My Poem “Anything is possible”

Snow fell during the night –
however, when I walked out into the cold of day
I was instantly bathed in golden sunlight…
The sky above is blue without a cloud to be seen…
Within hours all of the snow will have melted
and there will not even be a flake of snow to be seen…
Some things are temporary,
some things are set in stone…
The sun has shone every day of human history
and it will continue to light the way of our future
and remind us every day that we are not alone…
Time rushes by like a raging river
and soon disappears over the edge
of a precipice like a waterfall…
Everything is constantly in a state of change
and the fact that moments do not last forever
is both sad and yet beautiful –
just as children grow before our eyes
so too does the world,
and we are lucky to live at this moment of time
when between sunrise and sunset
and between sunset and sunrise
anything is possible.

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My Poem “Poetropolis”

A city is like an ocean…
From high above a city looks so calm,
so beautiful, so shiny, so peaceful –
no matter if it is seen at night or during the day…
From far away a city shows a version of itself
that is but one of a multitude of masks that it wears
to entice visitors to it –
however, it isn’t until you
descend deeper into any city
and you are walk it’s streets,
which are in essence the veins and the arteries
of this ever talking, ever changing,
ever evolving man-made organism,
that you begin to see the side of a city
that can only be witnessed the more that you look,
the more that you listen,
and the more that you take in
that which makes every city
the dichotomy of light and dark that it is
of the visible and the invisible,
of the advertised and the disguised –
but there is always something about every city
that makes it stand out as a place
that people need to visit,
whose treasures to be found within cannot missed…
Every city, like an ocean, is made up of
those who inhabit it
and those who populate it,
and the more that you get to know
a city’s many intricately complex people
who are woven into the fabric
of a city’s multicoloured
and multifaceted tapestry
the more that you will see
the varying loose threads
and the stitches that when sewen together
make for an inspiring metropolis of poetry.

My Poem ‘Good morning, sunshine’

I’m not a song-writer,
I’m a story-teller…
I’m a believer,
but I’m not a fortune-teller…
I have been doing what I do
for longer than I can remember,
doing what I do is both a curse
and a life-saver…
if I could talk to God
I would ask him a favour:
help me, help you,
inspire the world
and give hope to the sick,
the needy, and the poor –
because that is what I want to do
and that is who I want to be…
I want to have the words within me
to change the world
and make everybody understand
that every day is like a new song
that has never been played or heard before,
and every conversation in every language
that is spoken is pure unfiltered poetry.

We all have an oasis in this world…
we all have a place on this Earth
that for us has this lure…
we all have reasons for doing
what we do between sunrise and sunset…
we all have reasons for feeling
happiness and for getting upset –
we are all thinking and feeling human-beings,
we are not unfeeling machines…
we care and we worry about personal things…
we all know what is in our heart
and we all think about “what could have been”.

We don’t have long to figure out
what we are meant to do…
growing up, sometimes we all have to go
with the flow of a tune that we don’t really know…
most of the time, if you don’t have someone else
holding you up and pushing you forward
then you can feel like you are walking
and wavering on a tight-rope
between two tent-poles.

I have been around the world…
I have met people both evil and kind…
I have been on occasion lost for words –
but since the day I met the angel,
my angel, Melissa, all I see
is true heavenly-beauty
every time I look at her face
and she says to me:
“good morning, sunshine”.

My Poem ‘Temporal’

There is something entrancing
about hearing the tick, the tock,
and the hidden but vital mechanisms
that lie within the wooden-body
and the beautiful face
of a Grandfather-clock –
every movement, every sound,
every second that goes by,
tells a story about how precious
and fleeting moments of time are…
in the silent stillness of an old house
when all that can be heard
is the echo of an old time-piece
there is always a special feeling
to be found in every instant of peace.

With time comes change,
with change comes choice,
with choice comes both
the familiar and the unknown,
and with the unknown comes an opportunity
and a responsibility to grow…
there is no changing the past,
because everything that you see
all around you is built upon its bed-rock…
you can’t change the future,
because it hasn’t happened yet –
but what you can do is allow the past
to influence, change, and inform
what and how the future will appear to you…
you cannot change what was,
but you can start to weave a new thread of change
that could potentially one day out-live you.

I see change… I see the wake
of the passage of time everywhere I look…
I see things that once were
that have been replaced
by that which is now the way things are…
I see walls that were once doors…
I see mirrors that were once windows…
I see the old making way for the new –
but the constant in the middle of everything
still remains: me…
sometimes we have to be like a chameleon
and blend into whatever background
wherever we find ourselves –
changing on the outside,
while an echo of who we are
and who we always will be looks up and out
through our eyes from down-deep.

Time flies… time forces us to leave hours,
days, months and years behind…
time does not stop, but with the gift of memory
you can make a moment last forever…
time cannot be out-run,
no matter how fast or how far you can run –
but what you can do is make the best of the time
that you have and make the most of the time
that you share with those
who truly matter the most.

My Poem ‘A Ghost’s Story’

Some people think
that ghosts are all in the mind…
some people think
that we see what we want to see…
some people think
that the stories of hauntings
are more often than not
just a bunch of lies…
some people are just unable
to entertain the possibility
of somebody continuing to live
though they may not technically be “alive”…
ghosts, spirits, people remain on Earth
and they talk to us all every day –
but sometimes not in ways
that are easy to believe.

When a human spirit leaves its corporeal life
and is set free of its physical body,
a natural change and transition occurs…
when a human heart stops beating,
another source of spirit grows stronger
and we are given a choice:
to follow our instincts
and to journey to a place
beyond human understanding and comprehension,
or stay on Earth and be shown,
and get to interact with,
the living of humanity
within an existence of limitless-time.

Everybody has a reason to be who and what they are –
some people when they die become songs,
and some people when they die becomes stars;
some people’s spirit live on
within the pages of a book
long after their audible-voice can no longer be heard,
forever inhabiting a story’s every letter of every word;
every form of life, when it fully becomes its own spirit,
lives on – and the more that we explore other planets
in the galaxy I am sure that we will encounter
alien ghosts, also –
and I personally would not be surprised
if one day someone from Earth
finds themselves haunted by the figure
of a dead Martian while living
upon the surface of Mars.

Everybody has a story that they are at the centre of…
some peoples’ stories do not end
when their physical body gives-out…
everybody had a moment during their life,
and after death, when they have to shake-off
who they used to be and become someone else completely new –
the draw of an enticing bright light
is hard not to race towards like a moth…
some peoples’ idea of life after death
to some might be thought of as “heaven”,
and to others that same idea
might be their exact version of “hell”…
life when you are alive is different
to the life that awaits us all
on the other side of the threshold of our twilight
that we have to cross when our time
as a living and breathing human comes to an end…
it is said that when we die
we write the most beautiful poetry…
it is important to say goodbye
to loved-ones and friends…
every person, every-thing lives on…
everybody and everything changes –
but nothing ever truly ends,
and when each of us pass on
our story changes also,
from one like that of a caterpillar
to one like that of a butterfly –
and that is the essence of a ghost’s story.

My Poem ‘Thor’s Hammer’

The summer heat breaks…
there is a change in the weather…
the clouds are gathering…
a bolt of lightning from the sky
strikes the ground and makes the Earth shake…
the world falls deadly-silent…
before there is the most almighty sound
of deafening thunder.

Odin’s son, Thor – the god of thunder –
is wielding his weapon…
the favourite son of Asgard
is awakening in Viking heaven…
a power as old as time
surges through the veins of the chosen one…
the energy of life-itself invigorates
and binds the god to the hammer
and the hammer to the god.

It was willed that only one
who would be worthy
could ever pick up and wield
the weapon of destiny…
it was made a law of nature
that one could only use
such a divine conductor of change
if only they first have within their heart
an unconditional will to do what is right…
when the hammer of thunder was first forged
within it was laden and intertwined
a piece of timeless perfection
that could only be possibly witnessed
if you were to fly into and see
the heart of a star –
that which is so much more luminescent
than what we may think of as starlight…
Thor’s hammer is capable of leveling mountains –
but to the god of thunder it has no weight,
and he can do with it what he wishes
as freely as the author of epic poetry.

To wield the weapon of thunder,
to the son of Odin it is a great honour…
to have their name known alongside
that which like them is so mythic
they are almost magical,
to the prince of Asgard is happiness
the like of which only an outside observer,
or a worshiper of the old gods, can only wonder;
there have been many mythical symbols of fate
and epic power since time began
and stories were first conjured and spoken –
however, to me, there is no other grindstone
of fire, nor source of lightning,
with as much power
in every way, shape, and form,
as Mjölnir – the one and only, Thor’s hammer.

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My Poem ‘The Gunslinger’

Waking up even before the sun has risen,
getting up and putting on his jeans and his boots,
the Gunslinger always goes to the open window
and stares at the horizon…
watching the sky start to slowly
look like the burning ember
of a timeless celestial fire,
the Gunslinger’s heart overflows
with an intense desire –
because he knows that he is getting ever-closer
to the centre of the universe
that lies where The Dark Tower of reality
stands and casts a shadow in his direction
for the Gunslinger to follow.

The Gunslinger carries many scars…
the Gunslinger has had more than one tussles
in more than one towns and bars…
the Gunslinger does what he does
because he is being guided by
the hands of fate upon his shoulders…
the Gunslinger knew, even as a child,
that he was meant to do something
monumentally important,
and that belief and that feeling
grew steadily stronger
the more the years flew by
and the Gunslinger got older.

He was a keen student of the past…
he was a man who had learned the hard way
that if you want to survive
what life sometimes throws at you
you have got to think, learn, and act fast…
he was someone who had been taught
that respect was one of the greatest virtues
that anyone could remember and put into practice…
he was already some-what of a legend in his own right,
and he was almost as elusive
as that of the sunken island that was Atlantis.

The Gunslinger drunk life as if it were whiskey…
the Gunslinger embraced change
as if he were holding the body of a woman…
the Gunslinger was a poet
but he never in his life
wrote a single word of poetry…
the Gunslinger had been waking up
for as long as he could remember
knowing that he had a destiny to fulfill
that he could not yet fully-understand.

The Gunslinger was real,
and yet the stuff of dreams;
the Gunslinger loved a good meal,
but he hungered more to see
something of the world
but which felt not-of-his-world
that he had imagined
but had not yet seen;
the Gunslinger knew that where he was
was but a way-station to where he was going;
the Gunslinger was inspiring others,
and he was being followed wherever he went
without his knowing.

He had always thought of his weapon
as but an extension of his own arm…
he had always considered his lightning-fast draw
as his greatest gift…
he had always used his finely-honed instincts
to keep himself and those he loved
from coming to harm…
finding the one place in the entire world
where he could take off his hat
and unbuckle his gun-holster
and lay-down his revolver
is what he had always wished.

And as the rose before him,
and as the dawn-chorus called to him,
and as his trigger-finger started to quiver,
and as the heat began to darken his skin,
he knew that he was reason
for all things and for everything…
and without even blinking an eye
he smiled and then prepared to head-out,
saddle-up, and race towards
that which would give him
the reason he was seeking
why for his entire life
he had always been “The Gunslinger”.

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Inspired by ‘The Dark Tower – The Gunslinger’ by Stephen King