Spiritual Junkie : Poems That Make You Blink
David Swan
Published by The Spiritual Junkie@Smashwords
Copyright 2011 David Swan
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
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Junkie
Hey You Junkie !
brown
eyed and bushy tailed
crying
like a true artist
tears
soaked all over your suit
thoughts
written across your face.
Your
brick heavy head lies
dead
on my sofa whilst
U
dream of methadone martyrdom
and
fields made of needles
and
wishes that betrayed you.
Hey
you junkie !
get
you some civility
don’t
bribe me with Ginsberg
and
his strange words that still my centre
You
revealed the coward in me
the
full time fool
stop
crying about your wife !
Your
face is an ugly turtle and
this
whole world is your zoo.
The
benches are all empty
and
the skies are way too full.
Mother and Baby
What strange
creature lies before me
without
a name to know you
so
I could accuse you
of
leaving my belly so cold.
Some
say God sent you.
Darwin
mentions evolution
but
you seem so other worldly
staring
at me with history,
looking
like peace.
There’s
knowledge in the weight of you.
I
heard philosophical men once speak
of
karma.
Are
you my mother ?
Did
I do wrong ?
Slowly
you will grow old
just
as empires do.
But
for me they'll build a pyre,
and
I’ll set sail,
while
the flames dance, snap, and crack.
Snow
The snow reminds me of dust
something not to breath in.
And the beauty of the scenery I find
quite
haunting,
as
if I can't somehow contain it.
So
I try to capture it with my camera.
Somehow
the photo never
quite
brings me back to that moment of
such sad beauty.
So
I burn it,
and the ashes from the
photograph
fall to the ground
and
remind me once again
of
the sadness of pure beauty.
Again
I take a photo
but
this one I keep in a jar
with
a lighter by its side.
It
remains there to this day
waiting
for my last breath,
so
I can burn and see the beauty
once again.
Loner
You see me here pondering
Bedraggled
old loner
Unshaven
hunter of dreams
Writer
of words not yet written
Singer
of songs not yet sung
and
the lover of loves
not
yet won.
Food
Send me down the river
let
this discarded body lie.
Let
it rot amongst the lilies
and
be nurtured by the sky.
Bury
me in the garden, and let
my
blood make flowers grow.
Allow
my tears to water hedges
and
with my death let sorrow go.
Take
my body to the mountains
and
let vultures be my guest.
Let
my flesh be food for comfort
while
my soul in heaven rests.
Silly Science
the quarks sat there simply refusing to
move
while
protons and neutrons could no longer groove
and
scientists sat there observing with muse
that
the energies inertia simply refused
Last Words
He
hung there like a fake Rembrandt
beautiful but false.
His
slender arms stretched like
twisted
towels
his legs delicately crossed.
The
beauty of his body raised before me;
an unwilling shroud.
The
blood from his forehead
moistened his lips as he raised his
head
and said to me
'God
is dead ! God is dead !
tell
the people so.
Your
future dies with me
Your father never was,
and your prayers
remain unanswered,
just
lonely echoes in a forest of silence'.
What Matters
What matters for some is dark chocolate,
And that silky, sexy, bitter sweet taste.
What matters in the minds of rich people,
Matters less in the minds of the poor ones.
What matters are stars born from emptiness,
And crumpled quilts on children’s unmade beds.
What matters most is my mother, cancer
Ridden, and that phone call to say I care.
What matters is that you really know me,
and as human beings all share my fate.
Matter, matters, to the mad scientists,
but it doesn’t matter to faithful priests.
What matters to them are affairs of the
Heart, what matters to them both is truth.
What matters to me is an open mind,
and chewing all things on an open path.
What matters can be the question of death,
buried beneath a system of belief.
What matters in heaven, matters in hell
and if neither exists, and god is dead.
What matters most are these fragile winter
sticks, that can snap, and break in a heartbeat.
God King
I am the God King of all the
Buddha’s. My feet are firmly
Grounded on either Side of the
Universe. My staff is centred.
I hold past and future like lilies
In the palms of my hands. I appear
at once in all directions. My many
faces, reflections of the divine.
Words like Truth, love, and GOD,
Are merely signposts pointing to the
Bottomless and inexplicable
Vastness of that which I am.
Birth and Death are gates through
Which we pass through endlessly.
Time and Space, only nails hammered
In, to give structure to substance.
Cast of your false expectations of
Enlightenment and feel your feet
On the ground, and rainbows
will appear in all directions.
My friend called FOE
What if someone said,
Would you like to meet the fabric of existence
and you said yes.
What would it be like
What colour would it be
Would it be large and if so,
how large ?
Could you touch it
or smell it
or even bring it back to show your parents.
What would you tell them
"I'd like you to meet the fabric of existence"
Do you think they would be shocked ?
"What's his name ? " cries your Mum.
"Where's he from ?" enquires your Dad.
“and what do his parents do !”
But he has no name
comes from nowhere
and certainly has no parents.
But he loves to play,
always playing ;
with time,
with creation,
with the destruction
of stars and dreams,
endlessly creating new people, new planets, new languages, new species.
If you met the fabric of existence
how would you feel ?
Maybe scared, initially.
Something so vast:
no boundaries
no signposts
no name to call it
and to be it completely
you would have to give up your ground.
Can you handle that ?
to have no name,
to have no boundaries,
to have no sense of self or place in this
vast and uncompromising universe.
no sadness, no joy, no shame, no sorrow....
Yes ? No ?
Maybe you would put it back and say no thanks.
I'm quite happy with who I am.
My laptop, my living room, my unconventional eating habits.
You would put him in a box.
Maybe call him GOD.
Labels are nice,
boxes are nice,
to contain things is nice...
and if your parents ask....
where did that big, ugly, friend of yours go ?
you know the one without names, or boundaries, or parents
and you would say,
I don't know he just disappeared.
Chasin Fiery Tigers Tails
I chase fiery tigers tails
Sometimes they burn
my fingers
I
cool my fingers in turquoise waters
while
the emerald jewels of the lake
wink
from my reflection.
Fiery
tigers they have furry tails
that
are longer than my dad
they
stretch across hungry skies
that
hug me then sneak off into space
Fiery
tigers like to call my name
they
invite me out to dance
In
a trance my feet twist and turn
hypnotised
my hands twist and shake
as
I pirouette across the desert floor.
By
night time I've grown tired
of
chasin fiery tigers tails.
So
I sleep on the desert floor.
A
desert fox keeps the wind from me
Stars
become my bed time light.
When
I sleep I dream of fiery tigers
They
sing and dance to tempt me
and
in my dreams I can fly
so
I chase fiery tigers across the sky
they
try to hide behind the stars
I
chase them till the ends of space
where
a million tigers are running
Their
long fiery tigers tails light up
the
edges of the universe
as
they endlessly eat into empty space..
The Piper
The piper stands feet firm to the ground
his heart points towards the north.
Strong gales reach down childless lochs
while huddled elders whisper Gaelic tales.
Some say ghosts lay along this road
souls of clansmen drenched in blood.
Tartan cloth and skin become bone,
hands clenched tight, molded to metal.
Draped in this flag dark blue and white,
a cross that bears the scar of repression.
Some say we dance to a southerner’s tune
but we say the piper stands alone.
How long to wait for the rallying call ?
Remaining servants to distant cousins.
Some say that we fear to go it alone,
to tread without sisters and brothers.
For what is a home without its heart.
Rotterdam
Straight lines no curves
History bombed flat.
A cold naked canvas at
The mercy of adventurous architects.
Meticulous plans laid down from the
Dreams of scholarly men.
Turning ghosts whispers
From the ethereal to the angular.
Some say dispassionate, abstract
Forms of tactless construction.
I see true peace in symmetry
A prayer in concrete form.
Collateral Damage
The best time is early in the morning
when the sun lifts its eyelids across
the desert floor and the smoky swirls
of burning oil are chased away.
The smell of cheap black coffee
that catches the back of your throat.
The sight of your first target.
My gun is a cross on which I die daily.
When squinting through the cross hair
my bullet could be galaxies away.
A message from the angels of death
How could you be so cold they say ?
But I was trained to shoot targets,
I was trained to ‘not’ think, just shoot.
There’s no room for a chance to say
'drop your weapons' ask what side you’re on
To kill is drilled into me, to question,
left by Officers. They provide the excuses.
One minute a hero, next a psychopath.
They say, why didn't you identify ?
One women, a husband, and one child.
Burning sunlight in downtown Baghdad.
Faces of hatred thrown at me. Every
Human being a potential target.
But what some say is wrong, is
sometimes considered right and war
strips you of your humanity, takes
your soul, and nails it to a cross.
I Am
I am small but can be tall.
I am fat, thin, black, white,
funny and sad.
I am the sun rising early in the morning
then descending slowly till I am the night.
I am the love your mother gave you, but
I am the hate that made you fight.
I am the sex that makes love to you sweet and light.
I am WAR, a seed hidden deep within you,
stripping you bear with all my might.
I will give you the strength to build yourself up,
and with a single word, bring you crashing down.
I am fear.
I am thunder.
I am a rainy day.
I am a sunray.
My storms have wreaked havoc across continents
rendered countries helpless, thousands dead,
children motionless with despair.
My wars have taken humanity to
the darkest regions of its soul.
I am holocaust.
I am atom bomb.
And when the world finally collapses to its knees
unable to witness its own destruction.
I will come.
For I am hope in the distance,
coming out of the darkness into the light.
I am God, but the Devil too.
Do not try to understand me, for
I will turn you insane.
Trust in me.
I am out there but in here.
I am the Universe and beyond.
I am all.
I am everything.
But most importantly of all,
I am nothing.
Stone
It sits.
Huddled like a mother
Cuddled by the weather
A burden on the landscape.
A profound density of mass,
Bearded with moss.
Transient
morrocan firebird
long tail trailing
curly hair held
tight in my fists
arms and legs wrapped
round like vine leaves
my knuckles knead
your doughy skin
our eyes lock and
i see love : death
time doesn't exist
when i am with you
but death does,
a grinning skull.
love is transient.
Rise
i rise at 7:30
& sit on my
zafu.
outside lightning
strikes,
inside the
buddha
speaks.
Dreams of Africa
From the ashes rose
Africa,
A phoenix of pure
sunlight.
Its vast wings of
antiquity,
shadowed across a continent:
a mother’s arms shielding its
newborn
from an imperialist sun
It’s velvet and silky voice now
soars across a delightfully orange
tinged sky;
singing songs from fallen angels
about the hidden fruits
they once tasted.
hopes on one day returning,
on wings borrowed from
Africans Sorrow.
The River
Tired and brown the river winds down
through mudflats and derelict houses.
Its steady stream gazed upon by lovers,
Thieves, and untainted children.
Its water courses through cities and towns
and abandoned waterways. Sounds of
modern distractions held back by
un-tamed brambles and gnarled branches.
The river reflects hands held to faces
and absorbs the tears of young men.
Sometimes the shadows of flies twirl
unpredictably: as is the nature of things.
The river runs on for miles and miles
and passes no judgment. All are welcome
to gaze upon Its hypnotic surface and try
to fix an eye upon its movement.
But the river moves on from mountain to sea
and it has no story to tell.
The Heart of it
was in the stone
But u can’t hear anything.
u can’t see anything.
It offers u no teachings.
Just sits there.
Round, smooth, the weight of an Angel.
A symbol of peace.
Its illusory solidity confirmed,
by Scientists and Buddhists alike.
Confirmation definite.
Its silent sound vibrates from the centre,
the endless cycles of the universe
A never ending gyroscopic descent,
into the heart of matter.
Child Soldier
I am a child soldier, but I have never seen
the plains of Africa. My battlefields are
the living rooms of tired tenement blocks,
and semi detached houses everywhere.
I stare out across carpets and see shrapnel
of smashed tea cups and photo frames.
Scratched records spin endlessly round
‘singing bye bye Miss American Pie’
I protect the Angel an embattled old soul
who holds aloft her bottle of Martini
like Joan of Arc & sings the blues like
Billie Holiday. Cigarette smoke twirling.
And you my sodden father, drunken old
Teacher. Zen master with war weary tales.
Your tears and spit would often mix in your
Palms as you firmly shook my hand.
Don't you know the Queensberry rules ?
She can't dance like a butterfly, but you
sure sting like a bee. And now the whole
world to me is Joe Frazier, and I am
Muhammad Ali.
The Singularity
Bending a singularity
Is very simple don’t
you see
Take a finger pinch of space dust
And split time with
eternity.
Grab the corners of the universe
And with some
water add a dash
Bend the curves without a nervous twitch
And
don’t forget to catch the flash.
View the flash under a
microscope
Then with a knife slice through the middle
And
you’ll see right in the heart of it
A singularity playing the
fiddle.
If your patient, why not wait a while
For this
wondrous song to end
And then ask the singularity
If it
wouldn’t mind giving a bend.
The Wall
A Blackness that can’t be
Penetrated.
A Thickness that offers
No Hope.
A Silence that can last for
Eternity.
You notice a Gate, with a sign which reads,
‘leave everything behind if you wish to pass through’
So you take of your clothes;
Shoes, hats, socks and shirt.
Then leave behind your family;
Your Father, Your Mother, Sister and Brother,
And cousins too.
You place aside your memories
Of all you’ve ever done.
Then remove your body;
Your hair, Your teeth, Your blood, Your bones,
In a nice pile please.
You stand there as nothing,
And open the gate.
But there’s nothing there cept a sign that reads,
BIG JOKE : )
And the wall starts to laugh, everything starts to laugh,
everyone starts to laugh: So you should laugh too.
Solitary Pilgrim
I sit in the Sahara Desert, contemplating.
After the war to end all wars finished.
Sun tracing my back, wishing the world was flat.
All human life vanished, in an instant.
Some animals left angry and confused, I their master.
I have the last flower picked from a field in Iran,
Dried and placed between the pages of a book.
I drank the last drop of water from the Indian ocean,
Surviving on tears till they dried too.
So here I sit, Solitary Pilgrim, the only one with a key
And always the last to leave.
Slowly the world rotates, whittling itself down to an
Apple core. I too whittle away until nothing remains.
And from all around me I hear laughter.
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Thank You for reading my poems. I have been writing on and off for fifteen years and the above poems are the result of meditating, searching, and thinking about myself and the nature of the world we live in. I am a late starter in life and I am currently working on a novel of the same name which I hope to also have published via smashwords.com. Please find me on dpswan.wordpress.com for updates. Thanks