White foundation
Slyly smirking
Hugs too close
Kisses formal
Head contorted
Bronze skin shining
Ruby lips though barely moving
Forced magnetic halves
David Haygarth 2015
There is nothing worse than a Mother who pretends to show affection for her daughter....
Tuesday, 14 July 2015
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
The Holiday Cottage
A slap of casually closing car doors
An unpractised laugh
A reflection of tensions left at home...
An unpractised laugh
A reflection of tensions left at home...
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
I Watch My Garden From A Far
The abandoned garden continues to grow, though a man may die in its making
Seen from afar its dereliction is beauty
Vases break, roots create...
What was always going to be form
I can still see the marks I made
Now others are wielding their spades
They make these outlines out to be their own
But I still see my work as set in stone.
A fullness lush has blossomed
I always knew one day I wouldn't hold it
A young mans work to toil and dig
To take disappointments in HIS stride
Maybe one day I will enter
See my form beneath brambles
My masterpiece yet to be reclaimed
When you invest years in a cause you cannot maintain, this folly will always forever be a part of you...
2015 / David Haygarth
Seen from afar its dereliction is beauty
Vases break, roots create...
What was always going to be form
I can still see the marks I made
Now others are wielding their spades
They make these outlines out to be their own
But I still see my work as set in stone.
A fullness lush has blossomed
I always knew one day I wouldn't hold it
A young mans work to toil and dig
To take disappointments in HIS stride
Maybe one day I will enter
See my form beneath brambles
My masterpiece yet to be reclaimed
When you invest years in a cause you cannot maintain, this folly will always forever be a part of you...
2015 / David Haygarth
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
THE SUM OF ALL PATHS - PART 5 - Exedus
Suddenly he was truly awake. It had all happened too fast. It was always nice that way. A reflex reaction to an emotional attack. Jerry's quick counter reaction, however childish had unleashed an unstoppable torrent upon his opponent. Two can play the hurt game he churned over in his mind. The result of course was that the tables had been turned on nominal nice guy, and it could be guaranteed he'd not like it. A taste of ones own medicine never went down well, especially if that medicine was a none to well disguised poison. And as if Jerry didn't know the difference by know...
None of this helped today though. Seeing his once friend Mitzi resurface as the weapon did nothing for his mood. In fact it seemed to set a new mood for a new age. Times had changed, boy had they changed. Somehow he had stagnated in Libya, got lost in a time warp, drifting without knowing or reason, still the recent ( well they seemed that way ) memories were everywhere. Oh, the idealism. Democracy and Dictatorship. Who cared which back then ? Today a new evil, yes evil had spawned. He had never admitted that real evil existed. He always found a sane or arguable case for the actions of all the varied spectrum of dubious humans he had encountered. Knowing these various factions mind sets had paved his way in the past to dancing his way out of trouble.
Today a new blackness had emerged from the jungle of freedom. It was unworkable with. Unusable and dead. An absolute, once obsolete ? It should never have returned from ancient history, or was that fiction ? No. fiction could not have written the actions of the group he called ISIS. It pained him to admit that there was no wiggle room here, and he was scared, really scared. The defeat of this group and the regaining of his friendship with Mitzi were mingled together in a terrible black picture of hell. It was not a case of sorting out either, those days were gone. It was a case now of how to walk away. To mess with either was a trap. For the first time in his life a lack of action was the most powerful action. How very Tao he laughed slightly to himself not wanting to believe a word of it. It was only then that he realised he was responsible for sowing the seeds of both situations. Well, they were heady days back then.
And then there were the dreams. It always started with him holding back a wall of card that was stretching and bulging with a force behind that suggested an immenint breach. Then came the vision of what was behind. Oriental warriors, dark hair, clad in armour, flags flying, black, red and yellow colours most prominent. Next came the hordes of regimented children, so many uniform children who clutched simple right angled pointed hacking weapons. These weapons were the worst of the dream, held by small hands, many hands, all unstoppable. The breach never came though. Awaking provided escape, but not relief. What did this fantasy army symbolise ? The Army was Oriental, but he was in Libya. Nothing made sense today. Nothing had made sense for 5 years. At least a fade to entropy would have brought some release...
The sudden slump of a realisation. All was lost, time to return home, whatever home was or had become in his absence. The blind Cherubs briefly came to mind. Surely he was no wiser in his new directions. Bishop Beasley briefly came to mind. A future in the Church maybe ? Well fanaticism was the flavour of the day. His recent re sampling of Magick cast his mind back to the crazy days of Cornwall, especially Tintagel. Such things seemed of a past life, but what better point to re-enter. Before he knew it he had dumped his Phantom V12 in a temporary airport car park gathering dust. It would gather a lot of dust before it moved again. He had no plans to return. He had no plans to kill again. God, even his reasoning was sounding like a cheap action film sequel promotion. He smiled and dropped his minds voice several notes deeper, and several beats slower. He found himself giggling. It really was time to leave.
His face grew redder on boarding his flight at the thought of England, the sea, the thunder, the rain and green trees. Where Mitzi was he knew. The respect was still there, but it was time to move on. He had, had a good innings and the tears were yet to come, and they would come if he chose to return to the past. He knew nothing of her colourful exploits, just her mundane general movements. He had indeed come a full circle. Sitting wearily in seat 23, his giggling began again. Skidoo, heading for home Jerry, heading for home. Libya -de-de-da-de-de-da Libya. His head swamp as the plane climbed...
None of this helped today though. Seeing his once friend Mitzi resurface as the weapon did nothing for his mood. In fact it seemed to set a new mood for a new age. Times had changed, boy had they changed. Somehow he had stagnated in Libya, got lost in a time warp, drifting without knowing or reason, still the recent ( well they seemed that way ) memories were everywhere. Oh, the idealism. Democracy and Dictatorship. Who cared which back then ? Today a new evil, yes evil had spawned. He had never admitted that real evil existed. He always found a sane or arguable case for the actions of all the varied spectrum of dubious humans he had encountered. Knowing these various factions mind sets had paved his way in the past to dancing his way out of trouble.
Today a new blackness had emerged from the jungle of freedom. It was unworkable with. Unusable and dead. An absolute, once obsolete ? It should never have returned from ancient history, or was that fiction ? No. fiction could not have written the actions of the group he called ISIS. It pained him to admit that there was no wiggle room here, and he was scared, really scared. The defeat of this group and the regaining of his friendship with Mitzi were mingled together in a terrible black picture of hell. It was not a case of sorting out either, those days were gone. It was a case now of how to walk away. To mess with either was a trap. For the first time in his life a lack of action was the most powerful action. How very Tao he laughed slightly to himself not wanting to believe a word of it. It was only then that he realised he was responsible for sowing the seeds of both situations. Well, they were heady days back then.
And then there were the dreams. It always started with him holding back a wall of card that was stretching and bulging with a force behind that suggested an immenint breach. Then came the vision of what was behind. Oriental warriors, dark hair, clad in armour, flags flying, black, red and yellow colours most prominent. Next came the hordes of regimented children, so many uniform children who clutched simple right angled pointed hacking weapons. These weapons were the worst of the dream, held by small hands, many hands, all unstoppable. The breach never came though. Awaking provided escape, but not relief. What did this fantasy army symbolise ? The Army was Oriental, but he was in Libya. Nothing made sense today. Nothing had made sense for 5 years. At least a fade to entropy would have brought some release...
The sudden slump of a realisation. All was lost, time to return home, whatever home was or had become in his absence. The blind Cherubs briefly came to mind. Surely he was no wiser in his new directions. Bishop Beasley briefly came to mind. A future in the Church maybe ? Well fanaticism was the flavour of the day. His recent re sampling of Magick cast his mind back to the crazy days of Cornwall, especially Tintagel. Such things seemed of a past life, but what better point to re-enter. Before he knew it he had dumped his Phantom V12 in a temporary airport car park gathering dust. It would gather a lot of dust before it moved again. He had no plans to return. He had no plans to kill again. God, even his reasoning was sounding like a cheap action film sequel promotion. He smiled and dropped his minds voice several notes deeper, and several beats slower. He found himself giggling. It really was time to leave.
His face grew redder on boarding his flight at the thought of England, the sea, the thunder, the rain and green trees. Where Mitzi was he knew. The respect was still there, but it was time to move on. He had, had a good innings and the tears were yet to come, and they would come if he chose to return to the past. He knew nothing of her colourful exploits, just her mundane general movements. He had indeed come a full circle. Sitting wearily in seat 23, his giggling began again. Skidoo, heading for home Jerry, heading for home. Libya -de-de-da-de-de-da Libya. His head swamp as the plane climbed...
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Well, poetry has changed in 2015. No longer is it enough to be able to write it (anyone can to some degree) you must also be able to read it aloud on a VBLOGG. Of course to do this successfully you need to be photogenic, and have a voice that doesn't irritate, and of course last but not least ( now lets be honest ) it helps if your sexy. Im not sure in what order these quality's are required in though. Oh, there is another additional skill you need-film editing or being able to slickly post moving images ! It seems to me now that writing your poetry may actually be the smallest of your hurdles... lol
Monday, 16 March 2015
They've Hijacked Your Mind !
They took more than they said
Quite impossible to say
When they entered your head
Only the panic now
Barely disguised
Names you a moron
From words that were wise...
They hijacked your mind
They killed it dead
Guilt racks your pleasure
Your car spills out lead
Your children agree
Your crime deserves time
Killing the planet ?
After all this damned time...
They hijacked your mind
When it comes to crime
Who needs do the time ?
A shady elite
Not from these shores
Nationality's untouched
Judgement abhorred
No appetite for justice
And racially floored !
They hijacked your mind
Wasn't always this way
No one was scared
To once think and say
We knew what we knew
And said what was said
Before political whingers
All twisted our heads
Media cosh
Bashes quietly away
Decades of subterfuge
Moulding the clay
A Golum emerges deep in the mind
Snatching our children
Snatching our pride
Queasy uneasy
Swaying our brains
Is it really fair
What you want to say ?
I don't know when exactly it happened, but we have lost the respect for our own views. The politically correct movement are spoken about in jest, but this is only because we subcontioulsy know we have been slain by their years on years of subtle mental abuse and manipulation. Re-claim your mind !
2015
Saturday, 21 February 2015
Shopping List
A cold white night
Bodies hidden
Moribund column
Vacant status
Registration present
Waiting ready
Elsewhere moving
Quit the game
All blameless
Sardines
List of hope
All Avatars
Face Book Friends list, early Sunday morning / 2015
Bodies hidden
Moribund column
Vacant status
Registration present
Waiting ready
Elsewhere moving
Quit the game
All blameless
Sardines
List of hope
All Avatars
Face Book Friends list, early Sunday morning / 2015
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)