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Bryan Harrison I have been writing poems now for two years, mainly for fun and to get a few strange and sometimes abstract thoughts on to paper. I will write about anything as long as it relates to myself, my life, my friends etc. The word self-centred may be floating around your head and you may be right - but it's what I feel comfortable writing. If you want facts and not description, I am 28 years old and have now been married to the greatest woman in the world for 6 months. As well as this I find a bit of time to be a deputy head of a primary school. If you want to know anything else, well...you can't. Here are a few of my poems. Suicide Mind As
the pavement
draws near, I
ponder my dear,
if the decision
I’ve made is
the right one. The Individual Altruist Occasions
captured,
applause fills
the ears
Ceremonial visits, pats on the back, Who
earned all of
this – leader
or pack? Letters and headings, initiatives met.
Job satisfaction or hollow with pride? Meetings attended, the less are decried.
Soldiers left bruised, medals of tin, Meetings, appraisals…words paper thin.
Times marches on, cynicism grows, Iconic figures, melt like the snow.
Awareness develops, the old myth is true, It’s not about me, it’s all about you. Sewer Chorus
Sad songs all sung, their words flushed away. The sewers a chorus of mourners today.
Sorrowful staves pack their crotchets in sacks, slide down treble tracks making melancholic tracks.
Verses declaring that lovers have strayed, find new homes with Dylan, Cohen…McRae.
Violins and pianos stand alone in the dust, staring wildly at guitars strumming playlets of lust.
Write me a new song, take down swinging ropes, play me rising crescendos and acoustical hope.
Play me beautiful ditties, pluck me wild celebration, drum me raucous new rhythms, sing me high jubilation Memories Gone By How
quickly time
can rob the
memory, taking
away those
things we
love. I Wonder… I wonder how Geoff Hurst felt when he scored that winning goal, Or what Pandora truly felt for the teenage Adrian Mole.
I wonder if Adolf Hitler regrets attempting a Second World War, Or if Macauley Culkin considers making Home Alone Four.
I wonder if Albert Einstein understands his own equations, Or If Oscar Wilde was shocked by his own immoral persuasions.
I wonder who it was who first crossed the Berlin Wall, Or how it felt to stand and watch the World Trade Centre fall.
I wonder where that big lad went who lived just down the road, Or how much truth there really is in Morgan’s Da Vinci Code.
I wonder if I’ll ever see a man who builds a house on Mars, Or glide around on hover boards, or fly electric cars.
I wonder if the egg actually came before the chicken, Or if I’ll ever see the day when Ian Beale gets a kickin.
I wonder if I’ll ever stop wondering about things, Or if I’ll just keep wondering about life and all it brings. From the Train Window A rollercoaster of landscapes paint the glass canvas, green hills govern the eye before progressing to flat, woodland constituencies of autumnal brown. Occasional shopping centres appear on the horizon, delivering fitting contrasts to the natural world in which they selfishly thrive. A solitary tree stands proud and erect, admiring views and reflecting on the changes he seen from his sapling youth. Rivers roll towards idyllic pubs, where the ignorance of youth transform country roads to speedway fatality. Smoke emitting factories stand arrogantly defiant, remainders of times gone; offering signs of possibilities still to come. Other trains rush noisily past, seats filled with lost faces, listening to songs and reading news concerning global indulgence. Belts of scenic green meet electrical statues, watching the lives of other pass by like Gods from ancient times. Forest hide hidden secrets, of forbidden meetings and tales retold; where midnight sounds bring urban myths to life. The artistry of youth delivers colourful montages, messages proclaim the delicate love of when boy meets girls; and girl meets best mate. All are seen from the trains window, dancing past in a blur of colour and emotion; each picture telling its own story. Dreams If I was a singer, I’d pen songs of romance where young couples dance, ending in heartache and pain.
If I was an artist, I’d paint pictures of green in a landscape serene, spoiled by pollution and rain.
If I was a poet, I’d write verses and rhymes of celebratory times, and children left angered by blame.
If I was an actor, I’d perform scenes of suspense and speak lines so intense, based on real-life accounts of hate.
If I was an author, I’d write action-packed tales full of dolphins and whales, and young soldiers slaughtered in vain.
If I was a child, I’d make armies and dens, smoke fags with a pen, bullied and beaten for fame. Colourful Thoughts I think in different colours, multitudes of blues and greens, I sometimes paint thoughts colourfully, other times I form grey scenes. This morning I felt blazing red, anger fevered inside my head, however this colour fades away, spiteful words and thoughts left dead. Occasionally I feel shining white, like I’ve committed no wrong, but deep inside I see dark scars, conscience sings it’s midnight song. Yesterday I swam in an ocean blue, my sinews drowned in loss, melancholy seemed a deep ravine, no vessel with which to cross. Frequently I feel faded grey, like I have no place in life, company’s smiles and group time laughs, cuts deep with blunted knife. But sometimes I feel dazzling yellow, spreading light in shadowed places, my presence and simple existence…put smiles on angels’ faces. Village Idiots An anthology… telling tales of Darwinesque proportion, the origin of the species, survival of the hardest.
Waging on currency of intimidation, the small are devoured, only recognised through bus-shelter art, bellowing their weakness.
Midnight moments and morning memories, bring the mighty to the fore, laughter resonates through the foolish, recollections injure proud victims.
Local dens mask the misguided youth, strength through substance, safety through numbers, security through fear.
The few escapees fly the night like a bird, resting damaged wings, building nests in higher places. The Shadow My teddies eyes stare back at me, full of shame and sympathy, as the shadow creeps cautiously into my room. I hear my mum make turns and twists, far away in ignorant bliss, as the shadow sits silently on my bed. My sister lies there feigning sleep, shallow breaths – thumping heartbeat, when the shadow whispers words in my ear. And I just lie like daddies angel, secret-keeper in a forbidden manger, while the shadow plays his special game. The Mirror When he looks in the mirror he sees lost playtimes, a boy who is out of the line, who faces the wall.
When she looks in the mirror she sees a gold sticker, a girl with her hand in the air, a star of the week. When he looks in the mirror he hears an argument, a boy who talks out of turn, distanced from his friends. When she looks in the mirror she hears a round of applause, a girl who knows the answer, a sharing team player. When he looks in the mirror he feels frustration, a boy who was never asked, who was always a second too late. When she looks in the mirror she feels accomplished, a girl who sharpens the pencils, who meets and greets the mayor. When he looks in the mirror he sees nothing, a boy in the corner of the playground, who gains the attention of the invisible others. When she looks in the mirror she sees success, a girl with a red rosette, who find attention on a display board autographed with her name. Submission Guidelines: Poems of no more than 30 lines in length each will be considered. Post your poems to Featured Poets, Forward Press Ltd, Remus House, Coltsfoot Drive, Peterborough PE2 9JX (Write your name and address on each piece of work you send) Or email your poems to inbox@forwardpress.co.uk (Enter Featured Poets in the subject line, including your name and postal address) |
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