GREY ABANDON

The cup of steaming tea
Perched lazily by my side,
Gives a warming pleasure
As I gaze out at the grey abandon.
Boats tethered and scattered
On the lonely kelp strewn sand,
Await the tide to free them
To give them life again.
Their colours peer through the murk
Like sea shells washed by the surf,
Mirrored by the pastel cottages
Lime washed and nudging tightly together.
Fishermen from far off days
Would peer with professional eye,
Their quarry out there, deep in the grey abandon.
The ghostly haze of pipe smoke
And the warming sting of grog,
Haunt the huddled streets and houses
Although, they've long since gone.
The morning bustle is orchestrated
With an almost tranquil restrain,
People have time for one another
Life feels good again.
I step out once more onto the quayside
Into the enveloping, keen Devonish air,
The grey, leaden water laps gently
And the gulls sail the skies without a care.
A morning stroll along the seafront
With a cleansing of ones thoughts,
Brings a joyous feeling of being and reason
A love for the sea and its grey abandon.

 
Phil Hall  September 2013

Copyright:philthepoet61.blogspot.com

THOUGHTS

I'm getting thoughts again
From way back when,
You know
When I was about nine or ten.
People spoke
Face to face,
Not by text or cyberspace,
Like driving rain
I feel this stinging pain,
Is dementia like being insane?
I know it's my age
What causes the rage,
Random thoughts
Scribbled on page,
Falling from the rat race
Just an unheard sage,
So I rattle my lyrical sabre
From skeletal cage.
I'll soon be nought
Earthen plot is bought,
Every breath fought for
Peace now sought.
So I remember the days
Of T shirt and short,
Of kiss chase in the playground
Teresa Smyth I caught.
We could have wed
It was never said,
We were both aged ten
She left our school
And my heart bled.
I stood by the swings
And I did cry,
A pretty girl had liked me
Now I wanted to die.
I sigh
Dunk a biscuit in my tea,
Here come more thoughts
More pictures of me.
Drinking beer
Showing no fear,
Out with my friends
To the clubs we steer,
We're in our teens
Skin spotty, not very clear.
The girls were keen
We dressed like James Dean,
Hair brushed back
Using Dads brilliantine,
My God!
Did I wear those clothes?
And was that a moustache
Balanced under my nose?
That was so wrong
It didn't last long,
I started doing exercise
As I wasn't very strong.
We went to the gym
We lifted a few weights,
We still looked really puny
We still looked right states.
I wonder
Where my friends are
Do they think the same as me?
Do they remember our youth?
And the memories I still see.
I've finished my tea
The biscuits have disappeared,
I snap back to the present
And I feel a little weird.
These thoughts visit me often
The ghosts perform on stage,
My eyes moisten and soften
My heart rattles in skeletal cage.

Phil Hall September 2013

Photo of (from left to right)
Me, Kevin mc Cormack, Andy Rogers. Aged 18 in a pub in Newquay Cornwall 1979.

THE COMMENTS OF FOOLS

Oh how they lust
Oh how they prey,
Comments of fools
Seen everyday.
A pretty face
With something to say,
Suddenly they appear
With the victim they play.
The usual quotes
They always apply,
They haven't read
It's the picture they spy.
You know who you are
You sad, lonely men,
I'll call on you
When you do it again.
I'll mark your comments
With a numbered score,
The serial offenders get ten
First timers get four.
All lady writers
Get pestered by fools,
So I'll score the worst players
When they break the rules.

Phil Hall  September 2013

SUIT OF SKIN

We all walk around well dressed
In our own suit of skin,
The texture and colour may differ
But we're all the same within.

Your suit looks beautiful in it's brown shades,
I'd like to try it if I can,
Just to wrap up in the delicate silk of your skin
My suit contains within it this man.

My encased form will join you
And we'll unite from within,
Tumbling embrace like dry cleaned clothes
A new life will begin.

The mechanism inside will contain both me and you
This is the beginning of our kin,
Our future generation is in new clothes
Our child in his fresh suit of skin.

My suit is getting worn now
Slightly fraying at the seam,
Also a little bit saggy
And broader round the beam.

One day my cloth will fade for good
And suddenly stop being worn,
The soul inside will drift away
From the hole that had been torn.

So, take good care of your birthday suit
The one within which you were made,
It's the greatest gift you'll ever have
Even when it becomes threadbare and decayed.

Phil Hall  September 2013

RIVER OF MY MIND

My youth like a babbling stream
Excitedly running, full of fun,
Merry go round or wheel of the mill
Glittering and joyous patterns, playing under the sun.

I sit now, the river running deep
Plenty of wisdom, a wise old sage,
The river of my mind though
It meanders with age.

The slow, thoughtful flow of life
In which I pass my declining years,
I can watch my offspring forge new streams
Joy mixed with sadness are the cause of my tears.

The source of my life is way in the past
With the ocean being my heaven, I'm sure to find,
I smile up at the bridges as I pass below
I'm content to let you see the river of my mind.

Phil Hall  September 2013

Picture "Dragon cross stitch" by Susan Robinson@deviantart.

FAITH REMIX

http://soundcloud.com/phatwitz/faith-remix

The continuing collaborations of Philthepoet and Phatwitz.

PANDORA

She stands alone in darkened room
Pandora, desired by all, her soul an echoing tomb,
Black on black, silk on lace,
Red slash smear on ice cold face.

Wings of darkest plume, satin smooth and ravenesque
Men succumb to those eyes so Arabesque,
Subtle curves and rich molten thighs
He who touches her..... Will always die.

Skin of marble, eyes of jade
The lust of man on her body played,
Everyone's fantasy, everymans urge
Pandora causes blood to surge.

She's in all our thoughts, our dark needs
Pandora in our minds, the devil feeds,
Desires of flesh and lustful thought
Since the dawn of man, such pleasures sought.

Beware Pandora and her tempting form
Her hypnotic brew will cause a storm,
Marriages and trust fall into decay
When temptation comes out to play.

Phil Hall  September 2013

BELTANE FIRE

The flames of a thousand fires
Lick the darkness with acrid tongue,
This is a night for the Gods
The dead can sing their haunting song.
Taste the air and feel the power
Swirling spirits serenade with ghostly moans,
The living transfixed in mystic wonder
Stare wide eyed amongst the ancient standing stones.
The sacrificial gifts cry from the silent giant
The wicker man guards the moon touched hill,
An offering for the gods blessed with Beltanes fire
The Druids summon Cerunnos for the kill.
The darkness of long winter nights
Held at bay by a funeral pyre,
Britain, the blessed land of the gods
Still lights the skies with Beltanes fire.

Phil Hall  September 2013

CASTING GIANT SHADOWS

Winter is calling
The summers freedom in chains,
Nature prepares its bounty
Hardships, frozen spirits for our pains.
We walk amongst giant shadows
The other world a realm of silence,
Cast from summers dying rays
Chilled hearts our penance.
The feathery wisps of cloud
That danced in the azure sky,
Banished by the heavy demon wings
Sentencing our shadows to die.
Lithe and lascivious forms no more
Covered and cowed in darkened veil,
No more casting giant shadows
We're heading for a winters tale.
The ice queen is holding court now
At her palace deep in the frozen north,
Sleep now giant shadows
The sun will return next year to summon you forth.

Phil Hall  September 2013

SLAVES

We sit at our desks
Toil at the coal face,
Bleed and die in conflicts
As long as we know our place.

We have pride, we have honour
But our leaders don't care,
We are all slaves to their whims
We never get a true share.

They fill our lives with promises
But truly, it's just pie in the sky,
Who cares about colour of skin
We all rot the same when we die.

I cut you and you bleed red
Cut me deep I end up dead,
Things like this they want left unsaid
We're slaves, get it into your head.

When the Moors sold the first black flesh
And the filthy slave ships carried them away,
Petty white thieves fared no better
Sent across the globe to colonise, a debt to repay.

Disease, death and the stripe of the lash
Black and white brothers shed blood and tears,
No rights, no dignity, no respect
Our ancestors shared the same fears.

Still today the same song is sung
The world offers crumbs to the masses,
We're still slaves to wealth and power
Obedience is taught in the classes.

Know your place slave
Make sure your family knows too,
Your colour means nothing to them
Black or white, you're under their shoe.

So fellow slave, we're all the same
Black or white we're equals  to God above,
I'll shake your hand, I'll help you
As slaves we can show each other love.

Phil Hall  September 2013

THIS GOLDEN ALBION

When the first dew appears
Hazy, watery sunshine
Perched on a single leaf,
The last vestiges of summer
Fall away.
September in England, my England
The first step to a golden albion.
The fruit in abundance, harvest all
Natures cup overflowing to Gods call.
Sand whips the lonely shore
Where many tiny feet have played,
Love gained, summer strained
Promenade lights glittering to ghosts once more.
The sun shades his eyes on the horizon
Just a whisper of an embers glow,
Rabbits and badgers all nestled down
Leaving autumn to others, they snuggle down below.
This is the golden albion
Where legend calls the tune,
Fiery nights of passion and sparks
Old folklore etched in runes.
The trees bare their bones
As their occupants take to the skies,
Where an artist has unleashed his colours
Vivid cloud patterns excite our eyes.
The warmth of summer love
Is fading with tanned skin,
The death of leaves in copper tones
Peeling life away from within.
This golden albion
England in its autumn glory,
When summer fades into glowing memory
The haze begins a new winters story.

Phil Hall  August 2013