Something Old – Remarkable Things

Tags

creative, Falling Sleet, Mind, Philosophy, poems, poetry, Published, Remarkable Things, thoughts, writing

The pulse of a wing on the wind,

The print of a foot on the sand,

A Sun-borne wink on a frosted morn,

A halo-ringed moon, pure and full,

First kiss of the day

Last word of the night.

The breath of the newborn awoken,

The memories of age newly shared,

A waterfall cascade shimmering stone,

A desert thrown mirage horizon blurs,

Soft-whispered sounds

Looks that speak love.

The caress of the wave on the shore,

The towering ice-hearted peaks,

A beast in the full flight of chase,

A life-spewing forest of green,

Eyes that say nothing

But mean all the world.

And if none of these things are written,

Do they simply just cease to exist?

Musings

Tags

creative, Language, Musings, poems, poetry, Proverbs, random, Sayings, thoughts, verse, writing

The weak will inherit the mirth

I heard somebody say

I hope that it will keep them warm

When hope has died away

Each silver lining had its cloud

To keep us grounded here

And magpies always number two

So we can see our fears

So I stood there without a stone

And cast away my sin

Then opened up the stable door

To see what might fall in

And if only the young die good

Well where does that leave me

With time fallen so far behind

And ships lost out at sea

And only ill was ever said

About the ones now cold

And death may be a blessing great

If truth were ever told.

Turned Away

Tags

age, creative, dreams, faith, Life, loss, Love, nostalgia, poems, poetry, Relationships, thoughts, Truth, Turned away, verse, writing

She sits and waits the tv glows

Stares pictures on the wall,

She wonders if they’ll ever know

The days she turned away.

He watches faces on the screen

As nameless they pass by,

He sees her still in youthful dream

But would not change a thing.

She dreams of ships with billowed sail

Her foot upon their bow,

And moons that wax and moons that pail

Horizons silent now.

He thinks of doors that always closed

And wished them all away,

Each detail drawn each gateway posed

He’d climb them all again.

She pictures faces that she knew

And counts them over stiles,

How many seen how known so few

She wonders how they fell.

He holds himself within his shell

The bottle comes again,

The stories that he’ll never tell

Die slowly deep inside.

She sits and waits the tv glows

Stares pictures on the wall,

She wonders if they’ll ever know

The days she turned away.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Sell Me to the Crows

Tags

creative, Crows, death, faith, Freedom, Mountain, poems, poetry, thoughts, verse, writing

I’ve walked these streets too long at night,

Know every broken turn,

And when I vanish in the light,

I do not feel it burn.

I’ve sat upon the table’s head,

And humbly served its guest,

I’ve listened to the words you said,

Responded to the jest.

I’ve followed you along your path,

And tried to guide you too,

My hands wrapped tight around your snath,

To carve a way askew.

I’ve made the choices that you feared,

Torn down the bloodied wall,

Then hid behind the paper scared,

Just waiting for the fall.

So lead me to the mountain high,

And sell me to the crows,

So I at last can see the sky,

And know what no-one knows.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Underneath the floorboards

Tags

creative, Floorboards, poems, poetry, thoughts, verse, writing

Underneath the floorboards

Where the downstairs people lie

With their clay-heavy hands

And their hollow eyes blind,

Underneath the floorboards

With the roaches and the dreams

The lost coins and the fears

And nothing more to buy,

Underneath the floorboards

Where I cannot find my sleep

And all I taste is dust

And all that breathes is death,

Underneath the floorboards

With the grammar and the text

The stolen thoughts and smiles

That’ll never rise above,

Underneath the floorboards

Where the downstairs people lie

My feet between their teeth

The window out of reach.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

The Road

Tags

Depression, dream, isolation, Journey, Life, poems, poetry, Road, thoughts, verse, writing

The car stops

The middle of the road

Deserted, quiet

A hundred miles from home

Lights flash

Blinking out a warning –

Should I be here

Or still at home,

Still in bed

The dreamscapes spreading

Like melted butter

Or redemption’s promise?

Still blinking

Yellow, orange, red

And what was it that

I came here for?

A change

A retrospect?

A reason tattooed

On life-worn skin?

A number on a page

In a book

On a shelf

Of some forgotten library

In some forsaken town

Where you leave your shoes

And your belt

At the gate

And listen as

The doors close in?

Engine silent

Stills the night

And chills the tremors

As they sleep

The cub-fox whimper

Disappearing

Swallowed by its den

And isolation’s silence

Slices

Grid marks in the night

That lead to neither

Here nor there

But feast upon

The stars,

And cat’s eyes fade

From memory

And power’s whimpered

Gasp

But dreams return

Assassin ghosts

Their fangs and claws

Exposed,

And was it this

I came here for

To drown in silent words?

Or find myself

Upon a road

That disappeared from view?

And all these signs

That I once saw

Flooding into view

Did they sprout

From idle hands

To lead me from

A home?

And was that

In the distance

Another car like mine

With tail lights dying

With the stars

In the middle of

The road?

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

We Want

Tags

Creative writing, Life, Notoriety, poems, poetry, Remembered, thoughts, Truth, verse, writing

What is it we want

Is it just to belong

To be part of the crowd

A part of the scene,

A sense of our place

And our presence in time

A memory for others

To mark where we’d been?

Or do we all seek

To leave past days behind

And carve out our future

Our place in the Sun,

To step with new shoes

And away from the herd

To leave our feint imprint

Where no one has gone?

But as the Sun sets

We’ll all fade in its shade

No name be remembered

On each weathered grave.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

Owen or Brooke?

Tags

Competition, conflict, history, Humanity, Philosophy, poems, poetry, Rupert Brooke, thoughts, war, Wilfred Owen

War poets: a) poets who lived through times of war

Or b) poets who write about war?

I saw this poster and, for two seconds, considered writing something for it.

Then I read it and began to consider what exactly were they looking for?

Would they want a ‘war is abhorrent, causes nothing but suffering, pain and misery, and it is about time that we evolved Humanity to a state where wars no longer took place’, or would they rather a ‘war is an unfortunate, yet necessary evil, in which good will triumph, and all those who fight are ‘heroes”?

I decided that the ‘judges’ would err towards the latter.

I trust you know that my leaning is towards the former.

I shall not participate.

Gone (Light and Dark)

Tags

creative, death, Gone, Human nature, Life, loss, poems, poetry, thoughts, verse, writing

I read the fickle words you wrote

Scribbled on a post-it note,

False sentiment caught in my throat

Made me gag and made me choke.

I heard the flowing eulogy

The standard one and not for me,

As standing there for all to see

You hung your words upon the tree.

I watched you talk of you and I

And look so meekly to the sky,

And as you spoke of when and why

To my replacement you mouthed ‘hi’.

 

I read the fickle words you wrote

But what more did I expect?

A heart torn open

Bleeding free –

A life cut short to be with me?

I heard the flowing eulogy

But I was only lost at sea

And ships will sail

And ever will –

And life goes on without me still.

I watched you talk of you and I

But true I never let you know

The secrets that

I hoped you saw –

And now I’m gone, forever more.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

Giving

Tags

Creative writing, Giving, poems, poetry, thoughts, verse, writing

I have grown good

At giving things away:

A word, a look, a plaything;

Objects gathering dust on shelves

Which serve only as a reminder,

Hollow and spent,

Of the emptiness of detachment;

A touch, a smile, a heart;

A muscle with purpose usurped

Scratches on the page

Of another’s life;

A hope, a wish, a future –

And of what use is a future

When its past has been given away? –

An entry erased from the ledger:

Yes, I have grown good

At giving things away,

Giving until this shell

Is empty.