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These are some old poems, from my time in Amsterdam. I find it hard to work on poems because the magic gets lost
so easily...
Want!
There is nothing in this world I want
-but I'd like a good many
things.
Cute hair clips, sassy T-shirts,
and of course sweet things to eat.
But the verb to want, springs from
need,
and I need for nothing.
Somewhere there is a silent whisper,
"I need to be loved"
But I can't destroy
my life to forfill my need,
and I refuse this imperfection.
So in concession I write it at the top of the list,
-I
would like to be loved.
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Wall
The guarded look in you eyes
does not
warn me off
I run itno the question
hitting the metal garden wall.
Slammed to my knees
I sit with
my eyes stunned shut
letting the pain swirl around my head
But now looking up at your eyes
there's a smile
playing my mouth.
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I feel that I see a tired man,
an artist who sought to kill
the thought he
birthed,
leaving it howling at the church door,
scared of what the idea would become
if left to grow alive so
best
that it is nailed shut in its coffin.
But why hurled stones at such authors
-the human creators of our
theories?
What good is it to have them mumble
sad apologies at their incompetence
of explaining an idea or a way
of thinking
when it is us who fail to grasp
the complexities of such a simple thought.
Yet it is perhaps best
that they take delight
at our puzzled faces and that we dont laugh
at being asked to understand the impossible,
for
where would the challenge be
for such the wise teachers of fools?
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Storm.
I hate it when the sotrm clouds gather
my head pounding with swollen emotions,
till my small hands bare the ton of my head.
Tell me its a sign of calm seas ahead
that in clear air a new day
will dawn,
for all I can see is this raw night.
A single rain drop opens the heavens
running through the dry
earth
till the world desolves into water.
And for all my swankering bravo
I'm hiding under the table.
As
the hail stones shatter against glass,
the shardes fly throught my battered head
till my eyes close wearily escaping
in sleep.
Tell me when its over and passed
that the clouds part and once again sunshine.
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Sleep.
I want to cry myself to sleep
but my mind keeps thinking
of my short comings,
and
just how crap I am,
and of my dead mother
how we never mention her.
Tonight I need someone to talk to
but
the shadows remain silent.
Tomorrow will be too late
when the sun comes up
my tears will have deid.
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The Beast
A dark beast lurks through the city of Amsterdam,
roaming the narrow lanes quite as a slaughtered
lamb.
By the grave of water wild it comes upone a empty street
to see the empty midnight world lying bare at its feet.
Its thick black coat glints as it paws its way
with smooth strides steadily sealing its say.
And with
candel light gleaming on its sharp teeth
It grins engrossed in the warm waiting heath.
As the rain and I
stop to watch this beast's prowl,
I wonder why its scared others with its scowl
But for no mater, for if in company
I'd been,
this sight I may not have seen.
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