Walls
By Scott Bailey © 2013

Yet another wall
How many before we’re home?
Prevaricating
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Yet another wall
How many before we’re home?
Prevaricating
Get the previous ones here
http://wp.me/P3kG6h-bb and get my début novel Mankind Limited
Our voices are simply the shadows
Cast by our dreams and our thought
If the shadows become ineffectual
Then our voices will end up as naught
Yet shadows can give us the outline
Of what is looming above
If we take note of the darkness
We can give those dreams a shove
One thing we must yet remember
To give those shadows a shape
Sunlight is needed behind it
From brightness the dreams will escape.
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Back to work tomorrow. So much to do – so this is an old one today.
Do not lightly discard them
with tales of the foolish bold.
They sat for weeks, for months, for years
in trenches freezing cold.
Sometimes feet simply mouldered
in the sucking mud.
And now and then they’d rise and run
and spill their loyal blood.
Do not belittle the suffering
of soldiers now long dead.
With nothing but talk and songs and bombs
bursting in their head.
Bound together with chains of love
shattered by leaden death.
They ended as they had begun
with cries upon their breath.
Do not lightly remember them
with only paper flowers.
they faced the fear, the pain, the cold,
for hours and hours and hours.
They ran together and fell alone
upon those foreign fields.
Protecting those they loved
those frightened human shields.
Do not read these words and think
that these things are passed.
Do not think you will not hear
that deep and dreadful blast.
Do not sit in decadence
and take for granted peace.
You owe a debt to those who died
and that debt will never cease.
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Glistening silver
A delicate spider web
Fallen tree around
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Taut relationship
Strained over a bloody mess
Chemical fallout
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Worn out, knackered, done
A brimful of boxy fun
In old Legoland
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Sound, sound, drumbeat hard
Too loud, who cares, light flashing.
Thumping beat, hot air, alcohol haze.
Saturday nights of days gone by
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So it seems to me that beyond the news
Beyond the web of the media spin
There are places still where the only views
Are battlegrounds full of unearthly din
I see the most pious places burning
Where the holy words still hold high accord
Where simple souls for peace are still yearning
The peace that those holy words won’t afford
Yet here where reason and science abound
We live comfy lives secure in our ways
No bombs rain down on our manicured ground
There is no revolt, no passion ablaze
There’s something wrong with this picture I see
Is it really this way, can you tell me?
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Been busy with DIY today and now my back is aching bad. So this is one I prepared previously – but new on here.
Winter’s wind blows fierce
through silk and wood it does pierce
a lonely howling
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Splashing on the beach
Throwing pebbles in the surf
With red sun sinking
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A pain in the back
Plus lack of sleep is the bane
Of relaxation
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Listen to all the anger
Hark at all the fury
Just remember that
You no longer own the jury
Humiliate the whistleblower
Make him out a fool
Wielding propaganda
Like an old blunt tool
Don’t you know we’re cynics now
We can see through all the lies
You will have to do much better
Or suffer the surprise.
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So the gate opens
Let’s see where the road will go
As I bare my soul
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Tiredness saps me
Nausea weakens my soul
Hope is a hand up
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Is society
Tension on the webs between
Elites and masses
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As a race
We should step up
To eliminate the gap
Between the haves and the have-nots
Between the singers with their bling and the slaves on the line
Between the bankers with their blank cheques and the children in poverty
For most of history most men women and children
Lived in misery, died hungry.
We are a disgrace
As a race
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Back from the shore
Into my arms.
After an explore
In a world of charms
A world full of wonder
Mystery and fun
Of beaches and crabs
And space to run
Breathing salty air
Hearing laughter ring
Dancing without a care
Of what tomorrow may bring
So dance some more my son
Enjoy the sun and sea
When the day is done
Run back home to me
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The bearer of news is coming
The bearer of mystery
Will the news be good
Or scary
The bearer of news is coming
Anticipation is strong
Slowly our dreams are condensing
So long, so long, so long.
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Sir Richard Francis Burton
For who life was so certain
He was a master of disguise
Caught Mecca by surprise
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Primary colours or simple fruit
Clickety click click and point.
Open the way to a blind deluge
Illuminate the mind
Bright blinding highway – superfast.
On a never-ending roll
Swallow it all until we drown
Where is the straw of truth?
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Turn upon turn upon turn upon turn
Green upon green upon green upon green
Tracks and tracks and shining silver
Decision making machine
Can it take the pressures
Of expectations on board
Will I
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Sad, sad news today – just a short one.
Another one lost
Too short, too precious, and gone
Little heart flown high
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The vessel is cracked
Still holds the sacred blooms
Still revered
Though the blooms are without root
Rootless. Dying.
Still revered.
Water though refreshed,
Still stagnates
Dead blooms replaced
With freshly cut.
Repetition
Builds a patina of respect
Authority
Habit.
The vessel is cracked
Empty of life
Yet forever filled
and revered.
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Stereotypical headlines
Reactions just the same
Ample opportunity
To apportion blame
Night time is for thinking
Sorting truth from lies
But in the sunshine morn
Dreams just fly
So it goes
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Autumn golden brown
covers the hard icy ground
a leafy carpet
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Bird sings by the pool
in the spring in a soft cool breeze
her voice a sweet sound
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Bug me, drug me
You’ll never touch my mind
Not that you want to
Afraid of what you’ll find
Afraid of the secrets
of someone in the know
Afraid of the exposure
of your elaborate show
So go on with your programme
Sticking to the script
Until the day you are aware
You’re playing in a crypt
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Slowly the shadows pass
As memories retreat and fade
Passing beyond the glass
Like springtime budding grass
New joys together are made
Slowly the shadows pass
This pain we will surpass
And sunbeams will cascade
Passing beyond the glass
Though sometimes the shattered glass
Will cut us like a blade
Slowly the shadows pass
New light will surely trespass
On the lawn that we have made
Passing beyond the glass
Those memories we can’t bypass
But their colour has finally greyed
Slowly the shadows pass
Passing beyond the glass
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Time and time again
So it is out with the new
In with the older
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Where the crashing sea
Meets the shifting cracking ice
Hunters hunker down
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More than a year’s passed
Memory is still red raw
Watching blue eyes fade
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Brushed by death today
Twice.
Metal boxes speeding
Too fast, too near me
Driven on by the wrong thoughts
Or expensive wanderings
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Starlight is silent
Waves crash and roar on the shore
Then there is matter
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Sometimes the news leaves you despairing of humanity.
The news chills today
The child killers found guilty
Will justice suffice?
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So this is the one I am thinking of entering into a competition the theme being “The Book”

A conduit, a bridge or a gateway.
It goes under many old names.
Open it with wonder and reverence,
For the spell will then be underway.
The weakest of hands can undo it
The portal of magical ways
Connecting one mind to another
With a delicate ethereal wave.
Some portals are heavy and dusty
Some dance with electrical sparks
But they all do the same, all show the way
For strange dreams from heart to heart.
There were even once living gateways
Who opened the way with a look
Always there’s one right beside us
The conduit, the gateway, the book.
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The new can’t replace the should have been
The should have been haunts us forever
Though the new will be a healer
And receive all our love just the same.
It’s pointless being angry at fate
But that doesn’t stop the burn
The frisson on top of everyday stress
For the should have been we always yearn.
The new will have it’s own should have been.
So maybe we will understand.
And make a happier will be.
At least that is the plan.
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Nothing, nothing, blank.
Beneath winter’s hard black ice.
Water flows freely.
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Two trees
Old as memory
Some leaves fallen
A root cut off.
Two trees
Explored
Examined
Noted down.
Two tree drawn together
Forever entwined.
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You people don’t understand.
It’s tradition.
It’s sport.
It’s in our genes.
Blood.
Jobs are created
By the sport we choose.
By the blood we shed.
Surely that’s enough.
Of course
The same can’t be said
For you
And your cock fights.
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The man in the tree
The plank
The turned leg
The joint
The dust and the shavings.
The tree in the man
The setting down of deep roots
The reaching for the skies
The drinking deep of the earth
The steadfastness and the wielding.
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The world in a book
For my son
To show him the places
Across the seas
That he dreams of.
The colours,
The creatures,
The cultures and the clashes.
The world in a book in his hands
As one day
The world will be in his hands.
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Green fingers
Rip open the rusty shell
Slow tendrils with irresistible grasp.
Dealt with by a blade or a chemical wash
They will be back.
In time victory will be theirs.
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Deep bright purple star.
Piercing from the depths of roiling blue gas clouds
And a million billion stars
Outshining Venus and Mars
Swathes like silver paths
Some gathered in spiral wheels
And between them in the sparse dark spaces
Ships blink and travel on by.
A memory from the deepest well of childhood.
A memory that could not have been.
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Shining argent in sunlight or silver sheen in the rain
Letter, rings, lions.
Phoenix or tiny names
Even flying angels and leaping fluid cats.
Bright, alluring but for many
The last thing they will see.
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I am almost there.
At the point of completion
Forever it seems.
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Motes of dust
So we have been described
Floating in the vastness of time and space
Small, inconsequential.
Dust motes made of dust from ancient dead stars.
Yet.
So far.
Amongst all we see,
the starfields of diamond dust,
the ancient piercing light,
the glowing, magical, wispy nebulae,
the rainbow rings of Saturn,
the storms of Jupiter,
the blinding light of supernova,
the singular dark of black hole,
world after world
galaxy after galaxy.
Nowhere have we found
yet
Anything that compares
to the complexity, the wonder, the intricacy,
the magic
of
the thoughts of you and I
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Slowly shifting canopy
Layer on layer soft light green
Waving like courtesan fans.
Sun winking through.
Seedlings drifting down sunbeams
Dappled brown leafy ground.
Scent of earth.
Rough feel of bark.
Through this I run!
And the forest’s essence
enters my senses
vitalises my blood!
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Birds do it. Bees do it
Even the goddamn fleas do it
It’s in the genes to survive
It’s not enough. Not for us
We have more, in our double helix
Than the ability to thrive
Make it our duty
Transcend circumstance!
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OK. So this is a quick attempt at concrete poetry – i.e. the shape is important. Seeing as WordPress does all kinds of things with formatting and there is an effect in the original – I am posting it as a picture.
The words are below for search reasons
Slice of Life
By Scott Bailey © 2013

Wake up. Can’t see. Sleepy eyes. Breakfast with my wife and son.
Driving. Dropping off family. Driving to factory. Roadworks, roadworks, roadworks
fixing a computer, picking up stock, driving, roadworks, driving and more driving.
Work. Unloading. Testing stock, adding stock. Mortgage questions paperwork.
Adoption paperwork missing! New firmware! Flawed. New firmware again.
Testing testing testing. Decoding and more testing. Problems headache, stress.
Driving home, roadworks, idiots, danger. Dinner and playtime, fighting with son over bedtime, housework, paperwork.
Poetry. Facebook. Paperwork, Bed time. Togetherness and rest.
Internet is down. Have spent last three hours trying to sort it. Brain is frazzled. Eyes are barely functional. So, writing this on my phone. It’s one of my old ones.
A quavering wave
of light in the summer clouds
as the sun goes down.
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