Don’t scare the horses

As quiet as the night shouts.
Inside all is chaos.
I looked for you, in all the usual memories.
At the end of every line.
But the phone was dead.
These ribs are my prison.
The ghosts scream from within.
Fighting to get out, while I keep them trapped.
They hear my heartbeat, they know the sorrow that speaks.
Shhhh, do not talk out loud.
The voices say over and over.
A mangled multitude vying to be heard.
But none are the ones I wish to hear.
For I search and scour.
Wandering through the inky night while the page stays blank.
I cannot find you.
I cannot ease the absence.
As I upturn all and shout at the devil.
Sending the birds and brave skywards.

05/04/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: alone, death, fearsTags: alone, art, birds, death, end, ghosts, lonely, poem, Poetry, strange, sun, voices 11 Comments

A Broken version

These roots, once wrapped up in cotton.
Fade and break to a summer forgotten.
They twist and scorn in a marauders bed.
Feasting on lies within that head.
And wake tomorrow black and rotten.

02/03/202211/02/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: dark, death, fearsTags: age, art, bed, black, death, dementia, end, forgotten, haunt, light, man, mental health, Old, poem, Poetry, roots, rotten, summer 1 Comment

Papa

Salmon and trout, all be out.
And make sure they’re not after.
Have a drink boy, grow up quick boy.
Be just like your father.
Ignore all change, forget to hope.
Learn to live with racist jokes.
Walk the line, sharp as whisky.
Make sure you’re dead before you’re sixty.
Why are you crying?
What’s the problem here?
Can’t you see I’m lying.
Can’t you see I’m lost in fear.
Man up boy, shake off those feelings.
Take on the challenge of dirty dealings.
Respect me, fear me, and do so silently.
And grow up hating every part of me.

19/01/202226/11/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: family, fears, smokeTags: art, cockney, dad, drink, family, father, fear, hurt, joke, papa, poem, Poetry, rascist, rhyme, slang, smoking, time, whisky 12 Comments

What we have is gold

Block karma as it seeps into the crevices.
High on me like supersonic agitation.
Suspended apprehension.
Giving time to wallow in the presence of now.
Born out of the very fabric you wish to tear.
July night, watching independence explode like a fountain of stars.
Too mentally exhausted to matter.
Collecting gold and the thoughts which shatter.
Everything trapped in glass.
Trading sorrys and eyes which follow.
Bleeding into tomorrow.
Cut down in its needling prime.
Dispelling cowardice and collecting courage.
You are sorry. (So at ease)
I still love you.

01/09/202102/08/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: fears, sorry, starsTags: art, coward, fireworks, fountain, gold, mental, poem, Poetry, stars, tree Leave a comment