Anger Loosed

open a vein
miss the artery
too much anger
for precise accuracy
too much rage
to be confined
to a single page
hatred in red
overpowers the sight
enrages the decision
clouds the vision
purple frustration
inflames the soul
hands around your neck
taking control
I find you in contempt
your crime is your arrogance
spilling acrimony
into my sea of calming latitudes

Thanks for your maiden read…. it’s an honour
Do read some more
And
You will come to know,
How poetry does flow,
Like a river it twists and turns,
It never ever returns
And
In the garbage bin of time,
Mostly all place poetry of mine.
How to refine,
Not many define,
But the ego in me thinks,
I am bloody fine,
The nectar which oozes
From the divine
Such is poetry of mine.
Narcissist me

On the way to the beheading, I fell off the wagon
and disappeared into the angry throng.
Well, there you are, the plight of a poet
in one sentence if not another.

But poetry will never leave me alone for long,
the temptation is always here--
in my waking
fingertips, for I have been accused of sleeping too long.

Rain falls today,
In me this day it has struck.
I feel it dance, I feel it’s will as if it’s alive.
I know this day it falls for me.
I’m awakened, somewhat aroused,
The wind whispers to me, I listen.
In solitude I, confess.
Lost for words only the utter of reminisce.

frail as a vase
your words like a veil
are translucent touchs
bleeding through me
mists on the dream tiles
the heartbeat
black mould grout
ideals

embrace me
and I feel loved
like the hot needle
streaking ink
the wings black
that pain exquisite
and beautiful
like the sky run with
torn clouds

mystic air about the
ghosts of our history
our unbecoming
stitched and torn
with wounded pride

I’ll tell you a story kiddies
take heed and no mistake,
don’t follow the path that I chose.
Let old Booze Hound show the route to take.

Oh you’ll shag, have a ball and carouze my friend
to that there is no doubt.
But the golden days of youth
and indiscretion are all to brief .
Hooch will cast it’s wicked spell
and the evil spiral will take down to Hell.

The nectar that promised freedom
will some how become your captor.
The boundless arrogance of
your tender years,
will soon fizzle out.

Our life’s journey
inevitable in death
like those gone before
in the match of human race
Walking a reflective curve
Pointing to the eventual end
that which awaits us all
the artist creates and paints
the poet writes his feelings
Time ticks on and on
it never loiters
Bury the pains of loss
to cover the distance in front
We must move on,

Close your eyes,
For one simple moment feel free.
Close your eyes,
Remember these words that flow within me.
Enchanted I scream
And cold mornings
Vanish for an eternity.

Alone in solitude,
This day shall not,
Will not I scream.
This day will not confine you.
Close your eyes and remember these words,
I pray you, listen,
In these times I will remind you.

Wisdom is wasted on the old
for what good is it to know
.....the how
......the why
........the who
..........the where
when betraying bodies disallow
action?

The waste extends to passing on
ideas or advice to the young
who look upon rockingchair riders
..........as fools

Why not have wisdom in our youth
when abilities allow its use?

Keep ignorance for later years
when forsight of the body's failings
lends no comfort
indeed
..............forboding

In puddles
trees walked slowly along beside me
their heads low in the grey winter morning,
no breeze stirred,
no shiver of light.

A bland white glow from the dawn
reflected my eye, its tear,
that softly slid down my cheek to my mouth,
sustenance to trembling lips
drawn and sad.

Withered leaves hung limp,
flowers shrivelled and pale,
grasses bleached straws,
the flight of a black crow
aimlessly flapping.