation and resolution,
Forgotten and lost in a sea of routine.
For a fleeing moment I saw
clearly.
Understood and knew for certain.
But thoughts and desires,
emotions and activity,
descend,
as clouds settle on alpine valleys.
An Arabian trader,
swift moving when its sails are full,
plots a route to Ceylon by friendly stars,
but is shaken and spun in monsoon gales.
In the morning it floats off course,
purposeless until another cloudless night
reveals its secrets.
Occult knowledge is forever hidden,
true knowledge brushes the mind only briefly,
like cool gusts of wind.

All the poets now are dead,
and nothing is that has not been
already said.

The prophet procession now is done,
and there isn’t one thing new
beneath the sun.

All nine Muses now are gone,
and left behind are only tapes
repeating on and on.

Lost in laughing, mocking lights
loosing the fight to breath
unable to leave
hyper-abyss
paralysis.