Blog Archives
Waking Up [poem]
A warm breeze, not baking
But pure and natural,
Walks softly on my face.
Its soft hissing as it
Talks to me, the grass
Beneath me firm and soft.
Light breaks through with
Dark shards, becoming
A warm glow, white and
Soft, brilliant and healing.
Sitting up, I brush my hands through the grass,
As to an affectionate
Lock, the birds chime
To the call of a rumbling
Stream.
Their sweet rhythms come
To me as flowing vapours
The senses are at one.
Running, I become the
Vapour, flowing towards
The sky, the wind rushing
Through my hair, becoming
Me, becoming more,
Becoming everything,
Becoming nothing.
The wind falls, dropping
Faster and faster, down
Towards the ground, through
The ground, through the
Water, into a tree.
The tree throbs, pulsing
Vigorously as life flows
Through it. In its trunk
A core of pure radiance,
Of brilliance itself, its ebb
And flow pouring to distinct
Tips, each individual alone,
And yet all is one.
The tree shifts with the
Breeze, a leaf cracks
Free, as it swoops and
Falls, the wind stills
And does the leaf,
A part of the golden mosaic
At the foot of the tree.
Seething [poem]
With the intellect to
Lack ignorance, comes
The awareness, of
One’s self, the
Representation of the
Flesh, its meaning
And all its glory.
To be inhumane, to
Be unnecessarily
Cruel, or destructive,
Irony screams out
To the aware,
Screams of outrage,
Seething; slow,
Bubbling, blackness.
Clean (poem)
Tunnel me a hole,
In flesh, In Fact, or lies.
I am besotted with a portrait that never ages.
It is not real.
Tell me more.
I came upon the weak with virtuous kneeling,
Humbled by selfless acts,
Building bridges – boundless – joyful.
If I could but bring a flower to a heart,
I could rest that day.
I must say I have rested so very well.
See my hands spread before you.
Taken as fact.
The Lord shines through this one.
If I can but force a hand or two,
I can rest a while.
Several more, and many more,
I’ll twist the screw.
Smiles are my cunning,
Words draw the blood.
You’ll see me – You’ll know me
But draw me close or don’t,
My rope is looped all the same.
And so you see my portrait never ages,
But tired eyes and tired smiles –
And schemes and Lies –
Melt to ash.
Not Just Yet (poem)
Tickle, tracking and yawn with sighs to dawn
The Maker greets his man –
Luminescent and feral radiance
The Creature grasps and extensions are entwined
A slow paced release with warm decay
Not Just Yet
Entered for the MAG Poetry Prize 2010
The knowledge that burns (poem)
As I make my way up and
down the lines in shades
of green are parted by a
furrowed brow and I
wonder will she cry
when I tell her.
My concentration is marred
and I can think of no
other but still I must
steal a furtive glance as I
wonder will she turn her
rage on me when I tell her.
It is as they say that
time will wait for no man
and now time having run
out has become timeless
and unhurried and every
second counting and so
I wonder will she say
that I took too long
when I tell her.
I have done what I can
but even in moments of
extremity we are not free
and I wonder will she say to
me that he is better off and
now he is free
when I tell her.
Entered for the MAG Poetry Prize 2010
The Conundrum (poem)
Taker or bearer,
The tantalizing image of hazy mirth,
Poisonous, venomous with impurity,
Plague of Man upon Man,
The Scourge, the Killer,
Blackened Rot of body and soul,
Messenger to the ferryman,
Leaving too soon.
Each subtle horizontal line
is slain by the great arsonist,
Martyrs falling one by one, lain
breath to breath and length to
length, they mark themselves as
a barrier to man’s folly and
Plague of Man upon Man,
The Scourge, the Killer.
Entered for the MAG Poetry Prize 2010
Marc Balbirnie 