Tag Archives: ambition

The Ambitious Poet

The Ambitious Poet

A monument of twenty first century poetry,
such was the work he wished to create,
leave behind, after his unavoidable death,
acknowledged as such by the literary elite,
the professors of literature, high brow literary critics,
the snooty guardians of wilful, erudite obscurity.
After much mulling, he decided that an attempt
at such a work would be fake, not sincere,
so he carried on writing poems in the way he usually did.

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Bird Man

Bird Man

Bird has not the brain to dream
to be a man.
In his mind, a man can be a bird,
be a bird man.
On a mountain, to perch, fly off,
beyond the desire of Icarus.
Soar over city towers,
splash through rock pools on the shore.
Focus fades, energy exhausts,
is a bird man no more.

Low Winter Sun

Low Winter Sun

Everybody’s out to make a bit of money.
We’ve all got to live.
There is no doubt when I first came to this city,
I planned to live simple
on milk, bread and honey.
But when winter comes,
you got to buy an overcoat,
and pairs of thick socks.
The seasons go slow.
You cannot speed them up
by not attending to the clocks.

Don’t want to fail you.
Don’t want to sail you down river.
You knew it was me,
I knew it was you.
We had to be.
That part of it is true.
Now we must see
what life to us will do.

Sat on my piano stool,
I’ve used every tool in my box
to try to unkey these rusted locks,
to see the ships leaving from the docks.
Always end up playing some trad jazz or blues.
My wardrobe almost empty,
no new suits hung up,
no lines of polished shoes.
Never made it big but no one has a dig.
They know few make it to the top,
and they had dreams of their own,
and they lived beyond  the time
when they knew they had to stop.

Yellow canary in a silver wire cage,
beak and feathers dusty,
I remember by a window.
Low winter sun gave no heat.
Pulled back to the past,
I get weary.
Nothing left to follow but my shadow.

 

The Vision of the Peacock

The Vision of the Peacock

The gambler in the aviary
watched a peacock spread its tail.
If he tried to paint such colours,
he knew that he would fail.

Later, he opened his wardrobe,
to find all his coats were frayed,
but was pleased with what he had won
with the last card he had played.

On Mississippi river boats,
in casinos late at night,
he had silently let all other players
think the laws of chance and luck
they had precariously got right,
until in the final moment,
he had made his secret move,
and for the first time he was noticed,
a winner with nothing left to prove.
He was still searching for that clock
that told another time,
and he knew everything would change
when he heard it chime.
And it would be for the better,
and not for the worse,
for those who won through treachery
would find things happen in reverse.

And the vision of the peacock,
the beauty of the colours in its tail,
told him that though his aim was high,
there was a chance he would not fail.

And he knew it all depended
on the hand that spun the wheel,
and the cards that he was given,
and what he wanted to make real.

The peacock in the aviary
taught him with its tail,
though high beauty had its mystery
towards it he could sail.