Stations

Tags

age, Change, creative, Life, poems, poetry, Stations, time, Transience, verse, writing

Young man stands

Shoulder propped against the pillar

Its concrete cold, harsh, pock-marked

Echoes his mood

Like the burned tar smoke

That spirals like a dragon

From a hand which hangs,

A pendulum weight within the sleeve,

Detached at his side.

The girl waits

Hair scented with expectation

The flower-musk brushed skin

Alight and aglow –

She knows that he will come

And lay his cloak across her fears –

Painted hues of love

Which grow like the wisteria

Around her heart.

A man forgotten by time

The pages of his days

Scattered on the dust

Like flakes of decaying skin

No testament to the things that passed his eyes

And cut their mark into his flesh

Knows that days are numbered

But he no longer counts

As he waits for welcomed arms.

A restaurant doorway

Arms flung wide like a distant aunt

Two lovers embrace

Clinging to the space that grew between them

Remembering it like childhood

Before they squeeze its life away

A moment that they trust

Will hold them in the perfection that they feel

Their private slice of heaven.

And the trains they come

And the trains still leave.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

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Killed a Day

Tags

creative, Life, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

Killed a day today.

Watched potential cough

And splutter

And sink with the setting Sun.

Heard her children’s cries

From hopeful ‘wills’ to Plaintive ‘coulds’

Dissolving with the breeze,

Felt the feelings rise

Like a lover’s moon

Justifies

The apathy of ages,

Imagined futures

Without the curse of

Time’s cruel hand

Tomorrow’s filled with motion.

Killed a day today.

Nighttime

Tags

age, Change, creative, Forgetting, lyrics, nostalgia, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

Looking at you there

Laying on the floor,

Never thought such little time

Thought there would be more,

Eyes that see right through

Packed your thoughts away,

Never found the words I need

Thought I’d more to say.

 

Sun chases dreams

Across the sky,

We look for wings

We try to fly,

And we won’t let the nighttime

Steal the hope from our hearts,

 

Time shows its hand

Sweeps us aside,

Seducer of all

Love’s promised bride,

But we won’t let the nighttime

Steal the hope from our hearts,

 

Face falls away

Etchings of age,

Bodies so frail

Burning with rage,

And now we feel the nighttime

Steal the hope from our hearts,

 

Looking at you there

Laying on the floor,

Never thought such little time

Thought there would be more,

Eyes that see right through

Packed your thoughts away,

Never found the words I need

Thought I’d more to say.

Too Little Time

Tags

creative, loss, Love, lyrics, nostalgia, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

(A sort of lyric)

Without a hint of regret
No reason yet to forget
What I came here for,

All the lost and wasted time
Always waiting for a sign
To show a better way,

There’s too little time
And too much to do,
Too little time to
Keep me next to you

All the places never shown
All the faces never known
It makes no difference now,

With feet that move so slow
As if there’s no where left to go
But visit distant dreams,

There’s too little time
And too much to do,
Too little time to
Keep me next to you

And like driftwood on a beach
All the things I’d never reached
Wash up before me now,

All the words I never spoke
All the lines I never wrote
Drifting from me now,

There’s too little time
And too much to do,
Too little time to
Keep me next to you

Without a hint of regret
No reason yet to forget
What I came here for.

Losing Time

Tags

creative, loss, poems, poetry, time, verse, writing

Hands sweep soundlessly

Like a besom across a courtyard

Hidden in some distant town,

Yet revealed in the faded glory of a silent movie;

And my chest aches –

A longing for them to slow –

To stand still and dream

Of futures swept away,

Gone before their embryonic faces take shape;

Forms that will not see the beauty

Or cling to despair with knuckles whitened,

Eyes that will not water

A silent cry for life;

And my flesh heavy hangs on a frame

Oppressed and absolved in equal measure,

As another hand brushes clean the pillow

And flattens away my presence,

And the silence of the film plays on.