Bastard Page

I do not seek your acceptance; I do not ask for your forgiveness nor offer my repentance, to ones I do not love.
For all the wrongs of my blinded rage,
They were mine to write across my life, its tortured page,
Albeit turned and fresh anew,
On whitest white and written with ink,
Of forgiveness blue.

I held the chickens wishbone stick and could break it with a quick turn, an idle flick, no wish to make, no prayer to drip,
From my godless black spit tongue.
I held the bird aloft, skin of pale, light and down as feathers were soft,
And fading were its dying eyes.

I was the beast in the dark, with darkest stare and silent bark,
And black was my ink-stained page.
Written in hate, bled in rage,
On carved lines I wrote my bastard page.
Words of hate filled by malice did empty and spill from my coward’s chalice,
And how the poison did flow, and course my quivering veins.

Now I write upon my tear-stained page,
Repentant I orbit my bastard page,
Through tears, I call, I cry, to clearest moon, to darkest sky.
I’ve paid my debt; I have served my time, locked in this guilt prison,
Bound by its sentence, created by mine,
My hands of blackest blue.

I am no longer the bastard on the page,
I have no more hate, no more rage,
Flick back a few to see this bastard’s page,
His imprint try to look past,
His clay be broke, his mould be cast,
And left a broken man.

With now my kind eyes are hazed in their sadness dew,
I kneel with head bowed, forgiveness be cast down,
Remove my periled shroud, my burning crown.
Of what was reaped let now be sowed,
And haunt my thoughts no more.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

 

 

 

Atonement

I wandered a broken man,

Devoid of soul,

How my diamonds did roll,

And slice my barren hands.

 

On white hot sands, of changing lands

I wandered amongst ghostly dunes.

With haunted eyes and muffled cries,

I hummed a quivered tune.

 

And met was I, by an echoed cry

Of a dog I know by name,

Red eyes glared, as mine froze scared,

His eyes a ruby blaze.

 

With a matchbox fumble and a liquored tumble,

I fell to my prayer-less knees.

And there I kneeled, with no strength to yield,

No words to muster my way.

 

It was at that moment, in the search for atonement,

The injury had become my own.

And there in the rain, the beast lay slain,

Alas, my truth had run me down.

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

 

Burn On My Friend, Burn On!

Burn your internal light,

Use its warmth, its guiding light

 

Burn that flame, flaming bright,

Burn worries soul, her lingering plight

 

Burn the flame in you whole,

Burn into your unconquerable soul

 

Burn the moon and the stars,

Burn your worries, your memories scars

 

Burn the pain and the plight,

Keep that match burning bright

 

And in the dark of coldest night

Watch your demons cower and flight,

For you have fire in your eyes

Watch your fire burn and rise.

 

Burn on my friend, burn on.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

I Care Not

I care not for your daily tales,

The sound passes through my worn ears

Like wind through tattered sails,

Like holes in a fishing net

The words pass through,

Escaping the sounds

The dull hums of you.

 

Drown me over board,

Cast me no line,

I’ll forget your words in the sands,

Of my sinking time.

I empty my lungs and sink into the black crush,

Don’t pull me back to your vomit of words

Your tedious gush.

 

I care not for your inverted commas acceptable version of events,

No smile will break my cheeks

My dead pan face

Frozen in place,

Lost in sand grain stars 

And all their endless space.

 

Suck me into a black hole,

Void of interest I feel only darkness towards your insipid matters,

You puncture my mind with your worm hole drawl,

As you grind out your mouth soil

At slowest grinding crawl.

 

I care not for your watered down yarns,

The slow turns of your materialistic wheel

Spun by your constant uninspiring spiel,

Turn the wheel to release the noose drop,

Let the trap door open

Let the teeth clattering stop.

 

Clattering with rusty tracks screech,

The constant need you have to give unwanted speech,

Your tongue flapping like a runaway train

Whistles in my tunnel ears 

My tinnitus brain.

 

 I care not for your holy sermon preached from on high

By the grace of God go forward say I,

Preach your gospel

Your enlightened views

To ones that would, and do so choose.

 

So as my dead eyes stare back at you,

Lost black ships abandoned in their milky pools,

I remain anchored by your conversation rock

Longing for time to speed its tick,

And hasten,

Its tock.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Black Ink Curls

The power of the written word,

Though dark at times, clears the cogs

Clears their rust, oils their grind.

 

 Like the panic of a hooked lined fish,

It thrashes me free, free from this barbed life,

Its, piercing strife.

 

Back into the darkest deep my mind swims,

In search of pearls, black ink curls,

And sunken treasured hymns.

 

Though my words may not ring bells for all,

My own church bell sounds

Unburdening with its chiming call.

 

Raises me up off my blackened knees,

Reveals the wood

Through darkened trees.

 

In lightest moments I pour words of love that if left, remain unsaid,

These words pour from my deepest heart,

My most secret head.

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.


Continue reading “Black Ink Curls”

Summer in the City

As the mad sun makes blood boil into a stir,
Impatience becomes the glue
Sticking the stuck air.
 
Rain dreading souls long for moist,
Their change of tune
Cool haze the cooling of choice.
 
The chain gang ties shuffle in their droves,
Baking suits
In baking clothes.
 
Workers in hole of tarmac bleak,
Stirring in dust
Of cauldrons deep.
 
Town birds pick at discarded breads,
Blinded by glistening
Sweat lined heads.
 
Take me home
Back to the green
Away from this hellish, hell like scene.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Father

I am the apple that fell closest to my fathers tree
Reflections of the man,
The man who came before me.

I have the same hands formed and weathered by time
Same hands weathered,
Weathered through knowledge
And then passed to mine.

I am the same mountain
A mountain consumed by worry,
A worry to climb, now the worry
The worry is mine.

We are both men the same
We walk forward,
Forward through sheeting rain
Forward through wind and gales a blow
Forward through perils set out to slow
Forward through hell and its burning lightening glow,
In wildest river forward
Forward is all we know.

I am my fathers son,
My battle has started
His is nearly done,
I’ll carry the banner forward,
Forward till our battles are won
.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Bluest Moon Rare

While scratching cat claws at singing bell
I write these gentle words,
I have gentle
Most gentle words to tell.

With crows feet eyes, under my patch of bluest skies,
Bird branch trees, choired in threes,
Sing against
Singing sails breeze.

In this burning olive sun
I write these perfectly imperfect words of impractical scrawl,
With no cast of doubt
No shadows crawl.

Seas of scented coloured air
Fill my mind with grateful tear eyed thanks,
While my 
feet are warmed, warmed on darkened planks.

I have a thing of bluest moon rare,
I am deeply loved
A gift of once diamond found,
Is to be held and cherished
On this most thankful ground.

And I will love her until my mortal days have faded
And my crown of greys are bound,
A love like ours is forever
Forever till dust and ground.








Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Promised a Diamond Given a Spade

Richest divide back-dropped against poorest side,
Poorest side losing to society’s advancing,
Advancing credit tide.

Credit given hand over fist
Then cracked back by cracking whips,
Whips bought and paid,
People offered short lived diamonds that fade.
Promised a diamond, given a spade.

Spades dig only down,
Down further into sticky mud
Created by this credit flood.

People dig with breaking backs
Dig at the man’s tax dodging tracks,
Derail this train on these inequality tracks
Take off the straw from these camels backs.

No more turning of perfumed cheeks
Or looking down past judging beaks,
People need help to stand,
A caring pull, a gentle hand.

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

The Climb

Hanging by needles thread,

Finger tips whitened like rope silk spiders web,

Webbed single strand of hair,

Loose, Loose and threadbare.

 

Rope a flame is lit,

Lit by memories shame,

It burns these bloodied palms,

There is no more bloodied grip to gain.   

 

One slightest tilt I’ll be cast down into shadows,

Shadows, shadowing their casting flowers do wilt,

The long drop delayed by a crushing,

A crushing sorrows guilt.

 

Fragile and weak

Outlook as cold as winter is bleak,

Summer days a memory too fragile,

Too fragile a memory to speak.

 

I keep this match flickering

By its golden ruby side,

It’s fading on the edge 

But remains flickering,

Flickering, I remain alive.

 

There is still strength in these bloodied palms

Muscle and sinew secure these bloodied lactic arms.

Gritted teeth, fermented eyes,

I only look skyward towards blue,

Blue tearless skies.

 

I’ll continue this climb upward,

Up this darkened rise.

Ahead there is only blue,

Blue only skies.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.