Poetry Collection by Adrian Spendlow 10 2017

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The shirt was white-flowered blue with paler cuffs and collar

Crispy salad and crunchy cheese

Cold boiled new pots. and huge old ham

Making sure the home-made lemonade is keeping cool

With regular bathroom calls for personal appearance checks

When at the door to admit her, a blob is spotted

A breakfast blob below the collar

 

Turned out she was into S & M

 

                                           Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Aloud and Wild

 

I cry

 

I cry who I am

 

I cry

 

 

                       Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Nothing More

 

A friend who loves

 

I know

 

And am understood

 

There is

 

Nothing more

 

Adrian Spendlow

 

 

 

Galvanised Experience

 

We weave back into the past of reality

For this is more set in stone than actuality

The happenings of the happened must have their glory

Nothing of the now is as real as the story

Blind to the flowerings of the rockery

Present view point forever slippery

 

                                                Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Upon a time…

There once were children

Until imagination

Took them to an island

Where inner callings

Turned them into tribes

Happy they were in pretence

Except that –

Something happened inside

A darkness overcame them

They writhed

Hearts heaved

Other ancient aspects of them

Steadily started to rise

Something monstrous

Arisen

As one, they wizened

Scaled and fearsome

Winding wildly

Onward

Moving gruesomely on

They have become

A…

Dragon!

 

                        Adrian Spendlow

 

 

 

I Was That Janitor

I was abducted by aliens

Abducted

Examined

Stimulated

Tickled

They took me in their

Metal ship

They stripped me with their

Metal probes

They fed me with their

Metal chips

They thrilled me with their

Metal nodes

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

 

Abducted

It was smashing

And they had

three of everything

They took me

OOOOOOOOH

They took me

from this place

This paltry earth

Did what they did

Then

They

Brought me back again

It’s true

I know

It happened to me

 

They brought me back

To the exact same place

At the exact same time

But they wiped the memory

From my mind

But I had had a

premonition

That I was going

I know

The question on your lips is

When……

It happened in the middle

Of this poem

 

                                     Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Kick

The myth of magic speaks in this

The embodiment of solid stillness

I have walked in fungi forest

In it’s secret oozing silence

All around the lake

 

Everywhere a brooding, living beauty

And it spoke

The runes ran thick

Quick the age old message

From root to stick

 

Oh the air

It was in the very air

A sporeform finger

Investigating

“Get out”

“Go away”

“Your not a growing thing”

 

I felt the sickly sing-song sting

It’s clamping, poly-primal cling

It threatened me with everything

And so I ran

 

Pale blues – Limes –

The palest shade of pink –

Spotted scarlet sporting spots –

Balls of pustule puffing putrid stink –

I ran past parasols that turn to ink –

Penny Bun Balletes –

A tree, – no longer visible

 

I hear the age old message

Air so liquid thick

They tell me

Just what I should think

I understand

And so I ran

As planned

 

            Adrian Spendlow

 

 

The Strength of Strangers

 

A witch may wish

Or visit here

Bringing upon us

News of her wisdoms

 

Ravens may fly here

Foretelling of arrivals

Ships can be seen afar

 

Fires will burn

Hot and sudden: red

All will ready

 

Arming themselves

Forging an iron resolve

Death or glory

 

Farm safety

Depends, it seems,

On bloodied victory

 

Our history however

Echoes a message,

 

Sometimes

Those apposed to us

Can be traded with

 

 

Adrian Spendlow

                          as Skald

 

 

Times

I rise above

I lift

I like to be

 

I roll without knowing

I should know

I should

 

I am the news

 

The disaster

The fascinating

The moment

 

And the fall

 

I rise above

 

 

             Adrian Spendlow

 

 

 

haiku

The long dusk; the low sun

Before Autumn twilight

All golden now

 

                    Adrian Spendlow

As there is this Me Too thing going on at the moment i thought I would reblog a couple  of my survivor poems (from a forthcoming book)…

Soul Property

These little subtle things of hate

Somewhat less often of late

The trick is in anticipation

Playing upon preoccupation

 

Returning to times in memory

(Unaware of victor’s glory)

Which hurt beneath the levels of aware

To always inside still be there

 

Recollection ever present

Something of self is rent

Quietly said, privately spoken

Hit and hit again upon the broken

 

Words quietly said, privately spoken

Hit and hit again upon the broken

 

All time lost to anticipation

 

Adrian Spendlow

 

I used to perform this one with a blues band…

 

DEEP IN THE NIGHT

 

Deep in the night I just want to cry

The rest of the time

There are things I am after

Reaching

To be – What I’m driven to be

But just not being up to it

Leaves you inadequate

Deep in the night,

When I touch the unreachable,

That’s when the heart is,

Wanting to cry

 

Then a mask falls

I’m living – and fooled into being –

Happy – Go lucky – Hardworking – and me.

Believe it.,

“There’s nothing to stop you”

“You are who you are”

 

Deep in the night I just want to cry

Passion and pleasure

Fulfilment, procurement

I can do it. I can make it. – Keep my wolf away.

Sensuality saves you – you forget you have feelings

Even inner peace, on the odd time I achieve it,

Rankles, on my heart, as merely a sham

 

Deep in the night,

I hear,

Deep in the night,

So clear,

Deep in the night,

Comes the echo,

“Just what is you justification for being on this planet”

Damn! It’s a voice! I can hear it.

And sometimes I buckle

 

Tortured for the moment and blind to the dawn

Deep in the night sometimes

Deep in the night I just,

Deep in the night when I falter

Deep in the night I just want to cry

 

                          Adrian Spendlow

 

And an old fun one from back when I smoked…

                Jelly Baby Continuum

 

OH OH   Out of Rizlas   Out the house   Corner shop

Oooooooo   Jelly Babies   Mmmmm   Scoff

All the way back   Home   Empty pack

Time   For a fag   Out with the baccy   Rizlas

Reach in pocket   OH OH   Empty pack    What!

Er   Jelly Babies   Scoffed   Packet in pocket

Cig papers….   In bin   Damn   Back to shop

Ooooooo   Jelly Babies

 

 

                               Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Here is the previous collection

 

Discworld blog

And here is the last magazine type blog I did…

Do buy the guy

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Click ‘Poetics’ in the footer bar below to go to the first poetry blog and then keep clicking ‘Next in Current Series’ to work through them all…

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Poetry Collection by Adrian Spendlow 08 2017

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Poetry Collection by Adrian Spendlow 08 2017

 

If by chance

If by chance a fairy came this way the air she danced upon a glistening pastel pattern of an atmosphere inter-linked with lilac, puce and purple edges of the burgundy issuing images of thought inside you of an informative description messaging to reach for this in all the impossible the actual the so now real She gives you She gives you gifts made possible from within the everything If by chance a fairy being fluttered by us yes she did and this is ever-time where one foot steps and feels the dew rise to lift one slightly Never ever again walk at surface earth or quite the same for you are otherkin and everything is happening Reach within and step beyond to

 

by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Bum’s Rush

I am moving back up, onto the edge of the toes

By the minute; go the moment

Hang it and dump it this not able to cope

Sickness, bereavement, anxiety, recovery

Slowly, ponderously, dealing if possible

Begger that darlings. It is a whole just as shite

When you are ready for it. Up at it every day

Mind set and healthy fit

Though don’t expect to get the better of it

Get on them timbers and shout out for attention

Not expecting though

To be immune to an afternoon snooze

Or a complete flip out

Take all your happy snaps

Begger that too honey. I am ready

And I am right on the edge of the toes

It’s called living

And bum cheeks are clenched

 

by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

The Noise in the Corner There

 

Most people are just not that pretty

Or interesting in appealing ways

Miracles are manipulated to achieve

Off the peg fits for their additives

Thank the gods of unloveliness

There are evening socials

Groups to join, sufferings to have

Places we hate to work – Thank God

Not being interesting is quite bad enough

Hey, we don’t know how to engage with you

Or to take turns either

Those botched eyes haven’t quite related

To your semi absenteeism

Inept appearance is hardly our worse aspect

Let’s form a club, or work hard to have staff night outs

Goggle at each other; at our google eye unbeauty

Let’s have a get together

 

                                       by Adrian Spendlow

 

Just Any Two People

God it was exciting to be alive

Back when another human was encouraging

Things there were to say of each other

Habits turned to possible activities

I was interesting by god

So were both of us

Shadowy gangs of hangers on

They realise

They used to be people we knew

They were excited too

No, actually, they were exciting too

It was us, and we were new

 

                                   by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

I Spotted A Victim

I admire the survivability of survivors

A whole rainforest of tears shine this morning

Just thinking of playgrounds and wooded areas

Just thinking of the homes which disparage the word

I admire the survivor

The ability to look in a mirror on waking

And ‘make-up’ to be like other people

Other people other than perpetrators

Surely there are other people

That’s why we do our hair of a morning

To be like those other people we have heard of

I admire the survivor for keeping writing as tears

Blur the ink of this growing poem

I admire the survivor

For I am sure they can see me

Reaching out as we know you know

Monsters make us doubt ourselves

Yet a chance moment allows

An unstable old person, a poet,

And an eight year old

To look around sat on hay bails

And acknowledge

I don’t know you, either of you

But I do know

I know you admire me for I survive

I do admire survivors

I admire the survivability of survivors me

 

                                              by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

I Dreamed of a Village

We built a tepee village here

And the bunny boiler

Killed my kid

“Goat stew” he said

A whole herd has lost

My favourite little friend Fifi

He belittled me in other ways

These days I look back at

The rolling meadow utopia

We physically built there

 

                             by Adrian Spendlow

 

It Never Happened

It is my honour bound duty

She whispered kindly to her

To keep a child with her mother

I am a family nurturer

In many situations I would do this

In your case

It would be a wickedness

Over my dead body would they

Put you back with that monstress

Bless you child

That you have no memory

Wild as you are

You are a miracle you see

 

                       by Adrian Spendlow

 

And a couple of old ones from way back…

 

Something Inside Me

I set the default

It doesn’t work

There is always a reset

 

But I go

 

I try

 

Old as I am

There is no wisdom

 

There is only

A new direction

 

I wait here

And wonder

 

What it is…

 

AS

 

Poetry Is

 

Poetry is a flickering grit of rock

Cast within the wide forever black

Poetry is a rare viewed

talismanic artefact

Poetry is the disallowed

Clutching at the edges of the past

Poetry is no longer held

As other than the esoteric

Bring it back

Poetry is – no longer

Gone the way of the storyteller

Gone the way of the Shaman’s chant

The way of the dance

Where is all your ritual

The spiritual – The festival

Gone the way of the

Soon to follow songwriter

When such as Dylan die

Who will sing

Just for the sake of truly saying

Poetry – Poetry is gone

No longer inspiring the simple soul

To go live the life of the Troubadour

Poetry is no more

And yet

It leaves us all bereft

Help us poetry

Why don’t you call

Reach us like a joy to share

Gather people – Listening hearts

Or have we hardened

Pushed aside for solid ground

The will to even care

Poetry is dead

And at it’s wake

The quaffer’s smack their lips on

Garish fayre

Did they forget

Or is it there

Seeded in the genes

the memory of gathering

Simple childhood harmony

Poetry is

A stoppered flask

Lingering as an inkling barely heard

Lost, stamping,

just beyond the daily word

 

Poetry is

The victim of the

“That’s not”’s

Judgement takes her

Poetry is

The scoffing stock of

“No time”’s

Avarice despise her

Poetry is the metal of the spirit

Turned away for what seems sharper

Poetry is

The laugh of Gods

Gouged out by heartlessness

A vision that the modern self

Just will not see

Set it free

Set it free

Say ‘Poetry’ have a home in me

Poetry – Poetry – Poetry

 

AS

 

 

0123 ev group flipped

 

 

All Before Us

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All Before Us

I shall be performing this poem tonight as part of my presentation; Adrian Spendlow, Spiritualist, survivor, poet, storyteller and blogger presents his life journey with the title – I Don’t Know.

All Before Us

Just think of all the lives that have lived before us

So many souls who have walked this way

What I wouldn’t give to see all their pathways

Yes how I’d hope to inherit their happiness

It is good I suppose to not feel all their sufferings

Let’s just hope we don’t repeat all they’re mistakes

We owe them a debt I reckon to walk somehow taller

Straighter yes and prouder through all that heritage

 

Oh walk us life, down a path, deep trod with experience

Feel the past’s arms supporting us and pointing ways

Our instinctual kindred learnt so much through their struggles

Perhaps some of that knowledge is tied up inside of us

Enough to know not to trample other folk for our gain

 

Millions have live and died with their eyes on the future

Their hopes cried aloud to all that would listen

Not just for themselves, or their own, but us all

We hear you our kindred, our families, our truth

We take what you offer foundations, our roots

So many that have lived and died stand before us

So many souls that once walked are still with us

Let us step through their visions with their will to survive

Then maybe together we might dare say,

‘We’ve arrived’

 

 

Adrian Spendlow

Wish me strength

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I offer this poem as a way to share and perhaps give strength to others as I approach a life-long awaited moment which I only recovered a memory of need for a decade ago. It has been a journey. And I am remembering it now.
.
.
I dive in now
.
long has been the wait
long has been the life
recent has been the memory
so,
.
through Monday’s therapy
I dive in to find me
.
a ten year journey
strange
.
i am talking to myself now
of the chance to rearrange
who is me.
.
we will talk of surviving
somehow
.
.
.
AS
.
.
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