Like splinters in a weary mind,
That fester as they age,
You’ll try and walk a different path,
But habits never change.
Ten years old and full of swagger,
Spitting and swearing he struts down the carriage,
Like some obscene rooster.
I look at him.
Bleached blonde hair, an ear stud,
A perpetual snarl and yellow rat like eyes,
That belong on a thirty year old.
Who is this cold child, so full of hate?
Empty of empathy and love,
Or is it an act to hide the pain?
I watch mutely.
Like everyone else, too scared to intervene
As he screams and laughs, spitting curses at passengers,
And banging on the windows.
No one intervenes.
I do not hate this child,
But I hate how he makes me loathe him,
And how it makes me feel about the world…
The ultimate trap is to relive the past,
Yet never relieve it.
Living backwards isn’t a bad way to be,
So long as you do it…
This river cuts through the landscape,
Like the thread of my thoughts,
Down through the russet leaves,
Where my childhood talked.
This river cuts through me,
It can never be fought.
The hermit does not weep, for there is no witness to his anguish.
Nor does he sorrow, for the grey walls have become his world.
The ragged cloth flaps in the wind, but does not disturb his thoughts,
As he scratches at his coarsened skin, backlit by the embers of the fire.
He feels no regret, for he cannot covet a secret,
Only when he sees the hungry fishermen,
Like huddled lumps clinging to the rotting boatwood,
Does he feel that old familiar pang,
Till he draws his back on the sea and gnaws at the bones of the world.
Wisdom he has gained, but no one shall ever know it
Peace he has found, but no one can ever share it.
Love he has experienced, but no one will ever feel it.
At night, he counts the stars of stranger constellations,
And has no memories of a former life left to dream of.
Profundity has found him lacking,
And the nature of knowledge has left him ignorant.
No one remembers him now, he who was forgotten.
What did he forget I wonder?
Play the long game humankind,
There’s time enough to spare.
For idle wars and ignorance,
Death, disease and cares.
Why fix what could be done in days?
Instead lets use ten years,
And in the meantime the rest of us,
Can give into despair.
If we but had a score of days,
To make those wrongs repaired,
I bet at last that some of us,
Would think of mans welfare.
(I actually wrote this sometime ago… but forgot about it till now. I actually had a spot of bother with some anti-social behaviour and found it cathartic to write a poem about it. As such, it’s somewhat bleak and negative and I can’t necessarily say I agree with all my sentiments here on reflection, but… meh )
Here come the Modern Goblins.
Shiver as they lurch through the night,
Their haunting cries wreathing the chill air
With fear and suspicion,
As curtains twitch and some brave soul looks out,
To see the unhealthy pallor to the monsters skin,
And the bruised black eyes sick with sin,
Devoid of reason or compassion.
Empty, soulless, mindless…
See how the yellowing fingers are adorned with cheap gold jewellery,
On some it hangs with an obscene glitter from the ears,
And like Goblins of old, they too are cloaked and hooded,
Hunched little figures,
Almost comical save for the menace in their actions,
For like some bestial race of old,
They spit and blow smoke,
And their inarticulate mouths form foreign sounds,
Hurtful to the educated ear,
As they swear and laugh to see the fear in others eyes.
Swigging liquids from green bottles,
In feral packs, they roam the night.
No rhyme or reason to their malice,
Just looking for a chance to take the hurt inside,
And make some other feel it,
And if you should hear a tap tapping at your window,
Or the patter of stones on glass,
Bury your head in your hands and groan,
For this modern fairytale has no happy ending.
Here come the Modern Goblins,
Fear them my child.