Stark Reality

cushioned oblivion

eyes closed to the weeping

hearing drowned in all dreams

reality altered

around us while sleeping

nothing quite as it seems

soothed by the angels

feted in slumber

purified innocent eyes

awaken to terrors, a

heaven more humbler

sleep the purveyor of lies

casting its light

in shadows of darkness

illusory nature of sleep

vile veracity

illumined day’s starkness

now hear those who must weep

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Closet Companions.

Now my gorgeous, and I do mean gorgeous, daughter came to visit tonight with her equally gorgeous girlfriend. Yeah, gay. The two of them. Just as well I suppose. It would be really awkward if only one of them were.

I mean, can you imagine?

That would be like kissing some guy you didn’t fancy. Or sleeping with some bloke just because he’s a bloke.

Whereas, they’re in love. And it’s obvious. And it’s lovely to see. The two of them head over heels. Ain’t love amazing?

Except when you’re hiding in a closet.

If you’re forced to hide in that closet.

 All paired off. According to anal retention.

‘Cos there are big scary bastards out there.

Like tigers with elongated canines that want to plough through your flesh.

Or bears with razor claws that might rip you to pieces.

Or gigantic pterodactyls whose only aim in life is to spy prey and zone in for the kill.

Or people.

Yeah, people. Most dangerous predators known. Prey usually consisting of anything or anyone that is perceived to be, ‘unusual, distinct, misunderstood, you-name-it-we’ll-find-a-name-for-it’.

Yeah. So, love. It’s a bugger, isn’t it? Just never can tell where it’s going to hit.

That wee bastard, Eros, has a sin to answer for. If only he would point his wee darts at all the appropriate people.

Just think of it.

No more mismatched unions.

Woman gets to be with ‘Mr. Rich Pants with a fabulous sense of humour who also happens to give great oral and knows where all the tickly bits are and understands endlessly why the time of the month just makes you crazy.’

What?!

And man gets a woman with great bazongas and who just loves to swallow. And knows that man-flu is actually a completely whole other type of flu than the usual kind plaguing other mere mortals of the opposite sex.

 yep. Sorry, guys. Yours is a comic book. ‘Cos, well it just is. Do you know a woman who really likes swallowing? I don’t know one. And I’ve asked.

Yep. The ideal world.

That would be where exactly? And how much is the ticket? And is it cheaper one way? ‘Cos why would we not want to live there?

And in that world there would be no war or pestilence.

We would all look great until we died at 640.

(No image possible!)

Grey hair would be something that only Afghan hounds sported.

Wrinkles would be something that tortoises proudly presented as an unusual manifestation of age.

People would be paid a fair wage for a fair day’s work.

There would be no hunger or poverty.

All religions would recognise the one God and accept that there were different ways of travelling.

There would be no need for politicians.

OK, scratch that one. I’m not sure what world that would be. ‘Cos bacteria seems to exist everywhere.

But you get my drift, surely?

Love is just beautiful when evidenced.

Now I could just have reblogged Rene’s post here. But I thought, nah! I have two gay children. One of each. I know these kids. They are mine. I get who they are. They are mine. And no one is keeping them from knowing love. Not on my watch.

Sometimes it takes many pictures to tell the story. I only need one. The first one I showed. How many does anyone need? Love is love.

Chair Of Dreams

There’s a chair he sits

To meditate

And speculate on life.

It’s a comfy one;

Soft, well-sprung,

Eases all day’s strife.

 

He rests his head

On cushioned pad

And closes sleepy eyes,

Lets cares of day

Melt swift away,

Thoughts turn to inner sighs.

 

A restful time,

No work in mind,

Merely moments rest,

A winsome wait, to

Imaginative state, where

Dreams replace life’s best.

 

Time passing for some seconds

Seems a lifetime

In this way.

Clock ticks the moments

Idly by,

Dreams consummate; life delay.

 

Close mind to voices,

External noises,

Let angel flutter near

With wings of portent,

Soul be sent,

Eliminate all fear.

 

There’s a chair he sits,

It looks quite plain, but

Surrealism enhances,

In quietest throes

Of deep repose,

New hope from all dreamt chances.

 

There’s a chair he sits,

And with eyes closed, so

Angel unobserved,

Blesses hopes and dreams

For him

With gestures but no word.

Resolutions, My Arse

http://wepoetsshowit.com/2013/12/29/january-poetry-contest/   New Year’s Resolutions with humour

I’m packing in the fags.

No, I’m not.

Well, maybe the drink if I’m wise.

But I don’t take that much

So there’s not really much point,

Oh, I know, I could stop telling lies…..

 

But I never do that…..

Resolutions just suck.

I can’t see the point of the plan

When everything I like

Is there all year round

To be stopped or started. Oh man!

 

Who started this stuff?

Whose bright idea?

To make us all feel like a failure

If plans that are made

Are quickly dismayed

Don’t bother. I’ll be your saviour.

 

Forget what you planned,

Don’t write it down,

Disclose them to no one around.

Make deals with nobody,

Not even yourself.

They’ll never get off the ground.

 

I laugh when someone

Tells me what they have done,

What their intentions are for New Year.

Not cruelty, you know,

But my expectations are low

When my cup is overflowing with good cheer.

 

There are twelve in the year,

January’s out.

I party because it’s my birthday.

If I want to make changes,

I’ll make them in Spring

When new life makes me feel that’s the way.

 

Does anyone know anyone

Who sticks to these things?

I don’t, not kidding, it’s true.

I’m making none. Not one

Little intention.

Then I won’t fail. What about you?

 

The Glesca Version

Tell Me About It

A plough drags stars across firmament’s field,

Occasionally drops one, so Heaven may yield

A soul on the earth that once lit up the night,

Now cascades brightness and life-giving light.

 

Tell me about it, these magical ways,

How earth meets the heavens and wonder portrays.

Tell me about it in songs that you sing,

In stories once written to entertain kings,

In poems and in quotes that entertain all.

Tell me about it, these words so enthral.

 

A trawler drags nets through oceans and seas,

Harnesses life from the depths to release

A multitude of dreams and millions of wishes

Of a world where mermaids live, conversing with fishes.

 

Tell me about it, these magical ways,

How minds mingle with folklore and nights become days.

Tell me about it in pictures and books,

In animations and films I once mistook

As reality melded with poetic allusion.

Tell me about it, wondrous dreams of confusion.

 

A jet drags clouds from Olympus’ peak,

Reveals gods and goddesses playing chess and who speak

To a world of mere pawns in a royal array,

Defending battles that rage, all part of the play.

 

Tell me about it, these magical ways,

How heaven, earth and oceans intermingle in plays.

Tell me about it, the comic and sad,

Tragedies and fantasies, some semblance of mad

Influence from lunar, the tricks of the mind.

Tell me about it, we’ll seek and we’ll find.

 

 Garner your dreams, let spirit drag

Through mind, soul and ether, all memories you’ve had.

Mix the concoction as a magical potion,

Spread it on thickly, full of flighty emotion.

 

Tell me about it, I love all that stuff.

Of flight, love and fantasy, never enough.

Tell me about it, imagination unfold,

In mind and in spirit may we never grow old

Though in body we rest as the years take their toll.

Tell me about it. Dreams are our goal.

Coincide

Excitement and gladness coincide,

Thoughts and dreams of you purvey

A measurement of wonderment,

In all you do and say.

 

Illusory love so gifted,

Imagination free and spry,

Transported to another place,

One where you and I

 

Exchange a kiss, extoll our bliss,

Indulge illicit pleasures,

Where fantasy and reality

Merge in fullest measure.

 

In hotel room where lust will bloom,

Extinguished every hour,

Till fireworks are fused and blown,

Gathered flower by flower

 

Till bouquet, now

In disarray,

Gathered

In its pieces,

Scents our souls

And,

Gradually,

Fantasy releases.

Only a Shimmer

Discard the old

Bring in the new

Blank canvas,

Unwritten page.

Pen in hand,

Paints to colour,

Palettes of

Words and shade.

Deliberations

And splashes

Nuzzle together,

Haphazardly

Comfortable.

Nuances of meaning,

Fantasy grafted with

Reality,

Disclosing

Tones of feeling.

Unthought words,

Dabbing

Colour,

Cross-hatching,

Screening,

Revealing.

Minds exposed,

Hearts displayed,

Souls shimmering

White on white.

Overlaid with

Markings,

Pictures,

Words

We write.

End Of The Road

Maybe dreams of flying are not always for the best! Same song, different result.

Precipice ran to meet,

Beckoning this one leap,

Fall into the chasm,

Dream, forever sleep

In arms of love’s surrender,

Crashed against its sides,

Anointed bloody union,

Hearts split open wide.

Crushed at zenith’s falling,

Dashed hopes lie, heavy broken.

Flight of fantasy, marred by truth,

End of the road, was spoken.

Mists and Light

Grey-matted, with eyes half-closed, they wander. Aimless meanderings, not really searching. From town to town, each one closed down, they venture with ear half-alert to other signs of life. Odd, but now usual, silence screams forth, occasionally broken by beast. And feet trudge, shuffling through dust-blown particles of life.

Cataclysmic, apocalyptic haze pervades and shrouds in mist the fallen, undead and wandering. Distorted reality now a nightmare dream, endured by only some few.

 

 

A yellow light flickers in distant hill and direction alters to face some sign of life. Endurance, a candle burns. Feet rise to greet the haven and hearts beat stronger now. Grey turns lighter, till brighter and white, clothed in dawn’s new hope.

A Dream Too Far

My friends,

I find myself so drawn

To others I can’t see

And yet, their souls are visible.

Is this only me?

 

All week long

I worked and wanted

To share myself with thee

To read your truths and your stories of

Truth and fantasy.

 

It seems to me

That I now live a lie

In once, choice profession.

Excuse me, please, I know this sounds like

Sordid, mean confession.

 

It is not that.

It’s just that, well,

I’ve written far too long and hidden all

I’ve thought and felt,

Like BBC banned song.

 

At last I feel

I’ve found my way,

Words upon the page

Flowing more profusely

Than at any other age.

 

I love my kids

Inside my school,

I know I do them well,

I, seriously, could do no other.

They’re like my own, myself.

 

But what to do,

I’m fifty-two.

I know that that’s not ancient

But I don’t know if I have will

To be forever patient

 

To do what I have always felt

Is so my heart’s desire

To set chosen words

Upon a page

To fuel a literary fire.

 

I kind of figured

A short while ago

That all this was a dream,

Like fairy belief and flying;

Nothing as it seemed.

 

Such disarray within my thoughts,

My dreams are running wild

And yet,

I am responsible,

No longer infant child.

 

May dreams surpass

All aged years,

All human expectation?

Is wanting something longed before

Merely, childish, frustration?

 

It may be so.

I think it may

Be nothing more than flight,

Imagination, born of dreams

Aurora Borealis light.

 

But, still,

I see them flashing there

Right before my eyes,

I look forever upwards

At heavenly, promised skies.

 

If truth be told,

There’s part of me

Still gurgling in my cradle.

I can’t let go, confession time.

I simply am not able.