Here it is the mountainside
The moon like surface
Meet your guide
Its uphill from now
Be on your way
The wise pilgrim knows he cannot stay
Be up high, closer to God
The shoes on the other foot
And the horse is shod
First, there was a Tailor
And next came the Priest
But the crucifix jailor
Was not one known least
He was a soldier
A fighter like you
And like you he once was on a mountain too
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The Rocks have splodges, splotches of black
Moss spotted, lichen baked, the microbe rack
Faces that were once cracked
By the ice and snow
A shattered crown, a humpty dumpty
A Jack on a hill with a crow
And a crowing goes Jack now
His pock-a-dot tied up in a sack
A stick on his shoulder
A whistle on his lips
Hip-hopping over boulder
Tip-toe topping down dips
A slipping on wet stones
The rushing galling river glen
The flushing archipelagos
Of Moss, liverwort and lichen
The saxifrage in Saxon tongues
Lolling, lapping at the fringes
Watercourses bleeding through the rock
Water falling in dark singes
The high table land set in cloud shadows
Laid for a feast of the giant of the mountain
Yet his guest never comes
Never treads foot on steep path
Nor tows his flag pole up
Nor visits with his laugh
This cold place of Ghosts and stages
Actors rehearsing dead plays
Poets reading from never seen before pages
All is secrets up in this plot
All is hand tied
Mouths closed
You get what you’re given
And you’re not given a lot
These are the days on the thunder mountain
Where the crags are the stalls
And they echo their applause
In claps and snaps
And cracks in the atmosphere
In the buzz of the dead listening skies
In the hearts that crack and break up there
On the mountainside of the mountain lair
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
My heart is in the highlands
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Sat on a boulder
With a sac on my shoulder
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Where are you Oh Odin's thunder
With your head up in the clouds
Well isn't it a wonder
Lightning would strike
And you'd be caught under
That bolt from the blue
That has riven this old tree through
And split from its sides its ship-length timbers
Going from the bells
Swinging in the tower
tolling in the wind with all of its power
Where are you now Mr Lightning Bolt?
Impulsivity is your nature
You feel the jolt
The knee jerk reaction
You can feel it in your knees
It will rain tonight
You can hear it in the trees
Get your feet back down to earth
And ground yourself in its dirt
Positive and negative and neutral
All your electrical impulses fuel
This storm, this tension
This heat
Then snap, of course
The live wire sparked
The sky just shorted
And found the easiest possible route
Where are you now the dogs have stopped barking?
Now the moon has stopped arcing.
The lights have stopped lightning.
And the drains have stopped draining.
All the water of the raining
Tell me where are you?
In my love spectroscopy in my love epiphany
Cacophony of kaleidoscopic free verse
Has anything changed?
Is anything worse?
Or are you just,
Down to earth?
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
You know you've got to
Make that will for free
Free that will of yours
It's as easy as 1-2-3
Make that will open some doors
Dill that bill, and kill that fill
Still that Jill
And Gill that mill
Will a pocket, spill a socket
Silly billy pick a pocket
Or three
Make that will for free
Jack and Jill
Ran up the hill
And Will came following after
Jill broke down
And stole Jack's crown
Was then a fool lost to laughter
No one in town saw it coming
They thought they were
The perfect disaster
A storm in a teacup
A Penny farthing rounded up
But too many tandems, and bicycles
Were rejected at that stage
For a bicycle made for two
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.