London Poem: Day 272

16 May

The wrestle to understand
What is to be said,
Confounds, and sets apart
Reason as simply as one may
A petulant child.
There is no result;
There is only blank space –
Quietly rolling over,
Washing up as a resounding
Dull roar.
There is nowhere to go,
But back into thought to
Make sense of the blank
Space pervading.

London Poem: Day 271

15 May

The line across gets
Lost in the water in between.
How we speak, the words
Are all the same,
But are drowning in the muddy
Transit. Progress, the thing
That binds us is only a word,
A sound, like friend,
To stand on ceremony so if
Anyone asks, we will
Have something to say, but,
We are far and I don’t know
If it is the same.

London Poem: Day 270

14 May

It’s still early,
The sun, just peeking
Out of the clouds,
Low and rising fast,
The world is on fire,
Here and there.
Grey and low slung,
The horizon glows,
While the rest clings
On to what it was,
Fearful of what it will
Inevitably come:
Dark and unsure.
But, such is the
Nature of known
Determinism; one thing
Gives way, so that
Another may be –
It is a rolling,
Tumultuous ride, being
And switching until it’s
Out turn to set.

London Poem: Day 269

13 May

Spinning words delicately
Into massive yarns, to
Impress upon others that
I am more than I am.
It is the endless
The casual lie,
To play the part of who
I have become, more than just here,
But indefinitely.
It’s not me.
Ask a question, I’ll give a name,
A puzzled look,
Me to you, and back.
I’ve made it up, but
The question is:
Am I caught?
For either me or you,
Grace be the soul
Who accepts defeat.

London Poem: Day 268

12 May

Call me,
Half way gone,
And ask
The questions that
Make you think:
Where am I going?
But, the clarity,
Cold and sterile,
Comes too late for it
To make any difference.
All the words that could
Square the situation
Filter in after the
Moment passes.
There is never enough time
To say, what it is you
Want to say.

London Poem: Day 267

11 May

Allow the cries to sing out,
The lonely thudding of the
Universe, all falling to pieces,
All falling to the ground.
Accepting the inevitable,
The wild, and the space in between,
There is so little hope to
Prevent concern from waking.
It is a careless step, coming
Alive to wander freely now that
All of the pieces lay
Flat and floundering on a
Dying soil. What can grow
Amidst the destitute?
Here, amongst the last of
The flowers, stand you and I,
Waiting for spring.

London Poem: Day 266

10 May

The gracious acceptance
Of a fate unknown is all
Anyone can do.
Everything is dark
Until the sky alights,
Flame and fury, and
Swallows up the wild unknown
Of the night.
Feet shift, the world rouses,
Shaking into a long stare of
Hope and fear that push a person
On to the next day.
Let us see what lives there,
Lives in what we cannot see.