Category: First Words

Leaving Scepticism

 

They said that all things seemed

they said I dreamed

.

Which angered me

when all about me I could see

.

The places and the people

sublime and beautiful

.

Which must be real

or what else did I feel?

.

The world with all its light and energy

spoke meaning to my sense

.

Everything that looked at me,

everywhere I went

.

And so I left their false philosophy

which could not answer

could not satisfy me

.

Frustrated by distrust and suspicion

I could not live with endless scepticism

.

But went elsewhere to find

the human peaceful mind

.

The wiser and the quieter

and the happier condition.

.

 

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They have already lived and died

They have already lived and died

               who made our past

.

Or else they’re lost

               in mist through which we cannot peer

.

I search for them

               I read their ways

,

Reclining here

               turning the pages of a book

.

I look for the life

               and the thoughts that shook

                              their souls to their foundations

.

Their voices reach me

               convert my ways

.

And suddenly I’m changed

               by all they thought and did

.

All stored up, now

               stored and ready

                              waiting to be released.

.

Eyes, Old Eyes

This was one of the first poems I ever wrote that I still think is worth preserving. It was written whilst I was still a teenager, as will be apparent, and is the first poem in my collection “First Words”.

Eyes, old eyes

those gazing, fading places

whose curving surface is disturbed

.

Reflections, places

fading faces

pass in waves…

[continues after image]

eyesoldeyes2

I do not want skin

wrinkled thin

shrivelled on me

while I am still empty

.

Fill me with memories!

.

The old will pass and fall so full

closed up with theirs

disappear in death

and die their time

.

But they too looked up

at old eyes gazing

threads back into history

.

Do I leap my life from day to day

and trail that thread

like life spinning ribbon red

from me?

.

Or snagged and shackled

trailing chains of ancestry?

.

Even now I hear you

the toddling, tottering thunder

who will burst from me

who will one day recede.

toddling tottering