Porcelain

 

There seems to be a lack of

                    Shadows,

A lack of something that gives

Us form and ‘we’ all,

     Move like ghosts,

And it’s substance that is missing,

Not the sun,

Not the sun!

 

We are all,

     Bogged down

     Clogged down with ideas

But more often someone else’s,

Hers or his but never,

     Our own.

 

There really is; a staleness,

A lack of vibrancy to our

     Very being as if,

The path worn so well

Holds no more value or query,

No more intrigue upon its

Horizon and no-one seems

To care - if we are lost.

 

     So where do we go?

Where do we sit and ponder

All the wonder now The Thinker

Has been stole a billion times,

What ideas tinker our imaginations

And what new prayers are said

Upon a once fresh breeze turned sour?

 

     It could all be down

                    To hope,

But even that once shining

Word fails the promise of its

Luminance as tired,

Even the Seasons

Seem keen on giving up -

Their own rigid form.

 

Maybe,

     We’re asking the wrong questions

Making the wrong assumptions

In game play, taking life as nothing

More than gamble after gamble

And calculated risk,

Yet I beg, Earth was never bought

From antiquated thought

From a pack of fifty-two

But that’s how lost it feels.

 

          No!

‘The Beyondness of Things’

Be the composers will to

Give each clues as to how

Conductive we’ve become,

     But what’s beyond is all of this,

     And what’s beyond is none of this

And with a kiss,

I’m focusing my lips

Upon the fore’ead of my child –

And as old as I am,

     I’m touching ‘The All’

With where it all began

And I’m thinking not of now

Within my own selfish world;

Not my own wrangles and wrestling,

But in our children’s untold

Future years, where only

Selflessly, we may see

The Hope that we have tarnished

Reappear, and never,

Lose its lustre or its shine.

 

Michael J Waite 4^th May 2012.