Day One Hundred and Fifty One: 4.8 Miles of Spirit

I’m going to revisit this, I think. I have unfinished business. Spot the sci-fi references! It might even vanish later on….

Like the Vikings before me
I found a new home in this red soil,
While the shadow of Matvei Gusev
loomed large around me.
Creating a tribute to Columbia,
I moved nearly five miles away,
sending home pictures of things
that no one has ever seen.
The days got longer,
While I became accustomed to being alone.

Alone in an undisturbed desert,
my boon became a fettered romance,
Sleepy Hollow and colour images,
Humphrey and water history,
Taking samples and relying them back home
(A place I’ll never return too),
my little lonely mission to be carried out in lovely
barren seclusion,
wading through crimson sand
like walking through a sunken dream.

Dreams? You won’t believe the things I’ve seen;
Gold rocks and whirlwinds of dust,
Extending my sols (because this is how the Earthmen determined days),
delaying the rust.
372 watts and not a moment too soon,
I confirmed a water rich past,
So Earth need no longer look at the moon.
This dead place, in a dead space, once thrived with life
my itchy, broken wheel uncovered the signs,
yet I can’t help but become more Martian.
Before long I was stuck and communications were low,
batteries recharging, but the time between them
increased ever more, so stationary I became.

I had a dream about a blue sky on Mars,
Populated with humans and creatures alike
and warriors of ice.
One day, this will be a new home
and perhaps I will no longer be alone.
Whether terraformed and half-owned by one family,
a place to built new Starships,
Or a place for the creation of a glass metropolis
by the only superman,
this place will always remain cold.

In the cold is where I stand. No more sunlight,
Dust covered arrays,
no way to be cleaned,
a software upgrade,
embedded in Troy,
A Trojan horse
a Trojan
a fine-
Earth’s
Mars’
fine
work
Ho
rs
e.

Day One Hundred and Fifty: Our Melodic Parish

These four wheels rise and fall with the day
Navigating through the same places, daily,
With the same faces, mainly.
People hustle on and off in droves
to attend corporate sermons in similar places
automatically filling the pews.

A revelation that depicts those who take this bus every morning.

In order to get into the spirit of the day, I lean back into my seat,
Using earbuds to block out the silent prayers.
For over an hour I stare out of the window
Transfixed by the holy sounds in my ears,
quietly singing along with the hymns in my ears,
praise to a God of which I’m always fond of meeting.

We arrive.

The congregation dismount to face the day,
making their way to offices close by,
en route to channel their energies into something
greater than them, collaborating on small financial miracles.

I join them for a spell,
but my true church
can only be attended after work,
in the bars and dingy dive venues
in front of stages and railings
watching in anticipation
disciples throwing out sermons
for crowds of baying parishioners
worshiping through catharsis,
sweating pouring over one another.
The only soul we have is collective
for an hour at best
as we give thanks to a God
that has saved us from being like
the rest.

Day One Hundred and Forty Nine: Ballpoint Streetlight

Kingston Bridge (313/365) by andrewrennie, on Flickr
Kingston Bridge by Streetlight

Traffic rolls past late into the night,
under inky black sky
outlined by viscous ballpoint street light.
This disposable sight, smudged by litres of rain,
is broken by hastily scrawled thunder
drawn against my window pane.
Observing the commuters from afar,
They become drawn dogged shapes, hurrying to and fro,
while my pen runs out.

Day One Hundred and Forty Eight: Hops and Barley

I suspect that the last line may ruin this one…

Oh, you fickle mistress,
With bitter brown or
golden blonde locks,
A master of seduction
In bubbles and light –
The gently brewed beauty
That caresses my mind
deep in to the wee small hours.
The bittersweet intoxication
of this bottled buxom wonder
which, when indulged upon
in moments of excess,
Can erase whole nights
and cloud following days

But I can never give you up
For the moments you touch my lips
are like an angel’s kiss –
An ideal way to unwind.
Sometimes voluptuous and syrupy,
Sometimes athletic and springy,
Other times pretty and fruity
But always a danger
Always a beauty.
Over the years I’ve lost count
of the times we’ve met;
All the cold bitter nights,
or quenching thirst’s
sweet summer sweat,
None of which can cause me to deny
the great bubbly charm that catches my eye.
Or the beers I’ve tasted and the ghosts
their effects have exhumed.

Day One Hundred and Forty Seven: Watch and Pray

image

In a darkened room stands a single red light
a familiar sight that echoes through the night
resembling a God’s red eye and
keeping watch over us all.

In the gloom the empty TV set reflects the room,
Around it all manner of technology is assembled
Atop a wooden alter where our lifestyles lie
a technological tabernacle for human eyes,
converting us to electric deities.

Day One Hundred and Forty Six: Word

What follows is a post I typed on my phone. It’s a poem, but also and experiment of sorts.

Words they give and go,
They change things,
Move things,
Become thin.

However, with new friendly
Words are responded with
Other words –
Charity is not clarity.
Technology, all at once
Stole thee meaning from words,
And gives that which we write
A new being,
Maybe a deeper meaning?

Day One Hundred and Forty Five: The Wards

In a day where all I can do
is let my imagination run away with you,
I’m stuck for things to say.

Hospitals, so sterile, even rob the mind
of creativity. Even in our finest, most
fertile imaginative moments, these
white halls simply echo with the sound
of sanitised artistic endeavours.

Inside these wards, even aesthetics are vetted,
swabbed and rinsed clean by dramatic
antiseptic.