If I was a thought I would choose to sail –
On the shallow seas of young minds that loose and fail,
Confined by confinement; in a prisoner’s shoes in jail.
Minds accused to ail as patients of eternal sickness in abuse’s tale.
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If I was a thought I would choose to be planted –
Root-deep and fertilized in the mentally – bruised and demented
And refuse to leave centred the power of a foreign enemy
Exchanging blows with false reality close to falling sanity
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If I was a thought I would build sacred temples –
Within souls where hatred settles as the devil’s naked samples.
In your grey thinking matter I’d give rise to vagrant rebels.
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If I was a thought in blindness’ mind I’d cry for support
To rearrange the purpose of chaos in the life that we have got.
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If I was a thought I’d fill holes in empty places –
Where colds roam through broken windows to kill souls of angry faces.
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If I was a thought I’d be no accidental idea-
Built on luck and co incidence, harassed and strangled by fear
But a self- mental pioneer;
A thought of revolution’s emotions in motion to settle right here.
(Pointing to the head)
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If I was a thought
Apollo
He looked at me with deep set eyes.
His bow line pulled to a vibration.
Never have I met such a person. Even if he was a god.
Many called him a ‘lesser†god because of his devotion towards poetry and music.
Never has anyone seen him as the god who keeps us all alive.
The warm, yellow sun is his burning to please us, mere humanity, with his presence.
He once showed himself to me, a mere mortal.
He was enveloped in a halo of yellow light.
He walked towards me on his sandals made of mere goat’s leather.
His humbleness was penetrating my heart.
He wore an insignificant ivory white tunic.
His body was glimmering, but it was not as impressive as the other god’s.
On his back, in gold and silver, a bound book of poetry.
Handwritten in silver ink.
In his hands were a wood bow, with fine, gentle insignias of suns and words.
A quiver of arrows, each with a white feather of pure truth attached to it.
If he has to use violence, he will do so with dignity.
He walked towards me once more, I looked in pure astonishment.
He changed shape.
He was now in a pair of blue jeans,
A pair of black and white sneakers
And a red and blue check shirt.
He looked like a normal person.
He wore reading glasses.
Like a normal person.
The bow and arrow still in his hands,
He shot a single shot into the man behind me,
A gun in his hands, he was about to kill me.
My own poetry book in front of me,
A single line in silver,
“Don’t stop writing, it helped me in life.
Sincerely, Apollo.â€
Ode To The Gale
The nightingale asked
“How Strong is this branch?
If I added some weight would it buckle?â€
The tree answered back
“How strong is your faith?
If I added some weight would it crumble?â€
Subtle? Yes, but no-one knows this tree is waiting to dance
brandish these feathered scales with these gales in its branch.
Stands alone on its hilltop in an obsidian trance,
subtly it jests ready to let this mantis eat from its plans,
run through this again,
I don’t get where it’s gone, how do I give her a chance?
Fans these pages in the moonlight, soon they tangoed
in a fit of romance,
the tree with the nightingale and his faith in her hands.
Face in the feathers of fire, finally singed,
while the tree drifts away leaving the night to sing.
Ringing on her perch above this spinning globe and longing to be allowed in,
bring with a star in the eye of a child or offer us hope then.
The branch is getting weary, these nightingales already asleep,
amongst all the foliage while the tree is comatose we can hear them argue between…
The nightingale who asked
“How Strong is this branch?
If I added some weight would it buckle?â€
And the tree who answered back
“How strong is your faith?
If I added some weight would it crumble?â€
Tweet, tweet, sings the gale, pale with a million mouths to feed.
Heed this summer comes to show there’s only one apple between all of these leaves.
Pleads to the hive, how to disguise the withering fruit in its cheeks.
Why oh why wonder to squander your wealth?
Is it really safe to ponder upon the roots of your health?
Tell the sun the moons dying, the sky replies that this morning is made out of ice.
Winter in a wonderland in a land only in this nightingales eyes.
Burning from cold, growing old in this bland state of reprise.
If ashes were to ashes as dust to dust,
you might realise,
the tree and the gale are both us.
Looking in the mirror everyday but never seeing within,
every-time that reflection stares us down we must remember to sing!
I asked myself
“How strong are my branches?
If I added some weight would they buckle?â€
My reflection answered back
“How strong is your faith?
If I added some weight would it crumble?â€
