joe2poetry

Poetry from a Dublin Scientist

Month: May, 2012

You Decide

In our magnanimousness

We have given you a choice

Would you rather be killed by a lion, or a tiger?

Thrown off a bridge or an aqueduct?

Stabbed with a knife, or hacked with a sword?

Flattened by a steamroller, or crushed in a press?

Electrocuted or hanged

Shot with a gun, or shot out of a cannon, no net this time

We have given you a choice so you can decide your fate

Don’t let the words fool you

Each choice can’t be more different

We have given you a choice

So you can decide, and live with it.

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It’s a lot more fun in the orgy

You tell me of worship and prayer

But let me be perfectly clear

It’s a lot more fun in the orgy

I think I would rather stay here

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You preach right in front of my face

And loudly perform your devotions

But there’s many nubile young ladies in here

Who make the most sensual motions

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You rant about going to hell

That we’re straight on a path to the devil

But if he could arrange what that midget just did

I’m sure that I’m right on his level

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You pray for our souls, say that we must repent

If we ask, salvation’s at hand

But after three hours with the lovely Caprice

Even heaven would seem rather bland

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You’d better move on, no one for you here

No innocents ripe for conversion

With all the debauchery that goes on inside

Our path is set straight for perversion

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You say you’ve the truth, the only way out

That those who ignore it are damned

But it’s a lot more fun in the orgy

I think that we’ll get on just grand!

Making it up

I’m making it up as I go along you know

Each word, a flash in the proverbial pan

Not planned or expected, no forewarning or thought

Simply coming into being

As if summoned from the depths of who knows where

Extracted from the unknowable

Accessing this involves no process

No plan that I can derive

It just happens

By luck and the favour of the gods

No control and no guarantee of it occurring again

All that there is to do, is sit

And let the words flow

To give refuge to the train of thought as it is generated

And to record, for you dear reader

For what otherwise would be the ravings of a madman

Is here given substance, an audience

And purpose

The capricious zephyrs of my soul

Out in the world, free for all.

Two Hundred

Ten scores of verse

Words piled and piled on electronic walls

Cast off into the internet

Free for the world

For all who would wish to read it

On all topics, all themes

Limited only by the imagination of the author

Some liked, some faded to obscurity

Yet all eternal

Immortal in their digital realm

A snapshot of a time and place, and a thought

Soon gone from this world

Our Dance

I find that every time we dance

It seems as though we’re in a trance

Letting music take control

Hijacking our deepest soul

Rhythmic moving, side by side

From your gaze, no chance to hide

Getting ever closer still

Anticipation builds untill

Electricity’s too much

Quivering with slightest touch

Ecstasy, the contact lingers

No part evades these magic fingers

Bodies ever more entwine

Only us, no sense of time

Subtle hints of something more

Further pleasures yet in store

If future fate keep us apart

Our dance will stay close to my heart

Our Journey

Wherever I roam, Wherever I go

Whatever I see, Whatever I do

Whomever I love, Whomever hate

My journey is without end

Extending from my first ever step

To that last tumbling, scrabbling fall

My constant is the journey

It is what makes me, defines me

Adds to my life, my experience

My journey changes me

I am not the same as I started

For how can I stay the same after the journey of a lifetime?

The start and the destination are the same for us all

It is only the journey, the routes we take that mark us separate

The high and the low road

The long and slow path, the fast slope to oblivion

Each unique, each special, each a piece of magic in its own

The smoke coated all black

A small stuffed thing

A teddy bear, sits on the shelf

Unmoving, its arms pointing upwards

As if waiting to be picked up

To be rescued

It was hard to make out first

Its yellow colour blackened like everything else

The heat had melted some of the plastic components

Its pedestal distorted by the roaring updraft

That it hadn’t burst into flames was a miracle

Performed by the chemical magicians of fire protection

It alone survived, It alone lasted

When so much did not

So much turned to flame and soot

And smoke visible for miles

Smoke that coated all black

The unsaid

Words ending mid-flow

After the build-up

The detailed description

The atmosphere expertly painted

The characters placed and waiting

Left now to the reader

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It is the reader who finishes the piece

Their imagination who ends the tale

The shooting of the rifle

The push of the knife

The transit of the bullet

The glorious success, the bitter defeat

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The strength of the unsaid is in the mind of the beholder

Each reading, each ending, is unique

The product of the hopes, the fears of the reader

Emotional baggage, years of experience

All released by the powers of the unsaid

A gift to the reader, unlocking the power of their own imagination

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 Once again I find myself inspired by the works of scriptor obscura. Check out her stuff. Keep up the good work Scriptor!

Acting

Master actor, hallowed thespian

Expert in their art

To be present, but not there

Instead a blank canvas

Ready to read another’s work

To take the vision of another

To give it life, make it real

To bring a voice to the words

What was before empty print on paper

Becomes full, emotional and gripping

That is the magic of their craft

To give another’s work life

A true art in itself.

Unsuitable

Not able for this

Skin not right

not able to cope to resist the constant onslaught

burning like a prune, blistering in the sun

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Not made for this

Far too hot

Too busy for the heat

can’t function in the warmth

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Not prepared for this

not enough water stashed

What is this sun-cream of which you speak?

We never had weather like this before

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This is unsuitable

We pray and pray for a meteorological miracle

But can’t cope with the consequences

The eternal jest of getting what you wish for.