He walked in
And walked out again.
Hands pocketed,
Jacket pushed back.
Again he walked in
A friend accompanying
In walk, talk and
In looking at me.
Category Archives: Writing
Lines beneath an L.Cohen poem
I’d wanted to write on this page from the moment I opened this book
But I restrained myself, instead allowing myself, rather forcing myself
To read till the end of the poem.
The problem was my impatience,
Till that was subverted by interest and
I forgot what it was I had wanted to write.
In truth I guess I had only a notion
Something, some fleeting romantic attempt – at poetry.
Well being that it’s gone, this urge, this feeling,
I present this – My reality!
The struggle
There is a battle I fight every day
Sometimes I lose, sometimes I win;
Now let me explain.
In my fantasies, not disturbed, but disturbing
I sometimes find my muscles twitch,
my jaw clench tight, the grit of enamel.
I’m seized, in seizure, I’m a victim!
But every day I realise this battle
And at times I control it. Then it’s another.
The battle within! The battle within!
To wing, to music
Against the half-opened blind in the skylight
A predatory bird sails across the blue canvas.
The wild – framed by this room
Where my baby played music
By pulling on a string –
The garden birds running scared…
I imagine
I imagine negativity
Places I have been,
Or imagine being.
I imagine I’m the victim
Picked on by the pack
While the Alpha dog kicks back.
I imagine people forcing me
To accept what they have said
Although I disagree.
I imagine I am judged
By those same people who have tried
To rob me of my dignity.
I imagine those called friends
Will let their fear our great bond end
I imagine friendships then.
I trust in very little
But that which I trust in –
I imagine it’s enough.
Untitled 5
The man’s music,
strung out,
resounded
across the square
across the tracks
And it may
even have reached
internally
for some stood staring,
perhaps wondering,
perhaps wagering
as to who’d
be first to crack…
The man or his audience.
Untitled 4
In time there would be nothing,
not of me not of anybody,
if that’s what life dared to promise us.
In truth I don’t care ’bout that,
the resigned state of pessimism,
call it reality of fact, I don’t care!
The great movement of living;
those Carpe Diem so few.
Poets, lovers, people all,
and forgotten.
Don’t label it irresponsiblity
because you’re afraid to experience.
Call it life, call it different,
just not yours.
In time I’ll be gone
With the rest of them too,
A collected bundle of bones, dust and ashes.
In truth I have loved
but of them very few
would I dare to summon-
to my bed at the end.
Untitled 3
The bells didn’t really toll for me,
they didn’t really toll for anybody.
At least not far as I could see
but I’d been blind since infancy.
Maybe a harpist can
make it this way.
Or maybe I’m just a slave to passion.
I would take it
as each passing day,
a constant wonder with its grave indecision.
Untitled 2
A rumbling, a murmuring,
the old and the new.
A rattling, a rippling,
that share the same hue.
Progression, obsession,
the life’s daily grind.
Advisor, contriver,
the truth’s hard to find.
A beauty, a bounty,
a conflict with lust.
Surrender, asunder,
when dreams turn to dust.
Untitled 1
Early on a Friday morning
The murmuring began.
„Don’t go to school today my friend.
Today let’s have some fun!”
„But I’m the teacher” I proclaimed,
„ And without me then there’s none.”
„So be it” that damned voice continued,
„They’ll not miss you, not anyone!”