Tuesday 15 November 2016

Revival

"It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."-Alfred Tennyson

I've been wading through too many dreams, but I've finally reached the haven of reality.
I've broken through the raw surface of emotion that had trickled into every crack and crevasse, every nook and cranny, every abyss and chasm. Your wondrous glory has burned me; left me with so many scars.  I wear the wounds with pride; they've become my trophies. They're sharpened to the point of shininess; polished to perfection.  I can see my reflection.  Even though my love has lost, I've still won.

Your rosy petals have withered; your kaleidoscopic colours have faded into monochrome.
Your blade sharp thorns have become stepping stones; I'm immune to your cuts and stings. You're the only one in the ocean I ever wanted.  Trying to catch you left me with more than just a hook in my mouth.  Blood was spilling into the waters of self-pity.  Sharks were swarming, surrounding me on all sides, snapping up fish which were mindlessly opening and closing their mouths.  What did I do? I grew thicker scales.

Your eyes have become jaded to me; just two more stars in an already cramped sky. Mesmerised by spiralling coils of liquid gold.  Your fire has been extinguished now.  Mine is still blazing on; all you did was add kindling.

When buildings collapse, the rubble is swept up,
when tyres puncture, we patch up the wounds,
when ice melts, we can refreeze the fluid,
when milk is spilt, the mess is absorbed by towels,
when we cry, we dry our tears,
when muscles tear, they grow back stronger.

*author's notes*

My fourth poem based on a famous quotation.  All credit to Lord Alfred Tennyson.  I loved you once, but I'm over you now.  This is my final act of closure.  In retrospect, this seems more of a creative unleashing, rather than something of any true poetical form.   You could argue this is a happy sequel to Falling Petals.

1. Left Behind

2. Shattered

3. Crystal

Tuesday 8 November 2016

The Pack

  They had been running after prey.
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.

They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.

Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.

Their hot thermal colours betray
them.  By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.

Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.

Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.

*Author's Notes*

This is my first shot at a villanelle.  I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre.  It's all rather restrictive.  Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife.  With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.

Let me know your thoughts

Tuesday 1 November 2016

Crystal

"Only in suffering do we recognise beauty." - Proust

Only in pain, do we find clarity.
Through torture, who can we truly depend?
They're all demons.  Do we want charity?
Villains, foes, family, does the list end?
Angels take cover in the deep abyss.
Waiting for us to call; to see the truth.
Our guardians protect us with their kiss.
Lover's eyes are gentle beacons which sooth
temperate storms.  They ignite peace in souls.
They tame the beast and pacify evils.
Lovers defend us.  They fill the dead holes.
They fight our little worries-our Weevils.
Lovers hear our screams.  They're our protection.
We can't fight our most welcome infection.

*author's notes*

This is my first attempt at a sonnet.  Well, I say sonnet, it's not in iambic parametre, which I've never had any grasp on.  I tried to stick to the rhyme scheme though.  Let me know your thoughts and give me your interpretations of this poem.