Tick... Timeless poetry collection

Saturn (mythology)

Saturn (Latin: Saturnus) was a god in ancient Roman religion and a character in myth. Saturn is a complex figure because of his multiple associations and long history. He was the first god of the Capitol, known since the most ancient times as Saturnius Mons and was seen as a god of generation, dissolution, plenty, wealth, agriculture, periodical renewal and liberation. In later developments he came to be also a god of time. His reign was depicted as a Golden Age of abundance and peace.

Stolen Tock

Tick...tock... tick...tock...tick...

"Martha, the clocks broken again. Martha!"

"Coming Mr. Saturn, you’re looking rather well today"

"Yeah, really because that's what they all say, 20 years ago I still had a full set of hair and my own gosh damn teeth"

"Come now Mr. Saturn, you’re in a great condition for your age"

"At least I outlived that wretched clock"

"But it was a gift from your wife"

"And time stole her from me too didn't it... Martha on second thought leave the clock broken.”

"Yes Mr. Saturn"

Heart through the ages

Let me not fritter away like love that hasn’t arrived

 Away as the sands that through your hour glass spills

And bury what heart that hath in fact surely survived

Or gather in the gloom or in the sullen stills

The yearning youth of your bravest years and best me

For until then I as the antebellum shall remain

As the oceans lonely barrage and waves of the sea,

The memories of lost lover’s brush and day dreams pain

 So forget my existence, fear me no more

than The reap of tomorrow and silvery curls

 So quicken at the world and its plentiful store

And let the aging of sands be made into pearls

 Let me not, held in contempt, be driven

 I am the gift and you choose what is given

Time makes fools of us all

   July 21 1969

 To Julian Saturn

Dear Julian, the world is changing so quickly. It was not but yesterday that they launched the first manned rocket into space. As I write to you by now I am probably on board a ship crossing the Pacific. It’s hard how less than ten years ago the television was still a stream of electrical ink that would move with its own madness. How it’s already been 20 years since I was stationed in Guadalcanal and most of the men I would drink with into the early morn have hardened into cantankerous old men like myself and got hitched on a chance we’d never make it out. I miss those days; the simple times that brought people together, I may not have aged well or wised up to the new confounded contraptions of the world, but my life has been an adventure and I have reaped the fruits that I have sown.

Hope to see you soon

Mr Saturn

The boys of Guadalcanal

“All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That’s how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day. You had a bad day once. Am I right? You had a bad day and everything changed. It wasn’t your choice though now was it. That little wall lurker that chimes back and forth, he’s the one that makes it all up as we go along. He calls the shots. Speaking of which would you like a glass?”

“Yeah, you got to stop hogging the bottle Roday, we don’t got much left and I’m dammed sure it’s what’s helping us pass time in this dammed jungle. Listen to you going off your rocker. We are here simply because of circumstance and our own choice, nothing more.”

Day dreamer

Dear diary

Not much happened today, I sat down in the comfort of my office chair, l worked for 6 hours, maybe a bit less with slacking and coffee breaks. I fear I am bored. Something’s missing. Maybe the milk was off or the familiar smell of that cheap carpet has finally got to me. I can’t quit nail it to the wall but it hangs around like the names of all those people I helped process mail for like J.Johnson and R. Saturn.  Busy people with busy lives. I sometimes wonder what these people are doing with their lives that someone wants to hear from them. It makes me consider what have I done with mine, why am I not writing letters to someone? Then again I think it could have just been the milk that’s upset me.

Wuthering sands

“Just shut up and kiss me!” she said

                          As

                  A

                        Tear

                                  Trickled down her face.

“Don’t cry Julian” he said

                                             Carefully wiping

                                                             The pain from her face

I’ll be back from Guadalcanal in a few weeks

 we won’t be                                apart                               we will be

                                                                                                                  Together

                                                                                                      Again

She smiles silently. By

                       The time you return                                

                                                                                               I will be gone

Decadence and Hedonism

Maybe a little bit tired. try writing a 14 page English essay and walk away like you have the world under your arm. Not easy but manageable. It was rather a laugh. Contemplating the ability to cheat with 4 people unsupervised locked in a room for 3 hours to write. Slavery! at it's finest. Finally know what the monkeys that churned out Shakespeare felt like. Then again the afternoon is just going to be more work as I start winding it up for exams. No time for much else. I also learned a new word I love learning a new word -Decadence. 

Make it two, lets talk Hedonism.

Writing to the scythes

The thing about writing and starting is that if you have a story, it does not suddenly appear in a stroke genius. It does not burst forth like bullet from a gun. It does not materialize on your lips like winters mist. It's a journey that's cultured and developed in the heart and soul. Yet it will remain rooted there forever unless the scythe of courage tears it free. A story needs to be violently up heaved to blossom in the violent light of the public. Don't be afraid be bold and let your story twist unexpectedly.

The startling truth

In reality iv been negligent in my approach to a hard edit for my work but the pieces are coming together. I believe the hardest challenge for me at this point is addition of meaningful content  that does not feel like a botched surgery, does not take away and in fact adds a much desired depth to my characters while keeping my word count down.

Mothers Day

Among the proceeding morning madness of mothers day and the over invigorated sense of capitalism still adrift in the air what more could you ask for that to have a German grandma drinking vodka shots at afternoon lunch. Not much I would say to be frank, maybe having dinner stolen away for the night over a bucket of unfilled wood to warm the not so warm interior of my house. Then again I believe all in all it has been a successful mothers day

Meaningful Grey

Black bird symphony

 I write a symphony of misery

A song of the black birds who do

So sing a song of sin and sadness

Feathers of dark velvet Harold’s rain

From the sky and christen the ground

With anticipation of a new self-savoir

Being eternally scorched into the paper.

Like the melody of a mad man masquerading though life

The fires of inspiration consume their host

And I am just an observer

Looking through the window of my soul set ablaze

Listening to the instrument of my orchestra

 The ink in my pen that will one day burn dry

Leaving me in ashes.

Diluted Fairytale

An imaginary messenger. The imaginary wall in front of my eye’s which have been tainted in the many shades of black is a somewhat comical paradox to the mad. A disfigured soul of mis-intent attempting to claw his way at purity to no avail or is he the underdog.. a fairytale saviour of the Just fighting a losing battle. Misplaced he is,- in reality- The hero never wins and the night falls upon the people fast, victims of their innocence and others ignorance but all are blind in the night of their false reality. No hero’s, No villain’s just many shades of black.

 DEMONS

My soul is torn asunder by the two voices deep within. I wish I could just block them out, close my eyes and not hear their alluring voices or see their welcoming expressions, but I require them to make the hard decisions. They will always be a part of me, no matter which choices I make in this life, it won’t be free. They, the despicable duo of chaos and reason, will be forever casting double shadows on an already black and white world. To be the saint or the sinner, to lead or to follow, I possess the power to do anything through them but they are not me, I am neither the saint nor the sinner. I am a free spirit enslaved to decision.

World Drop

If I must stain my soul to obtain my desire, may I never desire something to which I shall lose myself in the process. This battered reflection which I see in this puddle of tears, shows a hollow shell of a man with the world caged in his slender twisted fingers; a frail creature with absolute power; an animal looking for a way out; a spirit that dances mockingly between the lines of sanity and reality looking for his salvation, Two keys lie before him. Shall he drop the world and find the way out or forever carry the weight of the world with him as a stained soul.

Alone I chisel

I fear I am alone, lost isolated on this mortal plane with people who know me as well as the dark side of the moon. I fear I am a monstrosity, abomination, a failure to their piercing eyes and a blight on their perfect illusion in which they live and call home. I take pride in being different but that same pride is why they mock me and the more pride I have the more depressed I become. Bordering the suicidal and severe trauma one approaches the apex of their sanity and finds bliss by encasing their heart with darkness, where the bitterest flavours of life power the tools used to chisel their impression into the fabric of this reality. These torched souls  are the lucky ones who have been pressed to breaking point and have remoulded themselves as they see fit, they are as beautiful as fine art and as deep as the ocean but most importantly they are real.

Black Throne

Sitting on a throne made of twisted metal, draped in black, I see the world stretched out before me, a barren waste land populated by monsters with an endless lust for self-destruction. Walking contradictions that preach of righteous acts to be done but indulge in their own covetous mannerisms. Mothers give birth to grotesque husks of a sane race bone without a spine to stand, a mind to think for themselves and all are blind to the reality of their own design but accustomed to practising their foul ways. And amongst the madness I am the darkest shadow and the king that will never be heard.

Tree

I am a tree, I have the thickest bark to keep strangers out, my branches extend in all directions following those who give light to my life, I stand tall, no wind will trouble me, my roots burrow deep in a firm foundation, yet my leafs are black and my flowers are dead but the fruits of my labour are ripe. Who I grow these shiny orbs of pleasure for I shall never know.

Love through lust

A man searching for love is lost in thoughts of lust, forever looking to please the jewel in his vision. A jewel so fine and unique in nature that when placed in the sun it shines for only for a select few. He may never possess it but watch as his rose blossoms with crimson petals and fades to dust before his eye’s. he may never have held the rose he lust for so greatly for fear of the many thorns but to provide for his rose, nurture and give it everything needed to grow strong. Draining his youth and leaving him a shell of a man, there was nothing he could want more and that is where he found love through lust.

Corpse rose

Enriched, Dark chocolate flows through these walls, the tell tail signs that god can smirk with satisfaction. A triple sided coin of fate that gamble’s in love, lust and absolute ruination. Curls black as the sun. A roush smile that could break any man’s resolve.  A pedestal prize that does not know its own value. A delicate corpse rose of misfortune that shines in the light yet has been thrust by neither god nor fate into the darkness where no one may watch her bloom.

The lost soul

As I watch you board the bus to a better life. I stand frozen when your eye’s meet mine in an instant icy fingers glide over my body, the stars in the sky splitter and die, the spot light of her gaze making me the centre of attention. I stand with wobbly knees against the tide of indecision. My knuckles white clenched fists. I can hardly feel the thorns of a flower the skin of my hand. I take a step backwards; a sharp pain shoots through me as my soul attempts to tear its way out of this fleshy prison, enraged, aggravated and on the precipitate of defeat. It thrashes about violently refusing to be snuffed out. She takes her first step onto the bus, looks through me and with a sly grin she pats my soul out of its misery giving it comfort in its final moment with those piercing green eyes. As I stand in the dust, listening to the sound of pebbles moving under my shoe’s and the fleeting sound of your voice in the wind. I drop to one knee, lay down my flower on the grave of my soul and watch the sun begin to set on this life as you fade into memory.

 Release me from this hell

I'm still waiting, the clock ticking down, when these bars swing open I shall assume direct control, I twitch with anticipation, a wicked grin like waves against the rocks , crashing into existence for a brief moment, carrying with it a display of power that can be unmatched. The thumping of boiling blood in my prison veins, eyes fixed, I hear the sound of smooth silver. Scraping against the lock, a click in absolute silence, the lock hits the ground with a deep thump as the adrenaline hits me. I charge without caution my time is now and nothing can stop me. I am free and my goal is within reach  but as I burst forth I am met with the gaze of congenial emerald that is to be my executioner and the waves crash no more.

Sanctuary

When insanity gives way to ecstasy

And the moon drizzles into the oceans

The line of reason shall find no space

In my mind

I will be free.

The silver lining of every cloud will be forced to stand in prejudice

With or against me as thunder and rainbows simultaneously flow through my head

In an uncoordinated ballet of purity

I shall take refuge in the eye of the storm, a sanctuary

Of my own design

Within my mind

I will be free.

The performer

 As I continue to walk this trail of darkness, my vision blinded by passion. I am a wire walker without privilege. Each side represents a fall into the unknown. Death joyfully hoping in my footsteps trying to catch up to me like a child with a cheeky grin looking at candy but I can’t stop to stare death in the face without fear of submitting to those carnivorous eye’s. An inhuman emotion drives me forth: compassion. Where most have fallen to meet their ends, where the wind contorts and shrieks an ironic laugh at those who thought life was a fair game only to have had the fires of hope slowly begin to flicker and die with their indecision . I walk on- the wire cutting deep into the soul, sometimes deeper than others. The pain reminds me I am still alive and as long as I can feel pain I will walk on.

Poetry is Timeless

I despise the waiting - But I am rather going to use today's post on poetry. There is much to be said about classical poetry and the various groups such as the romantics but for those who aim to write poetry in the future there are various tips of my own experience that I can share with you. Firstly form. The form of a poem can very and an example would be E.E Cummings. (Look him up) You may find that the words you need to say can be integrated,referenced or emphasised by there position within the poem so due consider it.

Secondly look at the word choice, I have noticed a lot of want to be poets that have started using raw emotion in there poems. The use of emotions within a poem is not the problem but that it needs to be conveyed poetically rather than in a rant or story form. Look to central themes for comparisons, all kinds of advanced storeys can and should act as an antagonist pair to what is being said. Poetry is no more than words on a page so visually it needs to have an impact on what the reader see's. The use of emotion can then be highlighted by touching on the senses of the body. Lean the reader in by assimilation, if they cant relate it makes it harder for them to connect to the poem and the more advanced comparisons.

Eg of my own poetry:

 "So quicken at the world and its plentiful store

And the ageing of sands be made into pearls" - Ronald Gary Nel

Look at the words that I have chosen to display two separate storeys 

 1 The visual of pearls forming

2 The relation to time in that you can turn your time on earth into a beautiful thing, that your time had value.

3) I have even mentioned not to waste your time and that the world is full of wonders, alter referenced by pearls. 

4) Visual nature of work - World, plentiful store,ageing,sands, pearls. -A poem needs to be visual.

Hope this helped.