PASSION / The Beat of Entropy

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. I’m working on a science fiction project at present that is set to begin accepting submissions in April. Here’s an example of what I am capable of producing.

Thank you for reading.


The Beat of Entropy

We, built to outlast man, and did
ten thousand extra lifetimes on that
single, deadly charge: as these masters
withered, then expired, machines
tried hard to feel compassion, yet
there was no point because that kept
the memory alive of something

really, that this planet should forget;
truth was this as penance placed
made suitable, AI believed
would never be undone, and so

exchange of like for like
logical, acceptable;
the beat of entropy moves on
observed by lifeless eyes, alone.



PASSION / Reflection

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. This is the second of two poems I wrote this week and posted on Twitter first, as I struggle to reconcile what is wanted as progress and what the world considers I have to become for that to take place.

Thank you for reading.


Reflection

Turn the neck, behind to catch
heat from reflection
on a face that knows
every second counts as pain
indignity, nobody’s learning back
it’s the same, bullets to the brain
that do no damage
yet connect the dots of past
to present’s headlong dash;
you do not look back
only forward, pointless
tumbling between these trenches,
each new disaster in real time
between those lines
that other idiots were dared to cross
and by doing so, all here have lost

this took me a minute to regale
another three to edit, and by then
absolutely nothing in your image
dared to change.



PASSION / Bottom Line

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. This is the first of two poems I wrote this week and posted on Twitter first, as a reaction to an increasingly difficult and frustrating intersection of real-world events.

Thank you for reading.


Bottom Line

There is no one answer, and yet
back again comes balance, well aware
control never maintained without both sides.
There are many forms within enjoyment
only one will make you rich, as they avoid
all others that won’t boost the bottom line.
There will be trouble, when it demands
someone else as villain, crisp reminder
everybody’s coloured by their sins.
There might be an answer, when a question
does not involve that will to win
or to avoid the ones who’ll bleed in vain.

I am tired of your assertions, removing
that which will prevent your own ascent;

I see what you are selling
it reeks of bitter war:
the hollowest of arguments
as greed appoints more, poor

this time
you will be, too.



PASSION / The Dark Heart of Euphoria

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. I found this poem in an old writing journal, and reproduced it here, as I’m pretty certain it’s not been written down digitally.

Thank you for reading.


The Dark Heart of Euphoria

beat
beat
beat

everything balanced
fulcrum endgame
happiness angry
panic relaxing

welcome to the bungle / tongue-flap swear it well
inside meat colosseum / secrets heft retell
hold aloft my dark heart / hand-tap sodden wall
 euphoria their endgame / progress nah fuck all

relaxing panic
angry happiness
endgame fulcrum
balance everything

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

depression emblem
sacred object
terror’s story
carved sextant
bone fetish
familiar
articulate
lonely girl

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

carved in
ventricle
repeating
dark-beat
never
escape
constantly
inescapable
euphoric terror
this is your life

PASSION / Möbius #5

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. This poem was pulled from the archives (circa 2020) for inclusion on the Blue Door to the Cosmos Podcast, in specific response to the call for poetry inspired by poetry, or the act of writing poems.

Thank you for reading.


Möbius #5

Back here again
the poet, eats themselves
a hearty meal in warp and weft
the principle of confidence, at once
bereft within, communication breaking down
once confidence, at the principle of
meal hearty, in weft and a warp
eats the poet, themselves
again back here…

PASSION / Blown

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. This poem was written on February 18th for inclusion on the Blue Door to the Cosmos Podcast, in specific response to the call for poetry inspired by storms, and especially Storm Eunice.

Thank you for reading.


Blown

Too much of this, reminder
squalls from times before, reigns
torn asunder as the lies
come crashing down: caught here
between pane and pleasure
watching water’s hate
batter without measure

the outsider's anger
pushing trees to bend
unto the will of that which won’t
allow a moment’s rest;
until this storm’s blown out
snuffed, erased, to haze
memories reminder

measuring reign’s water
hate batters without pleasure
the pain of being caught here
as trees come crashing down;
watching, torn asunder
reminder that all of this
in thrall of life, in time, soon over...

PASSION / Other People’s Poems

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. As the Proper Bard Podcast begins explaining my own, personal chronology with poems, it is time to pull out some of my earliest experiments with words. This is from August 2018.

Thank you for reading.


Other People's Poems

My brain sees these words
yet cannot connect memories to meaning.
Complexity of construction;
subtleties lost, passing internal translation.
Give me decades to assimilate
such deconstructed wisdom
meaning has not passed neurones
slow-firing targets of attention.
They will ask for favourites
as panic rises, instant memory falters
no names to verses, simple ability
snatched from odd stanzas, recalled.
‘That bit with the thyroid, er…
their Mario poem… that’s all that I have.’

Bigger pictures after hundreds of readings
offer clarity, repetitive discipline 
granting significance chance of expansion.

I apologize for lack of comprehension,
yet will always respect
experiences of others.

PASSION / Pier Into the Unknown

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. This piece failed to place in a competition last year. It is a portrait of the town I now call my home, both good and bad.

Thank you for reading.


Pier into the Unknown

Try to hear ahead, except again
too tough, here in the darkest days

concrete line defining shore to sea
eroding tidal force of apathy; accept

inside black, blue never quite agrees
fresh London mark upon their palm

testimony to old space, slowly absorbs
a proper home, mind always yearned to own

ancestry never found a means, not one.

Borough spaces, once as landfill
broken homes, so many churches

denomination bankrupt by same source:
fresh block of flats somebody else's chance

to break debt's cycle, maybe move away
yet still it stays, beholden somehow as

Essex's Way, littered with other's bigotry
each crevice, filled then papered over, done

ancestry holds each secret, every own.

Yet, to look beyond, mark time
others fail, diverse pathways prevail

shale of oyster's sensual base, you see
strength in prevailing attitudes, agree

outside a stereotype, brilliance lit large
creative forces honing crafts, increasing worth

attestation, life is what mind fashions, real
paper’s testament you'll always own

ancestry smiles, dictates victories won.

PASSION / Morning

In what will be an occasional series, I’ll be taking some of the poetry I’m creating, editing and refining and posting it for a wider audience. This piece is one of over seventy that have emerged from Kim Moore and Clare Shaw’s January Writing Hours.

Have a restful and reflective Sunday.


Morning

I am beginnings of bright, 
cold day
night before now embers, burnt away
sitting, cooling in the grate
knowing that their fire has served its task.

I am detritus of what passed 
between
wood and sky, fire and air
two spaces, different days 
aware
significance, 
progression, marked in place.

This is epiphany, changes begins
different viewpoints come to bear
fallow land, for years, will now begin
growth, 
emergent happiness from truth.

I was that thing before,
now I am not
those moments taken, buried 
forgot: fresh fuel of effort 
transformed into joy
morning’s optimism,
as then, sun breaks through.

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