The sky h-irony.
That, the Sage’s, priceless advice,
of which, we held;
unique.
Can, now, be grasped,
by, the handly masses,
at, naught shekels,
a piece.
Is. A travesty.
Depravity. The gravity.
Forces us humble and bangs us,
crashing, to the Earth.
But, in the blink,
of a, Universe’s, dream-lit eye,
we, won’t be, matter, at all.
We, won’t, even, matter in a flash.
We, will simply be;
bonely words, aflame, to ash,
dug and buried,
for the dirt.
© poormansdreams
Listen; to, the Ancients, speak.
When you hold a conch,
to your ear.
Hearken, to their patience leak.
Their, sagely, fonts,
that make, the muddy; clear.
The Ancients, speak, but are, rarely, heard,
by herds of shepherds, unflocked, absurd.
Strewn, beleaguered; city, valley, plain and peak,
are pining, for; pricking lugs & sound alerts,
wet, flowy words, grass & rock can creek.
That follow; missed, ancestral, laked tracks, off-beat.
Listen; when, the Ancients, speak.
In night-visiting tongues,
of babbled dreams.
A messaged crypt, latent.
Secrets; passed and yond,
along; subconscious streams.
If, you, eavesdrop, inside of yourself & underneath,
within; your earholes & below soles under peat.
That’s where, souls and spirits, silently, conversate.
Listening, in peaced sanctity, knelt; at, Ancient’s, feet.
© poormansdreams
Kept tied-up inside a spirit’s lair.
An apparition came to visit I.
Imprisoned in dungeons of despair.
Her flowing sari gave me shelter.
From the usual evil premonitions.
Inane sooths explicit, die, unlistened.
To yarns unravelling like hair.
She spoke without saying words.
She simply placed her soul next to mine.
And minus verbs. Clarity interred.
Everything made sense for a single time.
Our fervours frolicked for a while.
Across each prysmal universe they danced.
And when I reached to jump the final stile.
Intense woe left hearts a-pity in collapse.
Then I felt a phrase steep all over me.
A phrase that only I have ever known.
She plumed my heart and inscribed notably;
“You’ll only become what you’re meant to be
when it’s your time to go.”
© poormansdreams
Gambled legacies etched upon shifting sands
blame the Sun for lost stakes fading into gusts.
Sirocco’s, mouth is covered by, Her, dealing hand.
Spun, sabulous teeth grit, Her, laughter’s thrusts.
Whilst chuckling, Sirocco, the windswept croupier, whispers,
“They bid to parch the Earth
and after losing cry.
Over unwinning, desert turf
below a blackjack’s Saharan sky.
Gravel stuck betwixt sticky fingers, toes
wryly smiles at their slotted inner-soles.
Beaches raise when caught in throats and eyes
flush, spluttered coughs mock orbs undry.
They blame Godly Ra that shuffled and ran them life.
And, wonder why we laugh at their burnt demise.”
The ‘they’ is you and I, we fickle shards
who have already begun to drip and melt.
Like, a mountain-peak’s deck of cards
that a scorching Summer hotly dealt.
Remember, that, The House of the Rising Sun, will always win.
When humanity plays a bested ace after the bets are in.
For we’ll set and settle up long before the House’s reign
can fall to absorb our vain, mortal, soaked disdain.
© poormansdreams
Chasing dreams
along the Milky Way
awestruck following those
pluming glittered trails
of astral kaleidoscopic tails.
High upon an intergalactic mezzanine
where spaces have no words to say
and lost breath shadows worlds aglow.
As asteroids ride the rockiest of rails
and lightyears pass at the pace of snails.
Chasing dreams
with the Woman in the Moon
whom cast Her light
with the back of my spoon.
I frogleaped Her with leggy wings a-flight
by jumping on a collapsing Black Hole’s monsoon.
The pelting icy rains from Saturn’s ringed delight
helped my surfing spirit shape-shift into a flume.
Chasing dreams of cosmic wonderment and vitality
that will become our cahooted extraterrestrial reality.
Chasing dreams of eternal inspiration
is as easy as breathing in and out
on an evermore, celestial vacation.
© poormansdreams
“You’re like a nut without it’s shell.”
Lamented, the Tribesmen.
Looking down upon familial graves with affection.
And, regrettably, they are right.
For, what is left?
After bones have shed their enfleshed, rotten smell?
We ‘civilised’ skeletons are at a loss as to when,
our fruitful bloodlined connections,
were cut, picked off & devoured in the night.
Our memories of ancestors are like forests felled & burnt
to ashen tears that fall, too. Bereft.
“You’re like a nut without it’s shell.”
The protection of ancestral spirits,
has been peeled away by evil fingers,
of sorcerers making wands from our scythed branches.
Under a dark, greed-obsessed, magical spell.
Causing our clocks to unremember our minutes.
An echo of lost history in our ears, lingers.
Forgotten to the chasm caused by devilish avalanches.
As I lay here wet & weeping ensconced within a living Hell.
Crying out for answers to Sorrow’s questions unable to tell.
I try to douse flames with damp suffering from a kinly well.
Repeating cashew-shaped drips of a fallen, melancholy
mantra. That drop & crack open…
“I wish I was a nut that could feel at home in my shell.”
© poormansdreams
Twisted reveries,
hold out, aloft, grasping hands.
For escape, on a
tall, westward breeze.
Unlistened memories’,
bold shouts, of high, everlasting lands.
Where, faded sunkisses,
make, hard souls, unfreeze.
The weather is, always, warmer,
on a saviour’s, long, imagined plateau.
Where, vanquished selves of former,
lie, in vast deserts, like sandy gateaux.
But, on my eyes opening, I realise,
it was, just, another fascination.
Like, my quickened time, that flies,
faster, after every, yearly, station.
Each split, grained o’clock,
I knew, they pass. Away,
from, clutched gaps in fingers.
The grit, that slicks, unstopped,
vanishes from view, unstayed,
and touch, elapsed. As they linger.
There approaches, an eventual hour,
coming first. When we lose to second.
A preying, untimely, type of power.
That, only, lank hands, of an almighty clock,
could ever, yearn and use. To beckon…
…our souls. By the rangy, ringing bell, of…
…The Mortal Tower.
© poormansdreams
Healed in the water
as it washed away
my spiritual pains
it
trick-
trick-
trick-
trickled
first along, then shorter.
In cleansing, curing waves
purifying the blood within my
veins. That baptism of a cat-
aclysmic flood. Made
those days of dried
on dirt feel almost
false, incoherent,
fickle. For, I have
been saved by
basking in a
tsunami
of good.
I used to think
that liquid purification
was only applicable to petals,
flowers, buds. But, after I
had become like
liquid I
went on to
traverse
the roots
under
-neath
glorious
gardens
into newly
germin
-ating
bulbs.
Now, I stand tall alongside great cedars and oaks
with their saplings.
Because, from the water; I became wood.
© poormansdreams
The fragility of;
promises. And, their incumbent,
pleasure, or, pain,
hangs in the balance,
of a single, parting cloud.
On, whether, it breaks,
into malevolent;
let down,
thunder and rain,
like, hateful, embroidered,
heavy, teardrop-drapes,
of valance.
Or, makes sunny, snow-capped peak;
fulfillment. Worn, like, a haloed shroud,
in skins, so perfectly,
held together,
that they can’t help,
but, be,
unavoided.
© poormansdreams
Mysterious models.
Manufactured.
By argon-hearted stars.
Nefarious apostles,
have youth fractured.
Why? Ma & Da’s gone.
Departed for Mars.
When surroundings & reality,
are surreal.
You’re out of body/don’t know how to deal.
Because meaningful,
contact is imagined.
Along with,
how you‘re not taught to feel.
Destiny is caught,
in an optimistic eyeful,
but, held in the hands,
of glimpsed emptiness.
Those hollow fists, will drop,
the future, set insight, to crash.
Lips, look above,
rather, wry-ful.
Unable to face,
myopic unfriendliness.
They’re content, to cozy up,
next to a rash;
– stress induced psoriasis –
caused by; a post-traumatic past.
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 