Archive for the death Category

Lines on Two Missed Football Matches

Posted in death, Poetry, remembrance, writing with tags , , on April 13, 2015 by Graeme Cooper

A quiet requiem arrives
On a quiet Easterly breeze
Bringing words
of a half forgotten song
Mingled with the wind
Which we silently sing
To the memory one gone too soon. And the sky replies with rain,
As if weeping.

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Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.

Beat

Posted in death, health, Mental Health, music, Poetry, writing with tags , , on March 12, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Strange
Food brings
Mood swings. He
Could sing
Brooding lullabies but
Her bright eyes
Catch the light like
The glitterball gleaming in
The ceiling of his
Sleep; compressing the chest
Of the restless bass player pacing
The empty stage of
His empty dreams, promising
Oblivion,
That thoughtless dominion
Of the obvious
rhyme.
While unseen drummer summons
The legions of the beat,
Unseen lesions secrete murderous
Chemicals sweet and he
Sleeps with the disco lights on,
Afraid of dancing with the dark.

Shadow

Posted in death, health, Poetry with tags , , on October 16, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

A shadow unformed, still and quiet,

Sits out of sight.  Waiting

For invisible rays to create white,

So that it can become a shadow proper.

 

It is already creating a shadow

Of a man as it grows darker

But needs the X-ray light to block

To become a Shadow.

 

The moment of discovery

Makes it a legend,

The moment it becomes a shadow on film,

It becomes a Shadow of the mind.

 

Soon, shadow is not enough,

Blocking light will not satisfy.  It

Becomes a black hole, sucking light

And life from cells and personality alike.

 

Destroying the possibility

Of poetry.

Without Love, This Happens

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, philosophy, Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on October 4, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Consciousness

Is too much.

We are not

Primitive enough.

 

Instinctive sense

Of smallness and place

In something bigger

Is drowned in ego.

 

We are just enlightened

Enough to see our folly

But unable to escape it

Except through death,

Which we pursue wildly,

Whilst trying to pretend the opposite.

 

We cannot afford to admit

That self-destruction is the only path

Which makes any sense

Whilst gorging on annihilation

Chemical, consumerist, religious or military.

 

If death is the last great adventure,

Why do we live?

More primitive species know

But are unaware of knowing.

We are aware of not knowing

And it will destroy us all.

 

And then, I look up

From my reverie,

See you smile,

Your eyes turn these words

To vapour

And everything is easy and fine.

 

You wordlessly take my hand,

Lead me into the garden.

I am whole.

I am home.

HOPE

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, writing with tags , , on September 30, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Turbulent volcanic waves

May be ridden;

Earthshaking quakes damped.

Hurricane’s insane roar

Can be made quiet;

Blows of the terrible beast cast aside.

Quenched may be hell’s deafening inferno.

But these feats are not finite.

The fight must be daily waged,

Lest fires engulf fevered souls,

Turning to dust their molten core.

Sunrise, blessed relief,

Blinds terror but temporarily until

She finds her eyes

And, worse, her voice again.

Clawing words slash wildly inside the mind,

Casting doubt on defences until

Sleep submerges time once more.

But time undrownable gasps,

oh too soon, demanding

The barricades be manned again.

For to let go;

To let the monsters roar;

To allow the flames and earthquakes

Do their will;

To take cover, watch

The inferno burn itself out,

Is a risk never to be dared.

Is there breath enough

To dare dive, headlong,

Into that depthless ocean?

Where the oozing leviathan,

Hunts and stalks unseen fathoms?

To wrestle and overcome?

Then is there the reach

Left to surface?

Find daylight?

What revenge may other spectres take,

On their kindred’s slayer

Emerging into air again?

Why look,

To unreliable skies,

To bring relief?

Any maternal embrace

Of gentle sun

Has long since set

Over the western horizon,

Never to return

Untainted by cancerous night.

Speak of peaceful dreams,

By all means

But the eyes will always tell

Of fighting dragons still.

Then tomorrow…

Oh, great myth of tomorrow!

Tomorrow nothing changes.

Tomorrow looks at faces,

Says words.

Stays damned.

Give up hope

Of rescue, go native,

Become the beast

Which gnaws the brain.

Spit poison at the weak to numb the pain,

If you must. Reflect

Sour sunlight’s stinging daggers

On one outwardly more wretched. Yet,

In the evening,

Still no redemption will come.

The True King

Posted in death, love, Poetry, winter, writing with tags , , on September 17, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Snowfall

With all

Her Opheliant beauty

Sharpens the shards of

Winter’s shattered heart

 

Freezing tears become

Vengeful spears

To vanquish

Summer’s madness and

Rotting autumnal

Cruelty

Josephine Corcoran

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