I’m disquiet in the realisation of the futility of teaching the youth, younger each year, they’re imprinted with antiquated ideas of the past, growing evermore ancient and defunct.
Petits Poems
still I love you.
I know at times I take on your faults. I believe. I change. I see you don’t.
I sip your poison. It doesn’t kill me, not yet.
Untitled – 23/11/16
And it seemed as if hopes were aloft
asunder from liberty’s grasp.
An ethereal hand washes
all away,
against the mundane plight.
I must rest my eyes, before
tomorrow’s light stings my eyes.
Andy’s Post
It seems like your voice comes only at times of sensitivity
dissonant opinion sharing -your subversive activity
“Don’t shoot the messenger -Oh…”
“I’m just playing Devil’s Advocate”
“People are evil”
-“they’re morally reprobate.”
But I tire of your distinct brand of banter
and your progressive take on the Trump banner,
regardless of what’s good and what is lost
it’ll not be your ethnicity
that pays the cost.
Adam
I remember you from a former life,
from a track
ran by road-youths.
before adult reality’s claxton,
screamed our cease.
In my mind I still
Visit you.
We never drifted.
There was no loss,
no flood of blood,
washing away your innocence.
All of it
Isn’t that all of it,
to reach up to the sun
with fists filled with golden sand,
the hot grains fleeing through the cracked clasp,
and for the sun’s shine to be
silvered by the passing
moods of the earth.
Once Was You
The crook of her mother’s brow
shapes her earth toned world view,
reducing glitter to dust.
Grains of sun flee her eyes,
washed away
rhythmically lapping at her cut glass cheeks.
Each breath, drawing in a fearfully rose future;
fragile desires dashed
within her insecure moods.
Her palms gasp – parched.
Feet unmoved from where she stood
when she first said hello.
Hyacinth
You see
It lies in the false titles
given to those that bear the fruit.
To gain a recognition for deeds done,
the end goal not always in sight.
See… the warmth is blue,
a sombre heat without light
A form of cold pragmatism,
through exchanges of pregnant love.
You see directions are issued,
But to what end should that suffice?
We don’t all crave a destination, but instead
to be hooked – within two arms.
J.C. FitzDerick 