Picture Perfect

I turned to you in my hour of need,
You were kind enough to pay me heed,
But what a price I paid for your kind deed!
I thought you an ally, a friend to be,
But instead you happily betrayed me,
Offering wrong advice to make my fall grand,
Laughing and celebrating as I fell face first in the sand.
Such an unhappy ploy you played upon me,
You have no honour that I now see,
You coveted what was in my grasp,
Secretly worked against me to hear my dying rasp,
Behind my back you laughed at me,
All the while planned against me secretly,
Until you snatched what I had meant to hold,
And calling it yours from the start 'twas bold,
So close was it to my heart I felt sadness untold,
And now you make off with what was to be mine,
You hide your face in shame knowingly ye swine,
Making no mention of this at all and carry on as if all is fine,
With wanting eyes you perceived,
With wise lies you deceived,
Weaving a net of cunning,
But I know now who you are,
A good name now mayn't get you far,
Yet should your posessions someone claim,
Be sure to know all you'll have is your name,
Though it looks good now you'll be sure to fall,
In your turn someone will make you stall,
As you did to me so shall you be.
And one day, my friend, wheresoever you are,
You'll remember what you did in a past not so far,
And you'll remember me.
------------

The thing that terrifies me the most is that someone might hate me as much as I loathe the person in the poem.
I deplore this person. Has a tongue so sharp, you could open mail with it. One day they'll learn a sharp tongue is no indication of a keen mind. Whether or not they'll heed to their learning is another matter. I fear they will not. Being manipulative, clever enough to succeed at it, and being overtly mean, is a dangerous combination.

Oh, to be relieved from secrets vast,
The happenings of a bleak past,
To remove that leaden weight,
Which upon my heart hath sate,
Oh, to be free from fetters cast,
To throw them off at last,
Move about unhindered here,
Free from pains which in me sear,
Oh, to find in me what once I was,
Which now is lost to me, because,
The misery which those secrets bring,
Allows me not to once more sing,
As I had in times gone past,
When I was free of those secrets vast.

-------------------------

I like poetry.
My poems are generally sad.
I want to publish my poems one day.
I probably won't.

I have an exam today.
My exams are generally hard.
I want to pass them all with flying colours.
I probably won't.

No, this isn't a poem.
Just in case you were wondering.
It does really look like one, I suppose.
It isn't.

It could be.
But it isn't.

Anyway, back to normality (hah! What's that?).
I know exactly why I feel down ocassionally (yes, it really isn't often), what I feel down about, how to remedy it.
It's just the cure is not ready to hand.

And now, I'm as happy as a bunny in the sun! Strange.
Perspective is the key to everything, it appears.
Had I kept perspective in mind, I wouldn't have done many things I have done in the past. And had I kept perspective in mine, I would have done oh so much more.

They say old age is regret.
Looks like old age came 70 years too early (I plan on being at least 90 when I die).

And so i've been writing poetry again. I know, I know; a vice I have not yet trained myself to overcome.

Here's the latest, 5 poems to be exact. The first was written quite a while ago, the rest were written between 1:00am (very late saturday/very early sunday) and this moment in time (15:18 BST)


Beautiful World

Oh,
we live in such a beautiful world,
with many wars and all of the strife,
which epitomizes this life.

Oh,
we live in such a happy world,
with crime and abuse rising,
to levels unseen.

Oh,
we live in such a glorious world,
with wise lies deceiving,
and false hands receiving.

Oh,
we live in such a charming world,
where technology has exceeded,
our humanity.

Such a glorious place,
has anyone seen,
the place which shines,
with wars and want,
hunger and hurt,
fighting and fear.

Oh, we live in such a beautiful world.
-----------------

Sight of the Night

on a canvas dark the painter begins,
to paint the most glorious of things.

A speckle of light,
but not too bright,
emits a shudder of pure delight.

the painter began on a darkened sea,
but has created light to shine forth free.

The painter adds
ingredients three,
to add to the sight which we see.

a pinch of distance - it's a measured art,
one which pulls the strings of one's heart.

the tone of the paint,
a glimmering thing,
creates but all of the shimmering.

And now a pearl is placed on the sea,
to be hanging there so very free.

a pearl,
as white as could be,
it is a real glory to see.

And next, the most important thing of all,
without which this beauty means nought at all.

the finest of magic,
a glorious thing,
is added as a thousand birds sing.

(for to make this magic very strong,
it is the painter who adds the finest song.)

But what's the ingredient,
the magical three,
shall it remain but a mystery?

There is no need for the mystery,
but what can the final ingredient be?

The painter smiles and his face fills with glee,
for the final ingredient is added, you see:
A moment of romance, between you and me.

----

Night Sky

I look towards the starry sky,
letting out a quiet sigh,
'Tis the moon that i spy.

no rope holds it to it's place,
there it hangs about it's space,
hanging quietly with it's grace.

The sea of stars!
The shining light!
To look on Mars,
to see the sight,
of a thousand candles burning bright.

The canvas pitch black be,
of that everlasting sea,
spots shimmering so free.

this is the view,
that's what I see,
as i look towards the starry sea.
------------

Hope

Look at the wars around in this life,
look at the hunger and all of the strife,
poverty and misery, it is this which is rife.

Some blame humanity who can be evil as sin,
others blame Fate against who none can win,
but I blame he who controls it all.

Oh, God on high who knows everything,
with millions of angels who dont move a wing,
whom, we are told, your praises sing.

what do they sing when they see our earth,
how can they sing their praises of mirth,
for evil has this place been since it's birth.

God in his glory sits on his throne,
looking about to see what he does own,
the millennial countings are about to take place.

The angels on high look to creation,
and see what is under his domination,
hardly the products of our salvation:

a little part of abominations,
a thousands measures of disgrace,
and a million more of losing face.

and yet one little angel sitting on high,
who knows what will happen nigh,
heaves a glorious sigh.

For this little angel knows what will be,
it opens it's eyes and turns to see,
our planet which was created by He.

Looking past the misery,
looking past the pain,
looking to see what humanity may gain.

amidst the hunger and amidst the strife,
amidst the misery of this life,
it looks to see a special thing.

in the layers of dirt and thrown to the side,
amidst the hurt and trying to hide,
a tiny pearl of hope he gathers with pride.

hope for better things to come,
the hope of peace, the hope of life,
the hope of an end to all the strife.

Bring it to the creator who will smile,
who smiles a smile full of glee who says,
"Yes, bring it near, it's this, my beloved, which is dear."
-----------------

Repentance

An angel was punished one day, you see,
and came to the earth sad as could be.

He couldn't return to his place in the sky,
and so would let out a saddened sigh.

He travelled the earth to look and to see,
He wandered around for a place to be.

He could only return to his place in the sky,
If he found something worth more than his sigh.

The earth he would travel until he could see,
something of worth so in the sky he could be.

gold is of no use to those who dwell in the sky,
"but what's of more value than that?" he would sigh.

then one day he thought he could see,
something of value - but what could it be?

whilst flying about just under the sky,
he heard a girl heave a heavy sigh.

this was of value any can see,
a sigh of repentance: worth more than much could ever be.

And so he returned to his place in the sky,
holding aloft a little girl's sigh.

and now you know and now you can see,
how valuable repentance can actually be.
-------------

And that's it for now, dears!
My personal favourites are Night Sky and Sight of the Night (yes, very original names, but hey!)

The one entitled "Hope" does not necessarily construe my own opinions and/or feelings, though at times, I do feel that God has "millions of angels who dont move a wing" and the "a thousands measures of disgrace, and a million more of losing face" parts. Ah, well.

Then we have repentance. A cute little poem written for the deeply religious, the overly romantic, or the slightly naive. And where do you fit in? ;-)
------
I sent the poem "Night Sky" to a fellow poet who lives here and she came up with this rendering of it, which, as I see it, certainly shows me up!

I look toward a starry sky,
escaping my lips, a silent sigh.
Filled with awe and wonder, I take it in;
not the least bit sure where to begin.

'Tis the moon that catches my watchful eye,
no explanation can I provide.
No rope or belt fastens it there,
it just sits silently with care.

A sea of stars in the graceful night;
a thousand candles buring bright.
Although the canvas, black may be,
there shines pure light for all to see.

This is my view and what I see,
as I gaze at all that lies before me.
Its sheer beauty exists, untainted;
with envy, I watch the scene almost hated.

All of a sudden, we are one,
as I marvel at the wonders that God has done.
What a loving God he must be,
to release this moment unto me!

This time in nature I must savour,
as I find myself in His favour.
Again, what an amazing sight,
this cold and lonely, starry night.
--------
Compare that to my one, and frankly dear children, mine looks utter pants!

Bye, and enjoy!

Ok, so, Chaos liked my poetry. To inflate my head a little more, here's some poetry for you all.


LIGHT
A shaft of light,
comes through the glaze,
removing me from my misty haze.

A single shaft,
hanging so fair,
in the middle of this air.

It brings to view,
some speckles of dust,
dancing in their misty hue.

Putting out a hand,
to touch this thing grand,
it dissapears from my view.

The shadow i caused,
has removed the light,
from its graceful dance within my sight.

I retract,
and the beam is once more,
gracefully floating as it was before.

A magical sight,
to me is this light,
which has caused me now to write.

The beauty of nature,
People don't see,
The ellegance present so casually.

When it is gone,
it's then that we mourn,
but too late: never again will it be born.
-----------------------------

'twas one december 'eve,
the story which i relate,
when the wind was howling in the trees,
and blowing at the gate.

Upon a desk was i sat,
inside the inner-chambers,
when i heard a noise, "pat, pat, pat"
disturbing from my labours.

The snow was falling heavily,
down upon the earth,
I raised myself steadily,
and proceeded from my hearth.

the sea of stars was dim,
the moon quite unseen,
i opened up the door and got
a feeling very grim.

For upon my wind-swept step,
there's no caller to be seen,
stealthily away they'd crept,
leaving signs where they'd been.

For the sign they left that night,
no one's ever seen,
'twas the mark of unholy death,
which plunged me into plight.

A single longstalked rose,
left almost casually,
as if from one in a doze,
who let it fall gradually.

A simple flower instilled in me,
horrors never seen,
for that pretty rose my dears,
was black as black could be.

This impossibility
i pondered over more,
whilst standing on my outer steps,
remembering legends yore.

from my step i picked it up,
and carried it inside,
placed it inside a cup,
and watched it's silent pride.

the black rose hath not been seen,
for many centuries,
and here upon my step it was,
where the mystery caller'd been.

To this day i know not,
what's in store for me,
but here i quote from the book,
in which now i take a look:

"The black rose,
the mark of death,
to be avoided,
never touched,

if you receive it,
you do know,
the mark upon you,
it's not for show.

Death hath been cheated,
he hath called on thee,
and left to thou a message,
"for thee I wait, for thee I come"

If perchance,
you touched the thing,
your chances:
very slim.

there's not much we can do for thee,
we know not what to say,
except to repent from sins,
to then sit still and pray.

for in 4 score and 30 days,
when the moon is full,
that's the day we bid to thee
a heartfelt farewell."

And now that time is almost up,
there is but an hour,
I leave behind me to the world,
my story and legacy.

Thus I penned my poem,
written now it's done;
but won't you care to stay,
and find out what is done?

stay with me,
await with me,
come with me,
and see!

An hour later upon my door,
I hear a shadow i never saw,
tap-tapping upon the lattice,
tap-tapping on my door.

Knowing it my destiny,
knowing it His will,
still i arm myself,
before i answer my door.

And the tapping getting louder,
To the door I say "Hark! I hear thee, await!
stop your tapping now,
now upon my grate."

Closer to the door I come,
as to swing it open,
but i am stopped suddenly,
by an icy voice spoken:

"For thee I wait, for thee I come,
For thee it is, for thee who's done,
For thee you are, for thee you've been,
for thee hath seen, for thee I mean."

Shaken to the core,
I started to implore,
"quit your riddles sir,
and state your meaning plain!"

But he proceeded once again,
his icy voice starting plain,
a voice so terrible,
yet so still and comforting.

"Thee hath touched,
thee hath loved,
thee hath hated,
thee hath gruged."

"And who be thou,"
i started now,
"To say about me thus?"
I waited for his reply, it came steadily thus:

"Never hath thee really seen,
nor never hath thou really been,
for one can never really be,
until he deceiveth me."

shocked was i for this reply,
"whom art thou, who claims:
'i hath been deceived,
deceiveth have i been by thee?'"

"I am he whom you fear,
i am he who is not,
i am he who claims those dear,
i am he who hath not forgot."

"thou art Death!"
I proclaimed,
to which was stated,
"I be he."

He continued:
"thou hath touched the rose,
which i left for thee,
that one december 'eve."

This reply had chilled my spine,
but the courage of mine never failing,
"I thank thee for your gracious gift"
those words i spake to him.

"A gift thou hath, for the gift thou took,
no gift of mine can be forsook, for the gift i give,
is the gift of death, the last gift thou receives."

For this reply I would not settle,
"and is there a way to cheat the devil?
Take my life and be done!"
and so I opened up the door.

Startled was i to find,
no one was there at all,
only a silent whisper,
which was left behind.

The whisper of death,
the stench of fear,
and the cry,
of loved ones dear.

For spirit now am I,
Remember me, O passer by,
as you are, so once was I,
as I am so shall you be: remember this, and follow me.
----------------------

Who needs Love,
all the trouble which it brings,
presents itself as if a dove,
it begins to sing.

Kill it's song,
we want it not,
to spread it's poison,
it is simply wrong.

Who needs Knowledge,
knowing what will be,
by searching all the pages,
of the books of history?

Take it out,
get it gone,
this is a burden,
of which we want none.

Who needs Time,
time is no healer,
it is what kills you,
you as well as me.

Away with this,
Keep it not,
a concept this painful,
should be dropped.

So why do the likes of you and i,
the simple people in our world,
living out our lives uttering many a sigh,
make such use of these things three?

the three go hand in hand,
with time comes knowledge,
and it's through this we understand:
better to love and lose,
than to never have loved at all.
---------
I don't believe a word of the last two lines in that last poem. The hurt which can be caused far outweighs anything which may have taken place beforehand. And no, the cliché "you'll get over it" is not really true, as "it" is someone you loved, shared you secrets with and opened up your heart to them. The closer one is, the deeper the scars afterwards. Also. The rhyming scheme breaks up totally in the last two stanzas. The reason is because I haven't finished the poem, and had to go whilst I was in the middle of writing it, so just jotted down what I wanted to say so I wouldn't forget...

Swimming around is this fish,
care-free as can be,
such a little soul it is,
to be swimming in it's sea.

Though the bowl be big,
the little fish is brave,
it swims around it's waters,
eating food it's gave.

Around in circles will it go,
swimming through the water,
it does this every single day,
it's path gets no shorter.

But one day,
not more than a tails swish away,
it happened upon another fish,
looking through its dish.

The most beautiful fish he had ever seen,
this fishies skin lime green.
when he swam along his way,
it was of she, he did dream.

He chanced to see her many times,
as he swam along his lines,
he would stop and gaze back,
with increasing frequency.

There they floated both,
pressed up against their glass,
each gazing at the other,
under watery cover.

In their bowls they gazed,
atop a table by a lamp,
near a window by a sign,
written in words divine: "fish sold here."

Many days would then go by,
until a human wandered near,
issuing a litte sigh,
"I wonder what to buy."

Whereupon this humans eyes,
fell upon the gazing fish,
little did it suspect,
that through the water should come a net.

Torn away from his love,
he floats around,
atop unknown ground,
dreaming of his lime green love.

Many days would pass by,
he would utter a fish's sigh,
stop a little,
perhaps to cry.

For he knew that this was true:
he would never gaze,
through the glaze,
at his love.

Before you say "It couldn't be!
How know ye of this end?"
I answer thus unto thee:
That little fish: he was me.

(c) 2005 DJ
-------------------
No, not finding nemo...just another day in my life...

Ok, ok. Due to popular opinion (actually, due to a single reader armed with a torch and pitchfork) I have decided to stop being lazy, and copy and paste poems i've written previously and put it here.
-----------
Long ago,
in a far off land,
across the hills,
and past the sea,
there was a couple,
as happy as could be.

In a forest,
there they dwelt,
their love was honest,
honest as could be.

For many years,
there was no strife,
within their very happy life,
happiness their only wish,
and yet that was not to be.

Disaster unforseen,
a terrible event,
tragedy had surely struck,
when upon their happy home,
Death had lain His hand,
claiming her His own.

Upon her grave,
he dug himself,
he mourned his loss,
for many days.

The clock would tick,
and hours pass,
as he sat upon the grass.

Time had trod,
time had trod,
an entire week gone by,
he was in his usual place,
weeping by her grave.

head in hands,
face masked from sky,
'twas a winter's night.
Snow began to fall,
though he little noticed,
that this was ever so.

His pain, his grief,
had blinded him,
and he was unaware of all,
except his own despair.

Hours passed,
the man now still,
he could not move,
he lay atop his loved one's grave,
there's no one left to bury him.

And so it was,
the lover's end,
now a distant memory,
but that love they bore,
it does live on,
for that husband,
and that wife,
will meet again,
in another life.
---------
I haven't come up with a proper name for that poem yet, so it remains unamed here. Any pointless drivel...err...I mean....suggestions....don't hesitate to comment.

I reckon the poem is simple enough to be understood, and shallow enough for me not to type any explanation whatsoever for it. If you don't understand anything after reading it through a few times, comment to that effect, and I will then register how astonished I am that you can even read =)

Next up:

Men,
Go and learn this noble art,
Of how to win a lady's heart,
Bravely, as with any other art,
Nobly, 'til the very last part;
Loyal gravity,
And every hint of suavity.

Lead her to the moon lit paths,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her by your truthful words,
Free of taint and pure
From courtship's flatteries.

Yet be it only art,
Be sure to lose her heart,
Savage your own, for your part.
------
Yes, well. The above is based on Mrs. Browning's (that's Elizabeth Barret Browning) poem, which reads thus:

Learn to win a lady's faith,
Nobly, as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death; --
with loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.
----
I'm still debating with myself as to if I should make the adapted version of Browning one poem with the one below:

Women,
Honest, open and plain,
The only way to speak your mind;
Do to him what is kind,
Do not tag him along, behind.

When he pours his soul to you,
Leaving him at your mercy; --
When he says "I love you,"
Tell him only what you mean,
But do take care with your reply,
Be cautious with his heart,
As you hold it in your hands,
With every sigh,
Every smile and every frown,
Makes or breaks a man.
-----------
It's the same theme, sure. I wrote them together. But even as I wrote it, I didn't know if they should be two short poems, or one long one.

Wow. What troubles I have, eh?


I've written a few more poems about lost love, and am currently writing an "unusual" one...Here's one stanza:

"Blessed art Thou"
My lips said now,
"Who caused them to plunder,
Throw Your people asunder,
And plunge us into wonder..."
And here i stopped,
for it had begun to thunder,
the rain had filled the air,
and shame my heart,
for this ungodly prayer.
---

Basically, it's a poem about this person who "prays" to God amidst a congregation, perhaps keeping a two minutes silence, for the last World War, and the Holocaust (the 60th year of Auschwitz was not long ago, as you should know). It's incomplete at the moment, but should be pretty sombre when complete.

And that's it for now, folks. Maybe in the next post here, I'll post a few poems which i've already posted here, but in my blog...We shall see.

Until next time!