Atonement – (old post)

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.

 

Screaming Into The Void

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 © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

I Rise

Back to the crushing black deep,

Curtain shadow and starless black

Oil well swelled swirling black

Frost bitten dead toe black, cruelest of cruel cursing soul black

Crushing bastard black, rage thrashing sea.

 

Pass me the blade I will end this quick,

No more sinking from this sinking ship,

Leave the noose; pay the hangman’s tip,

Tie the boulders to this lead brick,

I am jumping from this revolving ship,

Throw me no more lines.

 

Further into deaths cloak black I sink,

Further deep into the dead man’s drink,

Passed the unforgiving Jack Frost brink,

Heavy iron binds the chains that link,

That pulls me to floor.

 

Let my lungs fill and sleep my mind away,

Away from quotes and all there meaningless bile,

Come into my mind for a day, then quote me a smile.

You keep scratching your hollow scrawl,

And I will remain dead eared upon the floor.

 

Pass me your hand; I will put it under the kettle,

Let’s test your resolve your inner metal,

And see if you can carry on,

Too much too soon?

Here is a broom, to sweep up your meaningless words.

 

Let me sink down further still,

To the black sacked cat sleeping drown

Seashell sounding whooshing drown

Dead patch eyed sipping sailor drown,

And on milky-way grains leave me to lie.

 

Where were you all years ago?

Before the acceptance, the circus show.

You have found your voice, along with your spine,

Well done for joining in at the correct and proper time,

And speaking from such a caring heart.

 

As I lay I look up through the black,

Tar beach sludge black

Oil glued winged bird black

Cancer lung black

Smoker’s death black, smoking black sea.

 

And in the dark of my pitiful demise,

I look to the heavens at broken skies,

I see a pair of marble pendulums looking down at me.

Golden rich deep brown eyes

Stab my heart with a lightning bolt jolt.

 

Eyes that hold with cobra stare,

Break down the dark, supply the air,

And lift my heart from its coal-black pit,

Gives me the strength, supplies my grit,

And from the grain I rise.

 

Her hair of raging black flames,

Wild burning bright illuminates blackest night,

All hell takes flight, vineyard soil of blackest sight,

Blackest, black hair.

I rise further still.

 

A smile that would make the ungodly pray,

Singing hallelujah, armies of trumpets play,

Pearl gates open to welcome coming day,

I want to reclaim my soul I say,

And so furthermore, I rise.

 

Passed the patch eyed sipping sailor,

Passed all the wing glued birds,

Passed Jack and his frosty brink,

Passed the ships of past times sink,

And all the forgotten souls. I rise.

 

And back to her arms I will always return

Back to her embrace, her heavenly burn,

I will always find the strength through my sinking demise,

To swim up towards broken bluer skies and meet her loving arms,

And so always, I shall rise.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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.

Guilt

Twisted and mangled like disregarded wrappings strewn across a bare floor, this guilt mangles and twists me into a shape, devoid of the man, I was before.

 Ash grey skin as bleak and lifeless as floating body, once walked with pinker complexion, now floats and swirls face down, lost to all, a sad reflection.

 Hindsight, its torturous memory, taunts with constant projection, of the once possible, now unobtainable choices, of a wiser, direction.

 Eyes haunted with pasts entity, possess all the answers, but none of the keys, lost in times forgotten, to open seas.

 Guilt a burden, mine`s deserved, forgiveness a virtue, or so I’ve heard.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Racing Fear

The fear won today

got one over

cast me aside

with the slightest kick

and the wink of an eye.

I will try harder

to set the pace

fear only won

today’s meaningless race.            .

Ill be back tomorrow

at the blocks

hope in mind

knuckles of rocks.

Everyday a gun start

with will in my eyes

and grit in my heart

I embrace this race

I embrace each start.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.