The Great Observers

Sometimes you have to take the observers
With a pinch of Sodium.

As their self-indulgent eloquence
licks the end of every word and their egos
Nurture the thoughts that precede them.

They can only take one step
In which direction
To say their own opinions.

They snort, they scoff and push
Until their sore insecurities
Have become a bully of their own making.

They’ve learnt to stare with
The steam of Smaug
Drifting from their nostrils.

Of course,
Their talk causes concern,
But not as much as our silence
Causes them.

Perspective

It is strange
How with so few
Different variations,
The whole Earth
Can shift around
And face you from
Yet one more direction.

As, when the sun is on your skin
You remember the cold as only thought
As if it had never really happened in any reality
But your own.

I have taken the same walk
– Step for step –
Three months apart,
And the only similarity was me.
And even I was only just.

It is a journey we are on; these lives of ours,
Each step along the paved and wild ways
Are more than enough proof
For any man, woman
Or child (who is older than their years).

Redundancy

I used to play

To joke

To smile at jokes that someone once made.

I had a dry sense of humour

And I had many friends in the people I met in my day-to-day.

 

But once my cap and gown were safely packed away

And the next step in life was heading my way

I soon had to face the harsh light of reality

As wages had to be earned,

Egos had to be tolerated

And agendas – both known and unknown –

Pushed me through the plasticine mould that it saw fit for me.

 

And while I worked away, thinking

With only my aspirations, goals and dreams in minds

My voice was shrinking

My chest was tightening

And time was running out.

 

But my goal was there

And I knew what I had to do,

Or so I thought

As the days grew longer

And I grew ever critical of the smallest mistake

That no one would notice but me

And maybe my boss.

 

But my goal was still there, though ever smaller and dragging me on,

As I travelled upstream, seeking that final respite.

 

I was called into the board room shortly after 12.

I could see the sincerity in their faces,

I was just finishing a project.

 

As surreal as it was, I just remember exhaling.

I was free to explore at last.

My work, my life I could have it all back

No more toxic environment and endless tasks.

 

I could breathe. And most importantly, with my head held high.

 

I was made redundant at the beginning of March and have since worked hard to regain everything that gave colour to my life. I am now fully employed again, in an environment that I can live in. I have my weekends back, I am learning so many new skills and have learnt so many life lessons. This empty time on my blog has been the most important of my life and I hope to rekindle my passion for my writing and my connection with the blogosphere.
Happy Writing!

Day to Day

My routine with the world
Barely changes.
From the time that it takes to drag
My heavy self out of bed,
To the milk I pour on my malted wheats,
To the bus that I amble past the course of
To the tram that crowds my platform.

Every morning I feel the waking ache
Of a hundred people
Sway with the groaning beast that carries us down the track.

Death’s Stare

When I look forward

I see the eyes of death pierce down

The narrowing stretch between I and he;

His mouth drooling as the scent of my anxiety

Touches his foul nostrils.

 

I am paralyzed with the eternal presence of his stare:

Where is the meaning if all we can do is wait?

But as I look down, the skull is not yet in my hands,

And my breath is still firmly in my lungs.

 

As the intensity grows too infinite,

I turn, using all the reason in my body

And face the fertile past:

My birth, my victories and my losses.

I smile,

As the hearth of my heart

Rekindles once more with the warmth of life.

 

I know, Death’s stare will never be the same again.

My Last Poem

What is the last poem that I’ll ever write?

Will it be at the hands

Of disinterest,

Or at the hands

Of death?

 

What will the subject be?

Love?

Philosophy?

Or both intwined?

 

If I were to become

Famous and lost in pages,

A hundred years down the line

Only for young academics to

Rekindle my lack of rhyme scheme

Would this be the last poem

– the last thought of mine –

To have resurrected life?

Silence

How can a forced silence

Ever be power?

 

Shouting, screaming

Bashing and breaking

Blood in your eyes

When you call the other man a savage.

 

How far can violence progress

When our lives,

Societies,

And beliefs are all built

On words

And their logic.

Who are you to tell me what I cannot hear?

You think I will ever support murder,

You think I cannot fight for myself

And keep my heart at bay?

 

I will not bow down

In front of your ideological train.