Messes of Men.

'Messes of Men' by Aaron Weiss.
"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,

Sailing in our separate ships and from each tiny caravel.

Tiring of trying, there's an unnecessary dying,

like the horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shell.

Such distance from our friends,

like a scratch across the lens,

made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood.

And our paper blew away before we'd left the bay.

So half-blind, we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood.

Caught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,

and heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.

I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,

It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters.

The propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the waves,

as there are mistakes I've made no rowing could outrun.

The cloth low on the mast, I say I got no past;

I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's son.

The tarnish on my brass, the mildew on my glass-

I'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like me.

But a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lure,

and I assure you, it was not what I expected it to be!

I still tastes its kiss, that dull hook in my lip

is a memory as useless as a rod without a reel.

To an anchor ever dropped, sea-sick yet still docked,

Captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel.

Floating forgetfully along, with no need to be strong,

we keep our confessions long, but when we pray we keep it short.

I drank a thimble full of fire,

I'm not ever coming back...

Oh, my God.

"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,

while watching sink the heavy ship with everything we knew.

And if ever you come near, I'll hold up high a mirror.

Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you!

Everybody Tells Me Everything

'Everybody Tells Me Everything' by Ogden Nash

I find it very difficult to enthuse

Over the current news.

Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens, And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

Not a poem, a statement.

I am going to go away from this blog for a while.
I need to collect my thoughts and cease posting mediocre writings which I am not all too happy with.
When I have something more tangible and virtuous and worthwhile, then I shall return and pin it up with all the other rubbish.
Thanks.

Richard
x

p.s I have had a thought. I shall post poems by other people for a while. At least this way my 6 disciples shall receive some poetic nourishment and I will have something to do whilst I am work.

Love.

I want to write about love.
I have no idea,
Where to begin.
I will say just this;
Love: everything poetic is within.

Do I give in?

This is really terrible but i feel i should post something today and it's all i have.
sorry.

Do I give in?
Do I give up?
Do I carry on,
Feeling so stuck?
So lost and so blind,
No pathway I find.
Just brambles and confusion,
And hopeless reminders.
I have no reasons,
And have no help.
I am alone,
I am adrift,
I am churned to a pulp.
Self pity,
Right now,
Is all I know.
And when we’re scared,
We cling to familiar things.
So right now I’m stuck,
I’m lost in the dark.
I am naked and cold,
And have no spark,
Of warmth in my heart.
Just an empty dead space,
And a longing for sun.
I am lost and alone,
I am no one.

The smell of cinnamon and winter sun.

The smell of cinnamon
And winter sun,
Reading about a writer,
Who likes to run.
Stretched out on a soft single bed,
With a book and tea,
Or a beer instead.
No happier place for me,
That’s for sure.
I am relaxing and enjoying,
The frivolity I implore.
Alone for now,
With peace of mind.
Calm sensation,
And serenely blind.

Rank red monster and a green eyed sign.

" Be young and shut up"

A red monster
Rank with rust
Rumbles by.
I sit on a low wall
And wonder why.
Afternoon traffic
Frantic and erratic
Ignores me.
A green eyed billboard
Thirsty with provocation
Notices my position
And declares
“560 New Houses!
4.5 Acres of Garden!”
‘At least this land,
Is condemned’
I think.
Sinking before it even set sail.

Natural scenery.

These pins on my arms,

Stretch toward my bag.

Reaching like crooked branches,

On a naked tree.

Brown leather bag,

Lit white,

By the cloud strewn sky.

The void on high.

An emptiness,

Drenched in winter white,

And deep hazel haze.

My limbs ache,

And creak,

With fatigue,

And want.

My body is screaming for you.

Natural scenery is aged.

It is tired,

And leathered.

It cannot wait much more,

These trials,

Are endeavours.

Birds are brackets.

(Untitiled 27 has morphed into this new body of words. More limbs to come no doubt)

Birds are brackets.
They punctuate the sky,
As they glide by.
Signals and codes,
Are misunderstood,
By my untrained eye.

Untitled 27.

Birds are brackets,
They punctuate the sky,
As they glide by.

Office women.

I feel frustrated,
By the whining people,
In my office.
The overpowering squeal,
Of argumentative women.
They spew forth their spiel,
And they say nothing of worth.
It is gut wrenching,
Ear piercing,
Unnecessary.
Their words stab through,
This office space.
They are daggers to the heart,
Of my morale.
So, I feel frustrated.
I am irritated by disturbance.
By the ringing screams,
Of banshees,
In my head.
The little calm I have,
From an earpiece,
Blocks out some of this rabble.
Some of this racket is foiled.
But, I am discouraged.

The rain is here the snow is gone.

Lungs flipped upside-down,
Sway in a gentle storm.
Their Veins silhouetted,
Against Victorian sky.
Black white birds,
Swim through the clouds.
They dive in out of weed,
And grass.
Dipping toward lakes,
And colliding with the ground,
All muddy and wasted with water.
The rain is here,
The snow is gone.

People seem to think they can resolve my problems.

People seem to think,
They can resolve my problems.
Why do they not understand?
These are my problems.
No theirs,
Not any ones,
But mine.
In time,
I might get a grip,
On the situation.
I might clasp my fingers,
Around a good solution.
For now,
However,
I don’t have a clue.
And you,
Keep trying to help.
I want to be alone.
I push people away,
And they come back stronger.
Why don’t they keep out?
Keep their big noses out?
No longer!
I want no more of this.
I bid it to end!
But hope is not my friend.

all the birds that watch the snow

All the birds,
That watch the snow.
Sat atop frozen,
Cotton draped trees,
Watching ice flutter down,
In spirals and swirls.
The stone white sky,
Shudders gently.
Petals of snow,
Collide wildly,
With one another.
Miniature outbursts,
Of blizzard are familiar.
This snow is coming down,
It is laying blankets,
Across the ground,
And I frown.
I am alone today.
Alone in my house,
With but warmth for a friend.