Moments for the mindful – a poem about strength of character and a journey

Moments ultimately lost, light deflected off my words and they tumbled.  My porcelain sentences shattered and scattered.
Impact liquefied my hope, fractured before descent.  I saw intention, their fingerprints amongst the broken splinters.
Angles acute, ragged edges and registered shards, shredded skin and soul.  Piercing only hopes, not dreams! Internally I bled.
No pills to pass or ills to savour, neutrality ignored.  My self-blame traps guilt with emotions not belonging.
Observers offloaded their monkees. 

I travel light now, baggage abandoned at the roadside. Past failings left in darkness, a switch is flicked. 

I walked quietly into the night, for survival. Space needed, but clocks hands are never still.  Discarded empathy is no excuse for vessels of war. No links to intelligence and emotions. 

The passionate will seize the day, as ducts open. Tears will flow into seas of feelings, not feared by owners.  Once in safe hands of soul survivors, I unfurl.
With peacock confidence, now manifesting with humility.  Value once lost in the debris of bygone behaviours.
Once again I feel restored through clear water truth.  With glass covered, launched impurities will fail to permeate.
Forward momentum achieved, finally believed.  No regression to past damage that cannot define me.
I refuse to place my feet behind my shadow.  I cannot tame the wind to preserve my footprints.
Lost forever in the turmoil of manufactured sandstorms.  My many silhouettes to please the masses, drift away.
Staying the course with broken rudder, I strive.  Numbed but not defeated, character – never conquered.
With everyday a school day, baby steps are taken. Trauma but managed drama, if thoughts occupy no entry zones.

They are banished, but rarely listen.  Waking me with poetry and prose to capture with ink.

I decipher the order of my mind’s playground.  Struggling to make sense of my unconscious intention.

For certain, are my penned creations.  Permanent, fast-flowing, like the injustice in my veins.

I must vacate the craters between the trenches.  The enemy now known, tamed, placated.

It is but me, I am my true foe.  With every drop of acid, I let hit my skin and burn my lungs.

I now control the inbound fire.  Increasing the safe distance to my soul.

Tumours now severed and quarterized.  The new camp will never see the history.

The renaissance, a work in progress.  The weight replaced by wings.

 

(Copyright 2022) PedroBatpoet

Limited belief – a poem about threat

What the world sees is a beast, apex alpha, driven,
Focused conditioned primed.
What i see is defective yeast, a cake that’s never risen,
Throatless mute mimed.

Thoughts, irrational irritatants grow,
Counsel insights epihany.
That caught me off guard, it showed,
Unravelled exposed tryany.

As plates collide in random mode,
Friction heat breaking.
Man and crane change land to code,
Integrity strained aching.

Failure opens lava from beneath,
Scorched soul encore.
Extrusive remnants shrinking belief,
Life bruised sore

Exit the danger of falling rocks,
Precision impacts planned.
Forgotten time on discarded clocks,
Authentic passion damned.

Woken up with fire and blood,
Body head affected.
Run afar, less could more should,
Mirrors positioned refracted.

Wilderness walks in the bush I’m lost,
Pressure slowly sifted
My soul being torn not worth the cost,
Power weighed gifted.

A path now found that’s paved with words,
Warm, kind, reasoned.
Vultures all replaced with birds,
Reslience, freshly seasoned.

(Copyright) PedrobatPoet 2022

Riot – a poem about stress

It’s a riot!

My snakes wedding mind is a riot!

Whose taking my side?

Pitch forks and torches.  

It’s ever churning,

The grey sap is weeping!

Please leak into, and influence, my soul.

No brothers to band together.  

The injustice, I used to own the seas!

Master and Commander.

Never fearful of the swell.  

And the calm,

Occasionally, when I awake, no chaff!

This mindfulness, soon to be redundant.

Inevitably, as the day flows,

anarchy grows!  

(COPYRIGHT) PEDRO BATPOET 2019

Precious – a love poem

Not to be wasted, Your love to be tasted,
Explode the creative,
Atoms in my hands.

These hands that feel, Your pain that is real,
My arms are your keel,
Safe in our Ark.

The moments are protected, By our memories collected,
As our hearts entwined connected,
Our diamond Cucoon.

Gentle sounds and shapes, Our touching bodies, they make,
Let us please never, ever awake,
These precious diminishing days  

I breathe you in hard with mouth and nose, Your scent like a rose,
My body filled with rhyme and prose,
The lost years before we met.  

Do we need to leave this bed, Your touch lost, I would be dead,
You can never leave my head,
Our addiction, our obsession.

.©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

A Veterans Lament – Poppy Series 2018 – a poem about how some of us Veterans feel on 11/11

Reveille sounded, warmth felt, we the opaque,

Our friend, the acknowledged half-smile citation.

Today our voices heard, presence felt, never vague,

We will meet again as 11 tolls, with tears, respect and pride.  

Preserve our selfless acts, fresh and real,

Time creates distance, memories clouded, diluted.

Don’t muffle our tattered drums or slow the rusting wheels,

Effervesce our spirits, our lives, and our souls.  

Flash-mob moment, so proud,

Our recognition, always sadness.

Out of ashes and shadows, we are allowed,

Reluctantly into the night with discipline, we will retreat.  

The radiance cools, the end so near,

Petals now crushed underfoot.

On coat lapels they disappear,

We muster with our foe, translucency, as the Last Post echoes off concrete.  

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

I remember you, Jack – Poppy Series 2018 – a poem based on a true story about my G Grandad Jack who returned from Passchendaele for 2 weeks reprieve

“Content influenced by family memories and in memory of my Great-Grandfather who was an infantryman and stretcher bearer for all 4 years of the Great War, and returned a different man. This poem centres on one period of leave, when he returned home with his uniform covered in blood and other body parts, as his friend was killed immediately next to him in a trench. They all wore their old uniforms on periods of leave, carrying fresh at times , to stop them from being sent back too soon, which happened to those travelling North, with fresh new uniforms on.” Service Nos 5313 – Private John W Hunter – York Regiment 1914-1918.      

In silence they sat glazed, furrowed, ploughed,

Comforting cradle sway, the rhythm of the tracks.

Nothing of value can be said right now,

At the fields they stared, no whistles or cracks.  

Each got off, the horrors boxed, now collected,

Jack looked up and nodded, his band of bloodied brothers,

the Pride of Yorkshire which left the carriage, now infested,

His slow walk up the hill, he knocks at his mother’s.  

Precaution door opened, mother fell, he grabbed her,

With guilt, the lice fell off, Fleas they too synchronised.

A fortnight’ reprieve, they gave this battered soldier,

Mother walked him to the stables, stripped and hypnotized.  

She softly washed her boy in silence, breaking and gently weeping,

Jack grabbed her pinny desperate, as she washed and held his head.

They burnt his crusted uniform, with blood the constant seeping,

The forgiving hay absorbed the last, tears fell for his friends, now dead.  

Two weeks he sat, cocooned a fireside to yield,

His Father’s shirt sat on his skin, so soft.

Tomorrow he goes south again, to the rats and killing fields,

Green Dales will be replaced by mud and bombs and shots.  

He worked that bloodied land, ploughed red for four long years,

Carrying contorted bodies, alive and dead from no man’s land.

He returned home again in silence, no handshakes, flags or cheers,

Then sat at that fire, each Christmas passing, staring at his shaking hands.  

A gentle man, my Great-Granddad, true Yorkshireman and grand,

His wife still singing, he left that fire, which robbed his many years,

And with suit now on, a smile uncovered, holding little Susan’s hand,

Park walks, greenery and silence whilst pointing out the flowers.  

Copyright Pedro Bat Poet 2018

Scriptwriting Heroes – a poem dedicated to the amazingly talented people who create emotion through writing

I rarely if ever hear the words, “That person there…now that is an inspirational leader!”

Who do I have to inspire me, standing before the info-hungry masses….their main feeder,

For ideas and direction and guidance and advice, In the search for good times by being authentic and well…nice.

So what has happened to these great people in two thousand and one eight, Are we the unfortunate ones who are all 2 generations too late?

Why do I have the leader of the free world being some quasi-member of the KKK and miss out on the magic and power of JFK?

So if anyone is out there to lead us out of the dark and speak up, Will the real slim shady please stand up!

Because right now when I look at the news with 100% extremist views, I can’t help but feel we’re out of luck.  

So MLK was a literary block of gold, who had a dream, which grabbed the piano keyboard world to show, That love and peace, really is the only way to release,

The oppressed and downtrodden, and societies forgotten, The centuries of historic shame, which to perpetuate just prolongs more pain.

Madiba too stood up to bring an end to Verwoerd’s cancer of social pollution, Which wasn’t too far away from the Nazi’s Final Solution.

So my generation, who do we have now, to hold on to, to respect and embrace? I thought Aung San Suu Kyi, but with a blind eye and bloodied hands she sadly fell from grace.

So it seems as though through oppression, hatred and unnecessary hurt, We have always honed some superb script writers, who pen the most inspirational and amazing work!  

You see there are people like me who often turn on youtube to see, Clips of inspiration film lines captured to perfection. It goes back years too with Chaplin’s old collection, Which led to the Great Dictator speech which then became a reflection

Not only what we wanted in 1940 in the war, But in the 50’s and 60’s and through to now and so so much more.

A few good men came much later, a scene from a genius writer’s pen,

The amazing speech in protection of the weak and not to be aloof, To make that stand, so you too can well…handle the truth.

Al Pacino took us twice to a place, which saw us all cry and compliantly embrace,

The importance of honour and integrity, with a side portion of dignity.

In Scent of a Woman a vessel for sea going snitches, was a hit! Then learning that there is no prosthetic for an amputated spirit.

More inspiration Al delivered again in Any Given Sunday. As we agree that life is made of inches, from Monday through to Sunday.  

Jeff Daniels made his stand many times in Newsroom as he dared, To go off piste with sorority girl, which left us punching in the air.

Our hearts dropped as we nodded with all that he did mention, As he left the room to ponder, you could cut the air with all the tension.

Martin Sheen delivered one too, with his West Wing bible speech delivered with calm and never rude, Which took apart the failures of religion to society in just 3 minutes and 42

You see the saviours of our future days will be…well you!

You who are inspired by music, inspired by words and inspired by speeches, Not frightened by power, big lies and parasitic profit leaches.

So take up your phones and film, add music, edit, post and Picasso, To call out evil, highlight your ‘Guernica’ and lead the world to show,

the horrors of what we really need to negate, then film the beauty of humanity and all that we can create.

You see Michael Caine said the famous line in Batman The Dark Knight, And as we repeat it, we know it represents just some of the world’s plight,

As the news is a stream of evil and our stomachs always churn, As we sink a little chasm-deeper with lone shooters and dictators who just want to watch the world burn.

Heath Ledger was a genius Joker who’s evil was psychedelic and delirious, That inspired a thousand images on skin with…Why So Serious.

And if you have never seen Tim Minchin’s Honorary Degree 9 lessons in life, which gives the kids a code in how to live free from strife

with pearls in every sentence, they can’t help but reach ya, as you take away be a teacher, please please please be a teacher  

For deeper meaning film lovers out there searching for sun when there is no summer, I’ll finish with the cult film and impact lines from the first Bladerunner.

As Gaff looks across at Deckard, two cops, the local fuzz, He delivers “Too bad she won’t live but then again who does!”.

And we all know how these lines relates to us, our code on earth, our own mortality, the importance of love, balance, ethics and our own family unity.

Until we reach Roy’s final moments in the future, one wet day, A life filled with adventure, kindness, peace…the modern way.

In the hope we grabbed life and ran with it lived true and caused no pain, Hoping that all these moments we created won’t be lost like tears…in rain.

With droplets cascading down our face, we fall asleep free from lies, And as our grip loosens, our spirit free….Time to die.

Poison at work – a poem about agendas and politics

Poison is rarely good for the soul.

It courses through your veins,
As you guide it with prowess.
This wild beast, which is feral at your glance.

Is it boredom that leads you to provoke the embers of your toxicity?
Now so organic for you to feel the erotic burn on your lips,
when Eros is vapid.

The acrid taste in your mouth,
which slowly chips and burns away at those around you.
This shape shifting toxic vapour.

If only it was a liquid, bottled and emblazoned with crossed bones and a skull,
To placate and warn the unsuspecting.
To palate the venom, when they see your twisted contortions.

To sit calmly, meditation in my safe circle,
Then awoken with the odour of sulphur and a burn that seeps through your pinna.
The unbearable betrayal.

Poison is rarely good for the soul.

© PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

Poets and Libertines – a poem about a corporate worker trapped, wanting to be something, and almost reaches the light

In my air-conditioned carcass I sit and falsely fraternise with what I’m told is success.

My scullery darkens as the skies open. It beckons me outside.  

Initial shock, the rain soothes my tenacious and torn brow,

Penetrating through once scalable furrows,

Ploughed by my own planned and accepted procrastination,

Pillaged time so squandered, I have pilfered my hope for too long.  

I stay out, suit darkens, sodden and exposed, shelter breached and discarded as I reach for the tears.

Their significance now penetrating as they roll down that child’s cheek who truly believed his dreams,

Which don’t dilute the connection to me on each diffracted encounter.

The combination it sensates and resonates new life into me.  

I remove a layer, and another and then another,

My smile widens as each encumbrance slaps to the wet pavement,

Ocean weathered skin now alive as each crown forms,

My arms hang lifeless, impediment-free and I am mesmerised.  

Captivated by the flimsy disloyal waterfalls that follow valleys between raised bones

on the back of my hands, as it streams off my fingertips.

When did the obsession with poignancy ignore the peace of precipitation?

Why have I eluded its touch, averted its reach,

Scanning hindrance and not exploring the capacity of happiness?  

As I sit eyes closed, adoring the temporary kiss as each tear collapses onto me,

An epiphany is felt, the need to call a close to this.

A need to open that vault of serendipity,

Hit the savannah with speed you Springbok in this moment of clarity!  

And then it happened, like bottled lightening,

The holy-grail, the blue whale sighting,

the ember feeling with your first handheld in part-time volcanic love.

The sun….it chastised the clouds, they all defected,

and then rays shone on me, it seemed only me!  

All I could do is sit down, no suit jacket, or shirt.

My tie abandoned, silk corporate snake now coiled in the gutter,

Shoes neatly on parade to my left, I sat bare feet, cross legged

And it was there, just there…at that moment.  

Sitting, inclined on my arms behind me, eyes inactive, head back and mouth open,

Inspiration and belief coursing through me without hesitation.

Drained cadaverous faces stared at me, fixed on my warrior tattoos, never before seen.

Now dark and sharp and amplified by torrents of water that flowed down my chest.  

The inauguration of eyes with trumpeted fanfare then look beyond the horizon,

‘Make your mark, make your mark…’ I thought, Influence change for the rutted masses,

if YOU feel this, maybe they do too!

Leave foot prints in the sand for the tentative to seek.  

My complex childhood goal, now complete, is more than a notch on the post.

To be a good father, kind and present – smashed out of the grounds for six.

Why can I not be content with the success of shaping and loving three amazing people?  

So here it is, leave fresh colour on the dried out tainted pallets,

Pitch thoughts in ink on the decommissioned notebooks,

Get those benevolent words heard, resonate a message in the cavity of the masses,

What is the message, what can I offer apart from two words, don’t fear?!  

Pick up your pencil and brushes and instruments, reach out, pour out, connect!

You Prosecco poets, you lion-hearted libertines, you extra-ordinary people!Don’t fear the looks, don’t fear the comments and don’t fear their dread!I’m just an ordinary guy standing now in my medieval draped dampness, nothing special!

Wanting to now be a positive influence with every interaction I have with you all.

Then silence, and the rain retreats as if the reservoir had ran dry.

The moment now boxed, compartmentalised to be captured on paper or a phone,

I slowly walk back to my hole, collecting my corporate condiments.

The snake now draped around my shoulder as it clings to my back and chest,

and I feel the constriction take hold, once more.

2019 COPYRIGHT PEDRO BAT-POET  

My young pilot whale – a poem of varying pace about teenagers and social media/gaming distractions an the family unit

You start out as a parent with all good intentions,
I’ve spent decades honing skills before their creation.

So they’re going to be outgoing, kind, and clever and bright,

And when they enter a room dark parts will turn light.  

A Dr, a Vet now choose something linked to money!

“What about happiness?” he asks,

”Oh yes of course that matters too, little buddy!?”

Yes all of this is true and yes I do bore people who have no kids about how amaaaazing they are…

’Oh my god..when you have kids they will light up your lives…’  

‘No really..we’re fine..and really happy with our well trained labrador.’ they reply

As they know the truth as they’ve seen me out losing the plot with mine, two occasions before!

You see, what we roll out on show, what you see in the restaurants and in the parks,

But that theatrical show is fiction, the reality is stark!

They last a short while like that, once the bill has been paid and we’ve driven back home,
But the ‘nice pill’ we made them swallow just before we allowed them in public to roam,

well it’s all but worn out and the whales are re-born.

Movement at a pace which would give a sloth some self-esteem

When you combine that with chores or family or team,

Well it grinds to a halt and the house becomes a maze,

as they shoot off into corners or sit in the fridge and just graze.  

The best challenge to date, without a doubt, and this includes working for 3 decades
Is levering the teenager out of bed at seven, which you do with picks and spades.

You daren’t touch him for fear of the painful whale pitch,

And as he swings his legs out, you can see there’s a hitch.  

Now every action and minute of his breathe,

needs to be accompanied by the device, that if removed…..causes death,
If Steve Jobs was alive today, I would say ‘was there thought given when designing that thing that this might cause families such pain

and the addiction factor added, is like my kids are on cocaine.  

But we are responsible and need to take a stand

on separating that device which is glued onto his hands
But the solvent needed to peel skin from hardened plastic

is in the form of my shouting and well, that’s fantastic  

To keep the peace in the house, but we need bind their hands,
But their Escobar, the wifi, well I’m now Custar, and this my last stand.  

We all know how that ended and Mr Jobs, so please don’t be offended as you rest up there, listening to this moan and without a care.

Your billions mattered at the time you were here, and I know you measured success differently when the end became too clear.  

But the technical advances you made over the years

are now shadowed by lost parents, of which I’m one..right here
To ask how do we take back the last few years,

where snapchat stories, insta and the occasional tweet,  

Replaced walks in forests and beaches and steps made by our feet?

Let’s get back to the house with the angsty teen, because since we left him 2 verses back, he’s gone to a permanent horizontal..from a lazy lean  

Against every upright surface which he finds, but my patience and temper, it’s starting to grind. You see I blame X factor for too much in life, murdering music – plain to see, but mostly for making my kids truly believe that someone will pluck them from obscurity.

Yes, you are all special, every kid born created has an amazing skill but what happens when no-one notices them, will they end up taking pills,

For depression and anxiety as life isn’t going the way inspirational facebook posts have stated and planned, so as a parent I’ve tried to take matters into my own hands.

So what I expect from my textbook, wholemeal, no smoke, detox millennial existence, my fortitude and hypocritical parental persistence, is a little less teenage resistance?  

And as I flat spin into causes and therapy using Google, I cry out loud as I hit ‘enter’

as my attention to their growth has been all too clearly frugal.

We should be finding it hard to count the times we spoke throughout the week,

Because I know you’ve lost count over the past 2 years how many times you’ve snapchat streaked.

Well I checked your phone and at last sight 2 million was the amount

of interactions received and sent, and how many between us? Zero was the count!

So can we all just stop, take stock and as we know what’s wrong or right,

As I know a million parents are out there who hear their kids yelling at that drug they call Fortnite.

We cannot blame the x factor, or online gaming tools,

when it’s us that have taken the easy route to parenting – we’re the fools.

Now our excuse when us parents get together in our dimly lit alcohol filled kitchen

After we’ve assassinated work colleagues with cathartic Olympic level bitching

“Is that we can’t stop the Fortnite as our angels will suffer from social exclusion?”

Sorry!? Isn’t the answer some good old fashioned parental collusion?  

So this entrepreneurial gaming guy with Bentley, house and Billions,

Is sipping cocktails every 30 seconds with upgrades from us minions?

My proposition for you therefore is clear, as Disney knocks on my door for the rights to Star Wars part 12 – The Parent Clones Strike Back!

Because our little Jedis are actually amazing and they fill our hearts with smiles,

And to keep them safe from harm we’d walk bare foot for them for miles!

So let us all stand, at the start of the month, to the Narcos best export – the wifi.

And at the strike of nine, flick switch and hear our little beached-whales cry!

But their eyes will dry and with any addiction that loses its grip,

as our keys unpick their shackles, as we jump on different ships

Falling to the seabed, salt water rusts the locks,

Our keys are safe and dried out now, bring on the tech detox!  

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018