Friday, 11 November 2016

Poem: Talk

After the rain of our imagination the leaves vanish
in the moonless darkness, away from sight, they whisper
can't count the nights spent decoding the stream of colours
sweeping inside my own skin, this life paints us
every possible shade and tone
to see the picture you have to listen beyond the silence
it's a shelter to let these written words speak for themselves
for we too often get lost in speech
we say less than we mean to say
and hope somebody received the message through
courage fails us or do words leave us?
we talk, yet who is still listening?
it's like speech has become a way
for us to admire our own voices
we talk and talk, yet we change nothing
our promises aren't followed by deeds
those who listened have become weary
anticipating the moment when we will
have nothing more to say
we like to argue about right and wrong
                justice and equality
but it seems too difficult to choose the harder right
are our real faces hiding behind the clutter
of old ideas, wishes, hopes and mistakes
have they nailed us to the ground
and we lay there comfortably
because we've given up on how it could be?
seasons and years give us opportunities
to improve and to change
and don't stand for less
sit down to talk and listen
about everything and nothing at all
dive deep inside
and bring back the real you -
and be raw.

Tuesday, 1 November 2016

Poem: Years weigh differently in the heart

fiery surface of the river shining against the blue sky
golden pathway leading through the forests
- dressed in the autumn cloak
you may not notice it at first, but mirrors disappear
in the light of the nature at its finest
shadows of buildings haunting the dawning of the day
and I keep on singing the old familiar song about aloneness
lyrics lay on the tip of my tongue, can taste it in a kiss

our history is soaked through and through with blood spilled
yet the oceans remain deep blue and green
of todays' blood maybe the next generations will speak
they will be the judge of the fools we've been
it's up to them to select the books they will believe
much remains unwritten and unsaid
death still scares us, we keep distancing ourselves from it
until it reaches somewhere close to our hearts

how many days do we have to spend
before they are worth something to us?
how do you count the years
when they weigh differently in your heart?
we prefer to value something when we start to lose it
how many paths will we discover
before we find the right purpose of our lives
and decide it's time to follow it

will we ever achieve everything we set our minds to do
or are we just chasing those shadows
of dreams long gone, the ideas
that keep on slipping away
soaked with tears and sweat
how long before you know the role
you were meant to play?
maybe the one you never would have signed for

can you still recall the feelings
of all the masks you threw away
having learned everything or nothing at all
striving to keep the picture together
the over-valued science of being busy,
successful, yet poor in original thought
in the long run, the question is
which memories matter most?
It's a coincidence that this poem came together on the threshold of my 30s, but it's influenced by the books I'm currently reading and the things I keep on pondering.