Dead As A Nail – (old post)

I feel I am dead, as dead as a nail,

All hammered and coffin

All bent and rust.

Buried back down deep beneath the cold

And frozen black dust.

 

And yet I still breathe, a tired man’s breath,

Albeit a sigh, a solemn draw,

While I hammer at the window

While I wrap at the door,

My mind has locked me out.

 

Or maybe I am locked in, I am not sure,

Either way I am standing here once more,

Standing on the wrong side of this bastard bolted door.

I am searching for the right key

But the bunch is far too big.

 

So as it is, back to the shadow I have returned,

Where no warm does glow, no hope does burn.

Back to the bottom of hells staircase,

Locked behind the door and staring at my once stood place,

All dead and nail inside.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Returned

Before the sun had raised his head I was up and out of my winter bed.

Shoes laced and treading fast, my frightful time a distant past.

The sun now blazes my soul alive, with burning fire this man does strive,

For today is no longer yesterday it would seem, a new chance is born, a wondrous dream,

That awakes, and guides my soul once more.

 

No more am I knelt on the floor, nor rapping at that window, nor hammering at that door,

I am in, I am back inside, back to life my worries have died.

My eyes were red and sunken ships now pierce life’s horizon with their razor arrow tips.

That bastard bolted nailed door, is now unbolted,

And nailed no more.  

 

With each sink and soul demise, there is always a tomorrow, a chance to rise.

Although my greys collect and gather pace, this life is a marathon, not a crippling race.

Whatever it is this thing, this dark, this shadow. I have faced it now and stood the gallows,

Yet to drop and hear the crack, I keep in mind the sun is always at my front, and the dark,

Always at my back.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Dead As A Nail

I feel I am dead, as dead as a nail,

All hammered and coffin

All bent and rust.

Buried back down deep beneath the cold

And frozen black dust.

 

And yet I still breathe, a tired man’s breath,

Albeit a sigh, a solemn draw,

While I hammer at the window

While I wrap at the door,

My mind has locked me out.

 

Or maybe I am locked in, I am not sure,

Either way I am standing here once more,

Standing on the wrong side of this bastard bolted door.

I am searching for the right key

But the bunch is far too big.

 

So as it is, back to the shadow I have returned,

Where no warm does glow, no hope does burn.

Back to the bottom of hells staircase,

Locked behind the door and staring at my once stood place,

All dead and nail inside.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

The Ring Walk

All quiet now against the roaring crowd,

Head down through the taunts and cheers.

Focus is what grips

Not nerves

Nor fears.

A numb feeling of purpose and pride,

All doubt is cast, all cares aside.

It is now when the sprinting red eyed mornings will show their worth,

Pounding those weary feet,

Against the always awake and woken earth.

Skipping echo’s and razors the cracked dust ground,

While agile feet keep their beat and mirrors,

The guiding tone.

Rounds upon rounds sharpen the blade and arrow tip,

Burning the arms and fatten the lip.

Weeks of repetition ground down into a powder and paste,

While in the present is always bitter and venom the taste,

But sweeter,

Is a future risen arm.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

 

 

Words From An Unlikely Poet

Hi all,

My book will be available for free on Kindle between tomorrow and Sunday.

I would hugely appreciate it if you could spare the time to download it, have a flick through it and leave me a review on Amazon. I think there is an option on there for you to lend it to someone if you do so chose, you may not, you may think its awful.

British Amazon link as follows below, I am not sure if this link will work in the States etc but if you type the title of this post into Amazon it should come up.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=charlie+hasler

Cheers.

Charlie

It Is, What It Is

 

What is this thing called life?

Be it in love, be it in strife.

Hearts a flutter, minds a mutter, 

During this swirling whirling bounding life.

As often is said, with shrug of shoulders and open palms,

It is, what it is.

 

Your game may be one of luck and loss,

A flick of a coin, a fall from idle toss.

With Mothers eyes, and Fathers hands,

We sit strapped to roulette’s table. Spinning, we roll the dice.

 

You may hear the laugh but miss the joke, 

Do not blush the cheeks nor stoke the faces burning flames,

Nor fumble to a trembled croak, 

Or quiver your lips with shame.

 

When life sees you on the stand, held by judging eyes,

Learn to see and always be open, there is always grey, in the blackest of black skies.

In our moments of low and ebb, keep chin up and facing true,

You may end up back on the stand, with all eyes watching you.

 

If you love then make it blazing, if you hate, cool and douse the flames,

Look at yourself in the mirror, 

Ask if you were the one to blame.

We are all imperfect during this life.

 

And even as write this collection of bursting thoughts,

No order set dictates my meanings course, 

Confusion is often driving, screeching with always my burning thoughts.

I will recall after what it is, what it is I should have thought.

As is so often the case, 

It is, what it is.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

 

 

 

Blushing Lungs

The man stands and mumbles his words, bound by twists and tongues,

The air sits trapped, his voice weighed down,

Weighed down to his blushing lungs.

The call he makes falls silent,

No phone is there to be rang.

With a domino flick,

His sentence comes falling down.

 

It happens only when the man is put in centre and spot,

Head lamped with a rabbit surprise,

He searches the crowd for understanding,

Understanding rescuing eyes.

Alas, these eyes are only fair weather,

Always closed under stormy skies.

 

He leaves the stage gasping,

Mouth like a talking fish,

Circles his bowl like a clock face, razor thoughts seal his lips.

If he could have the moment again he wouldn’t forget his lines,

He would fire back with fury, the words would ribbon their minds,

And sorry, he would all but be.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.