Pink Skied City – (old post)

It is yet another bending breaking soon to be broken morning in this pink skied city.

Yesterday now as dead as the day before last,

Old suns have risen,

Old moons have passed.

 

Early cuffed and collard worm catchers all ruffled and already missing the nest hop from paving to slab.

These woken weary eyed few wander to where they are going all hurried and yet to arrive.

All pending their coffee. I-Phones already alight with all fingers blazing and smoking tips.

Heads down, on the move, no time.

 

Gulls finish what the drunk and dripping dregs discarded during yesterday’s darkest before the dawn morning.

The drunken dreary souls were all head down and guided by their takeaway compasses, now out and passed they lay in a dream of black and nothing. Regret sits on the end of their beds,

Desert mouthed, fizzing heads.

 

A one-legged pigeon wrestles a cigarette butt,

Sat next to the one-legged homeless man who wrestles the pigeon,

Only one thinks it is bread,

The other would smoke the bread.

This two-legged ball of forgotten flesh and frail feathers rolls down the soup gutters, washed away by a deluge of disapproving mutters.

 

A crumb few mice sized people all but fully mouse and yet to be cat shy,

Scurry out from their postcard stamp wallpaper mouse houses into this borrower world within a city.

Weighed down by their bursting backpacks of bind and bounded tree felled knowledge.

All amber in life eagerly awaiting the future green.

 

The goose stepping Traffic warden is up and already goosing and stepping the yellow lines.

His ink black pen as dry as a second-hand stick.

 

The coffee shops outnumber the coffee people.

They number more than all the grains of sand on every beach in all the world.

There is a person making coffee in an infinitive amount of coffee shops throughout an infinite amount of galaxies, however,

They are all here on this street.

 

The get and up and go runners are already up getting and going.

Laced up and clad in layers of lycra they attack the waiting to be concurred day,

Personal bests all set to be bested,

Back in time for a scientifically proven recovery drink,

Burn off the fat, push pass the brink.

 

Black block words on white wash boards assault the mind with reports of the first of the

days reports for us to mull over,

A handy helping of murder and macabre misery mind numbing news, before munching our

wholemeal high fibre fantastic fat-free sugar-free taste free buy one get one free everything

is free overpriced breakfast.

 

Tomorrow’s twilight dawn walk will be as uniquely the same as it is different.

Just another morning walk to work taking in the wonders of this pink skied city.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Ocean Glass – (old post)

Cast across ocean glass, how the winged fishes wept.

Dew be a diamond crystal, of silky hair regret,

How the winged fishes dangle,

They be caught upon the net.

 

I have a simple deck of wood, no grass or house of grand,

No need for beach or oceans, no need for golden sand.

I am not a holy man, no bible held in hand,

But if heaven were a place, 

It be on this plot of land.

 

With ember bud glowing, at my rebuilt side,

I have the means to reclaim, what was lost in once raging tide.

No current will pull my flame, back to the Davey Jones,

I have rebuilt my sail, and with steel rebuilt my bones.

 

So through this window I ponder, with my new brighter outlook,

My time is now mine, I returned that broken book.

My demons lay dying, withered upon the floor,

I won that ghastly battle, 

Now watch me win the war.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

 

Back To One – (old post)

Return the bull of charge and stamp,

Crashes the china, turn down the lamp.

Close the shop, pull down the shutters,

Back to the grey, the flooding black gutters,

Sledging,

My hammer comes falling down.

 

With a hammered crash the birds flee from top and wing stop rest,

Flee from hanging branch, from sea view nest,

Set beyond the green lands of new, fly to skies of calmer blue.

The animals startle, the horses back hooves punch and dance,

Back to the rack,

The dead eyed trance.

 

Back to the brink, the endless track,

Pause the clapping, the patting of back,

Back to the worry and waiting room walls,

The silent smiles, announcement calls.

The same record scratches the needle to nub,

And spinning, it waits to be turned.

 

Myself be picked up and set back to one,

That time has passed, the moment has gone.

All starts again, this race to be won,

Cranking starter, rusty gun,

Hammers pound the flattened earth,

And so, this beat goes on.

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler

Mind Radio (edited version)

Turn down the volume,

It makes me want to scream out loud, while standing among-st this silent crowd.

 

No volume button at my discretion,

To sooth my thoughts or allow for a calmer expression.

 

My tortured look sliced across my face,

Like a man who once had a happier mind space.

 

Is this just me or can you hear it too? that painful laugh,

That devils shrill, that teases me like a twilight winter daffodil.

 

Let me hear your music for a while, so I may lie quiet and bare a smile,

Quiet and peace is all I long for, not this pounding in my brain nor that hammering on my minds door.

 

How I wish I could tune in like you, and whistle to the silence of my own free will.

I scramble for that invisible switch, to silence the cackle of this cackling mind Witch.

 

But you wouldn’t know, you have silence, try listening to these hell like sirens.

All clutter now, all clutter, help me stop the banging of this relentless mind shutter.

 

I look at your face but hear no words, I can’t hear you, I wish I could, then perhaps

We could talk and solve this riddle, of why my mind only plays this devils fiddle.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Screaming into the Void – (old post)

We scream into the ever growing void of our own advancing life.

Our own advancing life, the trouble and strife.

Met by echoes of nothingness we stand pin drop eared,

Waiting for answers to come from the darkness.

Answers to present a mothers apron string.

Pin prick eared we wait to be guided through the uncertain times.

We are all children looking for the apron string,

With wet thumbs we shuffle along,

Reaching hands grabbing at empty air,

Too much we care, too much strife,

In this ever advancing,

Troubled life.

 

 

Haunted by decisions we feel are of such grave importance.

Importance is determined by circumstance. 

The man who crosses the ocean on a weighed down boat,

Only just afloat, afloat only just he treads the gasping air.

The man who wakes up worried with weather. 

Whether to umbrella against the black sky.

Hardly the same, hardly do or die.

And yet we wander with an out of step heart and stuttered tongue,

Daily rung is our tongue.

Rung out decisions that have been lined and weathered every morning.

Every morning since our first mornings memory dawned and broke the curtains with waking split,

To prize our sleeping eyes.

 

 

Uncertainty, the concept of uncertain excitement is an alien concept that we rarely venture down. 

A route as fraught with danger as an un-cleared mine field. 

Detector ready, we listen.

Fear poised we wait for the ping back life crack of life`s whipping sting to guide us down the safer route.

The normal route. Certainty is all but guaranteed.

Normal, as beige is to bland, as grain is to sand and all the neatly lawns.

Reformatory white washed reforming walls of a newly refurbished, reformed and re-tuned mind. 

Dull lines, clean lines upon picture less walls.

Shops on Saturday, family on Sunday, work on Monday and the groundhog recurrence of it all. 

With a whales gulp we yawn the empty sea.

 

 

Success is judged on mortgage size,

A collection of loans and borrowed wealth,

Line our borrowed mantel shelf. 

Education is based upon industry focused qualifications of a system that forever demands more from you and your learned mind. 

First is now last, master is now student, Doctor is now as expected as it is taken for granted. 

Alas, we have all become nuts and bolts,

And heavy is the draw.

Never enough, must better ourselves, become great.

The greatest great most beautiful pure perfectly perfect whiter than white diamond encrusted iconic genius since the water was turned to wine and all men followed the deserted man.

 

 

Deserted, faith is as deserted as the marooned man.

Marooned we all wander the island.

In this ungodly time of the none believers the minority consider themselves the enlightened in a darkened time. 

Believer or none believer we are all ants, a shoe forever hovers over us.

Must pick a side, never astride.

Believer or none believer. No in between. 

Like opinions, you must choose.

I am none believer and yet I remain crucified by circumstance. 

My gods are the ones who pay me and keep my table supplied with food. 

Take away the food,

And watch me pray. 

 

 

Opinions, if you are astride the fence you are pulled down. 

This is a black and white time,

In a grey age, upon a sad page,

How the tears do run and bleed the years away. 

Mockery the chosen response to pushing back against the raging tides of opposition views. 

Democracy is as much a reality as fairies are to teeth and yet we still leave our silver coins. 

Hate always the undercurrent of the harsher view and lack of facts the pulling current. 

If we do not swim against this current we will all be left adrift. 

And find ourselves 

The treading man.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Daydreamer – (old post)

Daydreamer, where have you gone?

All those days to dream, still near, not gone.

Daydreamer where have all your dreams gone?

 

When you look through life’s looking-glass, do you see a long-lost past?

A distant memory, a line on a horizon shore

or more of life’s predictable ocean

to sail ever more.

 

Was your dream too big, or courage too little?

to dare to play life’s uncommon fiddle.

A familiar tune more appealing

alas, not as revealing.

 

And when you look into the pale reflection of your valleys brow

do you see her love lost and wonder how

the day dreaming stopped

Somewhere

Somehow?

 

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

 

Troubled Mind – (old post)

How I fear my troubled mind, you never do treat me kind.

How I fear my troubled mind.

 

Moonlight creeping, through pane of glass, how I pray my fear won’t last.

How I fear my troubled mind.

 

Silent taunting, mocking laughter, my troubles lasting ever after.

How I fear my troubled mind.

 

Black cloud, as black as oceans deep, rocks of sharp and serpents sleep.

How I fear my troubled mind.

 

Shadow across brow of hill, dampening light of darken sight.

How I fear my troubled mind.

 

Claps of thunder, roll of dice, remove remove my winter ice.

How I fear my troubled mind.

 

How it feels all so unkind

Be still, be calm my troubled mind

learn to love and treat me kind

my worried

worried

fragile

mind.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Bastard Page – (old post)

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 © 2018 Charlie Hasler.