Good Ol' Poetry

Today I came across some old poetry I wrote back in the day. It got me into a bit of an introspective mood. I'm hoping more poetry will come out of it.

For old times sake, here's a few of the originals:

-Untitled Original

Behind the window pane lives a silent black.
No rustling of trees or footsteps down the walk.
Only a dark that is so alive it stalks;
Waiting behind the double curtains of glass
Until this room’s dim candle is not wax but only wick;
And its light fades in to a quick puff of stale-smelling smoke.
Then it will consume me in my bed
And drain me of life,
And run its smooth fingers across my face,
Coaxing me into some dream laced coma.



-Another Untitled Original

thumping, thumping
comes the rain
like millions of fists
conquering the roof
of a two-hundred year old church;

the seige
goes unnoticed
by the young church musicians,
self-proclaimed missionaries,
over the clang and clash and bang
- budump, budump -
on the snare! on the bass!
striking keys! power chords!
vibrato, vibraaaato, VIBRAAAAATOOOO!
in Jesus name!

all worshipping
the rhythm, the melody
fashioned by the hands of adam.
all...

...but one lad?

in the corner, tucked away on the sill,
ear pressed against cold charged glass,
fascinated
with the sound
that rain makes
when interuppted
by a window.

just one lad?

unconvinced?
- maybe -
day dreaming
of breaking away
from a wild truth that has
become
"institutionalised";
a freedom that has
become
"boxed in";
a renewing that has
become
"mainstreamed";

something deeper
made shallow or
adam has tried
to build with
bricks of humanity.

just one lad?

nay.

there are five
windows
for sitting
on each side
of the two-hundred year old church.

one for me
and a spare ear
to press

and listen.


-This Woman’s Resignation

In early October I drew me a bath
(Because taking a bath is a rarity).
Laying still in the tub, under my breath,
I murmured past words of clarity.
And soaking in thoughts, I drew a request
And exhaled my earnest submission.
“God of heaven, let me resign
To a life of simple ambition.”


-The Feisty Boiler

The boiler in my room gargled, spat and creeped
With the purpose to wake me
From my beautifying sleep
In order that I might call on a young man.
Who? I did not know,
For there are three of them.
So I hissed back instead.
And tossed the quilt over my head.
More sleep and more dreams; more bed.
Then again the boiler popped and whistled.
“Not again,” I said.
“Again and again,” he knocked.
“Wake up and call your friend.”
Defeated, I rose, but hooted back,
“I do not even know which of them to call!”
With authority he rumbled,
“Call them all!”
“Call them all?
I suppose there ARE just three.
But it is late where they are
And they’d not care to speak.”
“Call them all! Call them all!
I say it again, just call!”
So I rang up the first and probably my closest,
But my friend did not answer.
(For surely this was hopeless.)
Then I dialed the second, a good friend indeed.
But without even a ring
It went straight to his message machine.
Finally, the third I was sure would not care
If he heard my voice
Or had I words to share.
But I rang him because certainly
The boiler was miffed I had waited.
And he’d probably hiss more if I hesitated.
Then…
“Hello” came his voice, deep and tired.
I was startled. Lost my pride.
“I know it’s late where you are
and you’re probably sleeping,
but my boiler is gargling, spatting and creeping.”
“Now is perfect because I’ve nothing to do,
And I’ll always welcome a call from you.”
So we chatted for hours,
Nearly three,
I left him encouraged.
He strengthened me.
And to think,
I would have slept instead
if not for the boiler banging next to my bed.


-On Letters To A Friend

I’ve written letters that live in an envelope
Tucked away in a book near my bed.
I won’t tell you what they say,
Though someday
You’ll know. You’ll have read.
What scares me? What I write.
They are more than words to a friend.
Though unattached and whimsical;
Not analytical;
Meaning bends when I bend.
Don’t trust curves of ink on paper.
Trust how I have proven
I’ll remain ever so loyal –
Never to spoil
The threads we’ve together woven.