The Prison I Create (first poem I ever wrote)

There are no bars keeping me in, there is no door without a key in.

All the lights are on without a flicker or dim, my soul free to wander out or in.

And yet I stay frozen to one spot, unable to get past the lock that is not.

I sit and stare at my loves fading smile, trapped in the memory of when I could hold her for a while.

I curse myself and my internal latch, that I cannot get loose from this imaginary catch.

My hands are sore, my eyes are weak, my internal light ever-growing darker and bleak.

The man I once was becoming a ghost in time, locked behind this illusion of mine.

Gone of days when life was a dream to catch, why can I not get past this imaginary latch.

There are no bars, there is no steel, why does my mind command me to kneel?

I have no words, only hate, inside this prison I do create.

I scratch a marking on the wall, to remind me I must obey or face the fall.

And fall I do, further still, into this invisible pit I created by the freedom of my own free will.

The hangman’s noose so appealing,

But today is not my time, I remain for the true love of mine.

No illusionist trick, nor jailers whip, will see me lose my iron like grip.

So I will go on inside my imaginary jail,

And yes, there will be a time that I shall prevail.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

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.

Book Number Deux

My newly released second book of poems is free on Amazon Kindle this weekend. 

(Reviews on Amazon, Goodreads or both would be much appreciated)

Following on from the first book, Further Thoughts is one man’s view of the world around him. It is a candid expression of the trials that come with battling mental health demons, the exhaustion that comes with the search and pursuit of happiness and the inner peace that is achieved once finding it.

Selection of Amazon links below:

UK –  https://amzn.to/2w8BSRV

USA –  https://amzn.to/2nFod0U

India –  https://amzn.to/2vGD7Iq

Australia –  https://amzn.to/2MehUQy

Canada –  https://amzn.to/2w97vKX

Further Thoughts - Front Cover.jpg

Ocean Glass

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 © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Coming Morn

Upon the ink my needle is spun, upon a white virgin crest,
Spun from heart and tattered cuff,
And cast from naked chest.

 

From the rubble, the hellish struggle, I feel a turning tide,
All the while, comforts the smile,
My burning ember bride.

 

The tunnel is long and you would pot holes to stray,
And though the light be as needle prick,
It only seems so far away.

 

Use your meditation, by take of whatever form,
Use it to stand-fast,
Hold strong against the storm.

 

So with pen and page, and sight no longer forlorn,
I say goodnight to the dark,
Hello the coming morn.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Inner Truth

What is your locked inner truth?
Hidden within your locked house,
Its most secret roof.
Behind the locked doors, the shuttered windows,
While outside a howling wind blows,
And owls warn the bowing moon.

 

What hovers over you in the grainy slumber?
When the entwined take flight and leave their lovers arms.
In the black of night, when creeping cats creep,
The tired eyes sleep,
And all the children dream.

 

We all have our crosses to bare, skeletons that stare,
And keep our closets grave.
Perfection is as dust is to dust,
As it collects upon the skull
The head be bowed by a mournful lull,
And ashes, our dying shame.

 

We fear the judging crowd, their bleating too loud,
Wool be the secrets as wool be their shroud, and tossed to a flawless breeze.
Their tar and tainting brush no grey area touch, walk upon mirages of mountains to plains.
But their cotton be rotten, their fields be trodden,
And black as a threatening cloud.

 

Time will always tick her wilting clock and buds we all but are,
Shortest time to flower, before the cloaked scythe does tower, and cut,
We flower no more.
Do not let your truth stay hidden,

Nor remain in the saintly prison, before the final call.

 

So in your final hour, before the hooded tower and the gleaming scythe pauses the last hand.
When the calling wind howls fall to grass and hush,
When silenced be the owl and with sunrise eyes it warns it’s warning no more.
Be sure your demons are buried,
And truth, has opened your door.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

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.

 

 

 

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.