End of Season
quietly
watching for whistle of wing
through bloody sunset
mirrored in home lagoon
cold of the double
chills blued fingers
autumn breath
lives briefly
in frozen air
The Sun Sleeper
He sleeps on
There on his bench
in the thin city sun
as others hurry past him
doing the things that they must do.
Swells of traffic noise
break over him
like ocean waves
that try to wake a rock
Few see
those who do
care little
He sponges in the warmth
its free
night will bring
somnambulant walk
with a paper bagged
bottle of blanket
tucked firmly under his arm.
His only armour against the cold
But for now
he sleeps
to the beat of the sun.
Dream of the Middle Aged Man
There is a rope
coiled neatly
hanging
on the wall of the shed
in the back of his head
There is a branch
reaching out
from the tree
in the park
in a corner of his thoughts
There is a night
waiting
on the path
of his future
in the possibilities of his mind.
Peter Tremain. I am a 48 year old Australian Baby Boomer. I started writing seriously two years ago when my 28 year marriage fell apart. At present, I have no more mental problems than the average Western male, traumatised by life in 2001. However, I was diagnosed with mild reactive depression just after my marriage failed. To me, it was bad and I am OK now. But it made me think, that if this is mild depression, what are those other poor bastards with Bipolar going through?
I work for a university providing Learning Skills services to Australian Aboriginal and students, mainly in the field of Natural and Cultural resource management. I see first hand the effects dispossession has on Indigenous peoples. The incidence of mental illness, alcohol and drug abuse, along with all the other associated social problems, in Australian Aboriginal people is the highest in the Western World. This should be a source of deep shame for my country.
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
Thursday, November 01, 2001
Rick Parsons
Scrapbook from Fiji
Drift back into nostalgic photos: a coral-fringed
beach where time seems to stop, framed against
the sunset sky; the sensual native who cleanses
inhibition in heathen springs of undressed sunlight.
Many journeys begin in his eyes. I find myself
traveling into them again. A drunken sailor lost
on the sordid side of town, wondering if past
could swirl into future.
Let me wash upon his tawny shores
in waves of whirlpool tongues
and untethered tides, intertwining and writhing
in the currents of the rocky straits below his navel.
Undertows flow in unison to beating tribal drums,
drifting on rushes of wind in a warm tropical shower.
Eyes on fire with the exhilaration of dolphins arching high in the air.
Let me quench this thirst with untamed water,
touch his cheek again like gentle rain.
Let us be lovers who kiss in the setting sun
as it blankets the ocean,
says goodnight, then slips away.
Come. Lie down beside me,
and whisper my name.
Portfolio in the Rain
I remember the final days of the monsoon best.
The exotic spirits and pills rained down his throat,
sloshed his mind in sludgy splatters of murk.
The camera remembered him best posed
on the toilet, head tilted over his shoulder,
mouth drooled open, shorts around his ankles;
a knockout on the runway floor.
He wouldn't remember that photo shoot
taken during another blackout.
A shaken and rattled slur, he couldn't
even open his eyes. I tried to sober him up
with caffeinated cups of goodbye,
thick skinned and bitter from brewing too long.
I remember the final days of the monsoon best.
His eyes were still closed as he stormed down
the flights of my twelve step stares.
That's when he stumbled into the door
on his way out, the locks changed
like last years overrated styles.
Hemispheres Part Two
Hemispheres were him, hothouse landscapes
where night hid from day and tiny creatures
of the psyche ran through hot-blood terrain.
I walked along edges
of southern tectonic plates,
fed on jungle fruit, touched each leaf
with soft desire. My own roots grew
in sultry, steamy twilight.
I dared to terra form chaotic coasts,
strained to tame a reckless planet.
I planted my seed and like God,
tried to create Man in My image.
Flora sprouted despite ensuing chills.
A father's cruel, frigid care fluttered
over a child's horizons; coursed across
shifting surfaces where love branched out.
He took shelter in my embrace,
then claimed my offshoots overshadowed him.
He did not realize his duality cracked
the final fissures, erupted slow volcanic waves.
I pulled up roots, brushed off dirt,
walked away from the hemispheres
that were him.
Rick Parsons: I have dabbled in the many fine arts of post traumatic stress, miscellaneous phobias, anxiety attacks, but my forte and true calling has been depression. I work as a veterinary technician, live with eight cats whose souls are to mine as child is to mother. I deal daily with the effects of ankylosing spondylitis. Writing poetry, in my opinion, seems to be a bit of insanity in itself. I hear voices inside my head and write down what they are telling me. Some voices are a child, some a beating heart, while the origin of other voices seems to be bits and pieces of subconscious thoughts jumping out at me from the dark, lonely corners of the mind..
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
Drift back into nostalgic photos: a coral-fringed
beach where time seems to stop, framed against
the sunset sky; the sensual native who cleanses
inhibition in heathen springs of undressed sunlight.
Many journeys begin in his eyes. I find myself
traveling into them again. A drunken sailor lost
on the sordid side of town, wondering if past
could swirl into future.
Let me wash upon his tawny shores
in waves of whirlpool tongues
and untethered tides, intertwining and writhing
in the currents of the rocky straits below his navel.
Undertows flow in unison to beating tribal drums,
drifting on rushes of wind in a warm tropical shower.
Eyes on fire with the exhilaration of dolphins arching high in the air.
Let me quench this thirst with untamed water,
touch his cheek again like gentle rain.
Let us be lovers who kiss in the setting sun
as it blankets the ocean,
says goodnight, then slips away.
Come. Lie down beside me,
and whisper my name.
Portfolio in the Rain
I remember the final days of the monsoon best.
The exotic spirits and pills rained down his throat,
sloshed his mind in sludgy splatters of murk.
The camera remembered him best posed
on the toilet, head tilted over his shoulder,
mouth drooled open, shorts around his ankles;
a knockout on the runway floor.
He wouldn't remember that photo shoot
taken during another blackout.
A shaken and rattled slur, he couldn't
even open his eyes. I tried to sober him up
with caffeinated cups of goodbye,
thick skinned and bitter from brewing too long.
I remember the final days of the monsoon best.
His eyes were still closed as he stormed down
the flights of my twelve step stares.
That's when he stumbled into the door
on his way out, the locks changed
like last years overrated styles.
Hemispheres Part Two
Hemispheres were him, hothouse landscapes
where night hid from day and tiny creatures
of the psyche ran through hot-blood terrain.
I walked along edges
of southern tectonic plates,
fed on jungle fruit, touched each leaf
with soft desire. My own roots grew
in sultry, steamy twilight.
I dared to terra form chaotic coasts,
strained to tame a reckless planet.
I planted my seed and like God,
tried to create Man in My image.
Flora sprouted despite ensuing chills.
A father's cruel, frigid care fluttered
over a child's horizons; coursed across
shifting surfaces where love branched out.
He took shelter in my embrace,
then claimed my offshoots overshadowed him.
He did not realize his duality cracked
the final fissures, erupted slow volcanic waves.
I pulled up roots, brushed off dirt,
walked away from the hemispheres
that were him.
Rick Parsons: I have dabbled in the many fine arts of post traumatic stress, miscellaneous phobias, anxiety attacks, but my forte and true calling has been depression. I work as a veterinary technician, live with eight cats whose souls are to mine as child is to mother. I deal daily with the effects of ankylosing spondylitis. Writing poetry, in my opinion, seems to be a bit of insanity in itself. I hear voices inside my head and write down what they are telling me. Some voices are a child, some a beating heart, while the origin of other voices seems to be bits and pieces of subconscious thoughts jumping out at me from the dark, lonely corners of the mind..
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
Karen Herring
Kevorkian Theory
Twenty years, twenty long years
I've shared with you
and now
I am astonished. Your suggestion?
A gun for protection. Good one!
Place it in the nightstand close at hand,
next to the rope strangling my vibrator.
Does it hurt?
Sometimes when I think,
razor blades slice the time from my watch.
Warm weather friends gather around my stove.
to smell the fumes of apple strudel. They wait
for my crust to crumble,
to fall, as they pretend
to wipe my product from their hands.
Think of me as Mr. Ed.
I broke a leg. Stuff me like Trigger, quick
and easy. A hair behind the ear and sound
is clearly defined.
I need my eyes to know the final scene.
This story-book page stuck between
the last two sheets of verse.
I'm sleepy from the singsong rhyme
on this bro ken record.
Skipping past the hopscotch.
I'll take a double, please.
Make it two,
in a shattered glass, slightly shaken-
stirred like curiosity.
My father and his father too
wore a bible-bandage, a tourniquet
that never worked for me. This mind,
my head
lags
in a place far behind a bed used once.
It's all the whore-moans, I'm sure.
I'm different from the average bear.
Much like a beaver ensnared, one foot
beyond madness I gnaw this chain,
impaired, this wilderness will never accept me
as I am, so will I ever be.
Doctor do little,
but please
do it right.
Off With Her Head!
The Man's foot sends me come-
hither, uncomely, to bleach
my hair and put on makeup
for a new lover
and a new bed,
outside he waits for me.
I'm Alice
and Alice doesn't sing.
She'd rather chase rabbits and Time.
A tea party if you will she won't, don't ask.
A Cheshire cat-
her front,
her back; a mirror
of very unbirthdays.
She breathes in her sleep.
I sleep when I breathe,
it's not the same thing.
"Then you should say what you mean."
Says a cardboard queen
who reads her own poetry
then swoons.
I can walk away and away
and surely
I'll be somewhere.
I can fall and fall
for two days wrong,
strong as eggshell
bumped and shattered,
pre-splattered, well humped
and believe her-me,
horses do not have hands.
Then again, sure, why not?
Missing pieces, reserved spots,
even donuts have holes and they're sweet.
With Time I'll be two miles high
and the lowing of cows will take
the place of Mock turtle sobs
and all
will be long ago and this day
all but forgotten. Come,
my head's free at last!
The Fury of Anne (In memory of Anne Sexton)
Someone's writing poetry.
Passionate, backward
swirls of blood
across each windowpane.
Inside the pea-green house,
I saw a shadow pass,
heard a laugh
and knew it was God.
I tried catching snow
to show you.
Left to my touch
these two oven mitts
destroy the flake's beauty.
Even my dumb tongue
won't describe the taste.
I know the Nana-hex
as if it were mine,
and I know God.
Little lights encircle my air,
fire-flies strobe their butts
while buttercup whispers stutter
awkward news. I'm deaf, dumb, blind.
At thirty eight,
I'm told of eight distant cousins
dead from the too-late disease
that took you,
that wants me.
I'm nine, ten, eleven,
and twelve forever.
A good week is filled with poetry.
God is on my plate, my dish, my spoon.
God is on my pillow, my sheet.
God is on the stairs, each chair.
In my dresser drawer,
Anne's empty notebook sleeps.
God is not there.
Karen Herring: I refuse to write this in third person due to the inability to keep the first person intact. I haven't written poetry in a couple of years but my mind and speech have never ceased. Diagnosed and treated I have become braver with my ability to "submit" my poetry and hopefully will begin writing again. I have over 200 poems and a book ready to be published. (I chickened out two years ago with a publisher.) After reading the poetry published here in "Poetrysz" I feel like there is a place for what I have to say.
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
Twenty years, twenty long years
I've shared with you
and now
I am astonished. Your suggestion?
A gun for protection. Good one!
Place it in the nightstand close at hand,
next to the rope strangling my vibrator.
Does it hurt?
Sometimes when I think,
razor blades slice the time from my watch.
Warm weather friends gather around my stove.
to smell the fumes of apple strudel. They wait
for my crust to crumble,
to fall, as they pretend
to wipe my product from their hands.
Think of me as Mr. Ed.
I broke a leg. Stuff me like Trigger, quick
and easy. A hair behind the ear and sound
is clearly defined.
I need my eyes to know the final scene.
This story-book page stuck between
the last two sheets of verse.
I'm sleepy from the singsong rhyme
on this bro ken record.
Skipping past the hopscotch.
I'll take a double, please.
Make it two,
in a shattered glass, slightly shaken-
stirred like curiosity.
My father and his father too
wore a bible-bandage, a tourniquet
that never worked for me. This mind,
my head
lags
in a place far behind a bed used once.
It's all the whore-moans, I'm sure.
I'm different from the average bear.
Much like a beaver ensnared, one foot
beyond madness I gnaw this chain,
impaired, this wilderness will never accept me
as I am, so will I ever be.
Doctor do little,
but please
do it right.
Off With Her Head!
The Man's foot sends me come-
hither, uncomely, to bleach
my hair and put on makeup
for a new lover
and a new bed,
outside he waits for me.
I'm Alice
and Alice doesn't sing.
She'd rather chase rabbits and Time.
A tea party if you will she won't, don't ask.
A Cheshire cat-
her front,
her back; a mirror
of very unbirthdays.
She breathes in her sleep.
I sleep when I breathe,
it's not the same thing.
"Then you should say what you mean."
Says a cardboard queen
who reads her own poetry
then swoons.
I can walk away and away
and surely
I'll be somewhere.
I can fall and fall
for two days wrong,
strong as eggshell
bumped and shattered,
pre-splattered, well humped
and believe her-me,
horses do not have hands.
Then again, sure, why not?
Missing pieces, reserved spots,
even donuts have holes and they're sweet.
With Time I'll be two miles high
and the lowing of cows will take
the place of Mock turtle sobs
and all
will be long ago and this day
all but forgotten. Come,
my head's free at last!
The Fury of Anne (In memory of Anne Sexton)
Someone's writing poetry.
Passionate, backward
swirls of blood
across each windowpane.
Inside the pea-green house,
I saw a shadow pass,
heard a laugh
and knew it was God.
I tried catching snow
to show you.
Left to my touch
these two oven mitts
destroy the flake's beauty.
Even my dumb tongue
won't describe the taste.
I know the Nana-hex
as if it were mine,
and I know God.
Little lights encircle my air,
fire-flies strobe their butts
while buttercup whispers stutter
awkward news. I'm deaf, dumb, blind.
At thirty eight,
I'm told of eight distant cousins
dead from the too-late disease
that took you,
that wants me.
I'm nine, ten, eleven,
and twelve forever.
A good week is filled with poetry.
God is on my plate, my dish, my spoon.
God is on my pillow, my sheet.
God is on the stairs, each chair.
In my dresser drawer,
Anne's empty notebook sleeps.
God is not there.
Karen Herring: I refuse to write this in third person due to the inability to keep the first person intact. I haven't written poetry in a couple of years but my mind and speech have never ceased. Diagnosed and treated I have become braver with my ability to "submit" my poetry and hopefully will begin writing again. I have over 200 poems and a book ready to be published. (I chickened out two years ago with a publisher.) After reading the poetry published here in "Poetrysz" I feel like there is a place for what I have to say.
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
Joe Hackworth
Making A Fist
(for Jacob)
Tucked in, discussing Disney
and Mufasa's demise,
bright eyes turn for an instant
serious
and dark.
I wouldn't let you
get killed, he said.
I'd make a fist
and punch the whole world back.
Later my champion lies
in a blanket of innocence,
the day's events playing quiet games
at the corners of his mouth.
I stroke each fragile finger
knowing how he felt -
willing to fight for love
but with more fear.
Each day I stand
fist drawn back,
ready to swing and miss.
I am small
in the face
of enormity -
a toy pistol cocked and aimed
at a world that would take
that smile.
Introvert Exposed
He is a man who walks the world
with cautious poise and ever present watching.
Who, when he is alone
finds himself
able to dance,
arms akimbo, doing a jig
just for the hell of it.
Joe Hackworth: I was diagnosed in 1989 with Depression, Obsessive/Compulsive and Panic/Anxiety disorders. I have yet to find the right doctor or medication, but the search goes on. Obladi, Oblada.
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
(for Jacob)
Tucked in, discussing Disney
and Mufasa's demise,
bright eyes turn for an instant
serious
and dark.
I wouldn't let you
get killed, he said.
I'd make a fist
and punch the whole world back.
Later my champion lies
in a blanket of innocence,
the day's events playing quiet games
at the corners of his mouth.
I stroke each fragile finger
knowing how he felt -
willing to fight for love
but with more fear.
Each day I stand
fist drawn back,
ready to swing and miss.
I am small
in the face
of enormity -
a toy pistol cocked and aimed
at a world that would take
that smile.
Introvert Exposed
He is a man who walks the world
with cautious poise and ever present watching.
Who, when he is alone
finds himself
able to dance,
arms akimbo, doing a jig
just for the hell of it.
Joe Hackworth: I was diagnosed in 1989 with Depression, Obsessive/Compulsive and Panic/Anxiety disorders. I have yet to find the right doctor or medication, but the search goes on. Obladi, Oblada.
K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth
Sunday, July 01, 2001
Rachel Harper Joseph
(faith)
The line that leads the eye
from the thin-boned foot
to the birdwing gap...
(step right up and listen close)
"Observe your God
in seven by two
by two
Contained."
(the sign said "Come See Christ On Fire")
I slipped my ticket
under my tongue
and took a seat
by the tentpole.
(Save This Coupon #47305)
In the darkened tent
a naked man
is kept asleep
in a case of glass
(the line that leads from head to waist)
His eyes are glued shut--
not sleeping.
His arms weigh nothing.
And that is all of the show.
The man down front
(call him turtle, if you will)
is the first to move
in an hour of silence
(wrappers, coughing, murmurs, sighs)
He lifts his bulk
from the folding chair
and stamps his foot,
enraged.
A wrinkled woman
(who hasn't won the lottery, in all these years)
clutches her bag
and spits out:
"Pisspots! Fraud!"
They tear up their tickets and leave.
(Sa Th Cou #472)....
The disappointed crowd
surges out of the tent
while the talker smokes cigarettes
under the stairs.
Alone, in the dark
an hour of silence
( )
I rise and walk to the case..
a fishline is thread
from cheekbone to brow
(I see now, that it's not really glue)
but he is awake
and he sees me...
(I am as simple as vertical travel)
An inch from the glass
my breath becomes white
I place my hands
on the front of the case
(faith)
they come back
minus some skin.
Rachel Harper Joseph is a scenic artist from Philadelphia, PA.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
The line that leads the eye
from the thin-boned foot
to the birdwing gap...
(step right up and listen close)
"Observe your God
in seven by two
by two
Contained."
(the sign said "Come See Christ On Fire")
I slipped my ticket
under my tongue
and took a seat
by the tentpole.
(Save This Coupon #47305)
In the darkened tent
a naked man
is kept asleep
in a case of glass
(the line that leads from head to waist)
His eyes are glued shut--
not sleeping.
His arms weigh nothing.
And that is all of the show.
The man down front
(call him turtle, if you will)
is the first to move
in an hour of silence
(wrappers, coughing, murmurs, sighs)
He lifts his bulk
from the folding chair
and stamps his foot,
enraged.
A wrinkled woman
(who hasn't won the lottery, in all these years)
clutches her bag
and spits out:
"Pisspots! Fraud!"
They tear up their tickets and leave.
(Sa Th Cou #472)....
The disappointed crowd
surges out of the tent
while the talker smokes cigarettes
under the stairs.
Alone, in the dark
an hour of silence
( )
I rise and walk to the case..
a fishline is thread
from cheekbone to brow
(I see now, that it's not really glue)
but he is awake
and he sees me...
(I am as simple as vertical travel)
An inch from the glass
my breath becomes white
I place my hands
on the front of the case
(faith)
they come back
minus some skin.
Rachel Harper Joseph is a scenic artist from Philadelphia, PA.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
Colin Van Der Woude
Her
I can hear the music cats play
melodies and harmony
sacred notes in disarray
a chorus plucked from a broken piano choir
a choir of haunted souls
The enchantress of unholy salvation
purifier of thought
pontifical to a God of love
Mirrored minds the son of thee
disappearing twisting images
My mind outcasts friends
and mends broken ends
Colin Van Der Woude: I'm a 24 year old writer from Tassie Australia...was diagnosed with a mental illness at the tender age of 14...I write about thoughts and experiences, mainly at night when I'm too tired to reach for a pen. I have written poetry since the age of 15, a year after being diagnosed with Schizophrenia... used to also be an artist but my creativity in that area was "haloperidolised" and I gave up painting a year ago. Writing is now my main creative outlet.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
I can hear the music cats play
melodies and harmony
sacred notes in disarray
a chorus plucked from a broken piano choir
a choir of haunted souls
The enchantress of unholy salvation
purifier of thought
pontifical to a God of love
Mirrored minds the son of thee
disappearing twisting images
My mind outcasts friends
and mends broken ends
Colin Van Der Woude: I'm a 24 year old writer from Tassie Australia...was diagnosed with a mental illness at the tender age of 14...I write about thoughts and experiences, mainly at night when I'm too tired to reach for a pen. I have written poetry since the age of 15, a year after being diagnosed with Schizophrenia... used to also be an artist but my creativity in that area was "haloperidolised" and I gave up painting a year ago. Writing is now my main creative outlet.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
William Cannon
same lives from different views
a thousand a day cross this path
(exaggeration, perhaps-fluke)
dump the marbles over the Verrazano
no need to keep the little time
spent sitting still, sitting-trapped
against her large buxom hips
every ghost's trip
when finally it's won
they pull at my arms and clinch my hand
as an excited child does
at first entering an amusement park
abandoned again along the skyline drive
I was once so curious
I was once, at one time, so eager
Now my splitting head…
Moves me back
Measured.
Sunken.
Downhill.
Some one
Capture this
William Cannon: I am 26 years old and have been published in a couple of minor e-zines. I've been writing for 12 years and am aware of my voice and my target audience. I am the pronunciation of a new generation. My will is to free association with all that's around me. I want unadorned realization. I want to be scared and yet readily accept my environment. I want to change the mainstream from being pleasant greeting cards to altruistic consideration, not in verse but action.
The writers of the gospels claimed to be under divination when writing; I too know not where my structure forms but am deeply compelled to develop the passages I find before me. I take my craft very seriously, I am an artist granted the privilege of communication. My medium is the English language and all its various slang; the life of mine is given purpose.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
a thousand a day cross this path
(exaggeration, perhaps-fluke)
dump the marbles over the Verrazano
no need to keep the little time
spent sitting still, sitting-trapped
against her large buxom hips
every ghost's trip
when finally it's won
they pull at my arms and clinch my hand
as an excited child does
at first entering an amusement park
abandoned again along the skyline drive
I was once so curious
I was once, at one time, so eager
Now my splitting head…
Moves me back
Measured.
Sunken.
Downhill.
Some one
Capture this
William Cannon: I am 26 years old and have been published in a couple of minor e-zines. I've been writing for 12 years and am aware of my voice and my target audience. I am the pronunciation of a new generation. My will is to free association with all that's around me. I want unadorned realization. I want to be scared and yet readily accept my environment. I want to change the mainstream from being pleasant greeting cards to altruistic consideration, not in verse but action.
The writers of the gospels claimed to be under divination when writing; I too know not where my structure forms but am deeply compelled to develop the passages I find before me. I take my craft very seriously, I am an artist granted the privilege of communication. My medium is the English language and all its various slang; the life of mine is given purpose.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
Rae Burton
The Insecure World of The Blind Clown
Keep on digging up brand new ideas
facing the day of hell on earth which is New Year's Eve
Locked up with no chance of parole or receiving visitors
then comes the day when all emotions disappear for good.
I never realised i was in hell until it was too late
but we all live in one kind of hell
You can't go outside to play when it's pouring with rain
because there are more puddles than jackets.
I watched the explorer once as he was exploring
i could run fast but he could always run much faster
And i screamed aloud but he could always scream louder
now i am walking down this lonely road alone.
Desperation has once again entered into my life
if i listen hard enough i can hear God laughing at me
Sometimes it's as if even the poetry seems incomplete
maybe i finally have become my own worst enemy.
Why work when you can play?
if you think you know the real me sorry you don't,
When it isn't good but as good as it's ever going to get
with 456 poems written ten times over.
I'm never what you expect to see
what monsters in my head giving false answers weekly,
Acts of pure weakness hang around like smells from a lavatory
eyes see but not always the truth.
it is possible to live without knowing it
kiss the wind and those liars play their cruel games,
One day every answer will show itself loud and clear
for now i believe this game is real.
Every one of us born with a killing instinct
as mighty as the devil can make a sound,
The truth hurts me like a knife deep in my soul
life is a cruel game and i must find the missing link.
Rae Burton: I am 30 years old and i suffered a nervous breakdown a few years ago which lead to a few problems but it also brought a new strength to my writing as i find it easier writing down my thoughts and feelings than actually speaking. Although i am no longer considered at risk to myself and no longer have to hear the b.s my shrink threw at me the thought of suicide goes through my mind everyday but i have learned to fight it.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
Keep on digging up brand new ideas
facing the day of hell on earth which is New Year's Eve
Locked up with no chance of parole or receiving visitors
then comes the day when all emotions disappear for good.
I never realised i was in hell until it was too late
but we all live in one kind of hell
You can't go outside to play when it's pouring with rain
because there are more puddles than jackets.
I watched the explorer once as he was exploring
i could run fast but he could always run much faster
And i screamed aloud but he could always scream louder
now i am walking down this lonely road alone.
Desperation has once again entered into my life
if i listen hard enough i can hear God laughing at me
Sometimes it's as if even the poetry seems incomplete
maybe i finally have become my own worst enemy.
Why work when you can play?
if you think you know the real me sorry you don't,
When it isn't good but as good as it's ever going to get
with 456 poems written ten times over.
I'm never what you expect to see
what monsters in my head giving false answers weekly,
Acts of pure weakness hang around like smells from a lavatory
eyes see but not always the truth.
it is possible to live without knowing it
kiss the wind and those liars play their cruel games,
One day every answer will show itself loud and clear
for now i believe this game is real.
Every one of us born with a killing instinct
as mighty as the devil can make a sound,
The truth hurts me like a knife deep in my soul
life is a cruel game and i must find the missing link.
Rae Burton: I am 30 years old and i suffered a nervous breakdown a few years ago which lead to a few problems but it also brought a new strength to my writing as i find it easier writing down my thoughts and feelings than actually speaking. Although i am no longer considered at risk to myself and no longer have to hear the b.s my shrink threw at me the thought of suicide goes through my mind everyday but i have learned to fight it.
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
Peter Wilson
The Unspoken Word
The enthusiasm of a sentimental kind
Full-dressed in broad daylight
A splendid mendacity distinguished in fashion
Is a toil of a faithful companion
The undertones of a half world
In the midst of surroundings
Where sweet idle lies flows the spring of sorrow
A mere form of words within the breast of sympathy
There is the toil without formality
A silver plate neither rhyme nor reason
Of words spoken at a shadow
Peculiar to itself, there are tears for things
Work and play, love and hate are one and all of the same
It will be pleasant to recall this some day
Diamond cuts diamond, ignorant by ignorance
A fallacious debate through adversity to the stars
A potential existence in empty space
I know not what; it doesn't follow
Everything unknown come in! Tomorrow
How do I know? What does it matter?
It's pleasant to play the fool sometimes, while I breathe
Peter Wilson: Fellow schizophrenic and poet
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson
The enthusiasm of a sentimental kind
Full-dressed in broad daylight
A splendid mendacity distinguished in fashion
Is a toil of a faithful companion
The undertones of a half world
In the midst of surroundings
Where sweet idle lies flows the spring of sorrow
A mere form of words within the breast of sympathy
There is the toil without formality
A silver plate neither rhyme nor reason
Of words spoken at a shadow
Peculiar to itself, there are tears for things
Work and play, love and hate are one and all of the same
It will be pleasant to recall this some day
Diamond cuts diamond, ignorant by ignorance
A fallacious debate through adversity to the stars
A potential existence in empty space
I know not what; it doesn't follow
Everything unknown come in! Tomorrow
How do I know? What does it matter?
It's pleasant to play the fool sometimes, while I breathe
Peter Wilson: Fellow schizophrenic and poet
Rachel Harper Joseph Colin Van Der Woude William Cannon Rae Burton Peter Wilson