Ramblings of Recovery Series 3 – a poem about strength, in sporting terms, moving from defence to offence!

The calculated chipping away at my rock no excuse is given by me as you looked the other way as your lack of actions, concreted filled ears, cotton head thinking as the world sees you struggling to tread water, as you refuse to make your way to the side of the pool.

Water placed in that pool by you and your blind ambition. Ambition without volition and in the quiet times where you lie in the dark thankful of another day where you fooled the influencers, the mirror bounces back the jester plagued by perdition.

Did you for once think that your lack of direction would lead to your election, elevation to all that is value. A shallow puddle milky with the pureed sediment of words and advice not followed.  Your time borrowed, a fact forgotten, as you continue to turn the screw into unsuspecting flesh.

I was one of those unsuspecting few succumbed to the passive intimidation viral, that caused months of spiral, as I fell down the rabbit hole, separated from my role, a role that I filled with honour as I backed your confusion, promoted your illusion my misplaced passion defiled by delusion.

For months, I fell with no branches to grab, no place to land I still fail to stand for hours on end as week by week I make my way up the cavern walls, feet finding roots, roots fixed strong by the words of the wise as they guide me to deeper meaning week on week. I feel like Alice, but this is no Wonderland, as therapists words and hands caress my carousel mind, with spirit and mind connect no longer apart as i finally lose sight of the Queen of hearts.

Yet all it takes is the venom to fill my brain before I sleep and those braved words that ground the roots to wall, disintegrate letter by letter as feet find no purchase and I fall a little further back.  The pillars that are meant to hold this fragile fabric together are simply fillers in a party parlez accompanied by the constant condiment of pats on backs as they ignore the cracks.

As I look up at the distant light, with little energy I fight as I am climbing with one hand, whilst writing poetry with the other, as they flow one after another, and you look down, head appears with no rope or hand of hope but yet you shout down asking if I will be at the top soon, to quietly resume.

To help paint over and gloss, the wreckage and people lost, due to your apathy and failure absolute, but the target is never reached as they shoot, blindly, with no eyes looking through the cross hairs, what matters is the decision to appoint, which was theirs and cannot be wrong despite the missing throng.

Does no-one talk about the people downtrodden, until their lights were almost extinguished and once positive energy forgotten?  The glue cracked, spirits hacked, and diluted by the acid of poor leadership, and corruption that the power with baggage which rains down like a shower, are joined at the hip, as their contraband goes undiscovered.

With a cut out in the walls of the well that I climb, it gives me chance to breath, to stop the heave and weight of confusion that I carry on this arduous journey.  The light no longer the goal, the light, the top, the edge of reason, with gravity my friend not foe.  Maybe the climb should be halted as I contemplate the dig, over the rope.

New ground uncovered leads to new foundations, fresh concrete to lay, one day in a fashion that I choose, as I ration my negative thoughts and moments to just 6 per day.  With miner mentality, comfort in the darkness I plan out the tunnel, and funnel the future into shoring and strength, my hope needs length.

As I’ve been short of it as late, and that is why I refuse to engage with your vacuous sentiment and your lack of age, but weight of what you feel you can take.  But you see I saw your knees buckle many years ago, and I see no days in the gym which should have led to a better show.

And this is how I see it now, a show, a circus, a stage with an unimpressed audience, but the Directors they send you on matinee follows matinee, yet they instruct from a far off land, and fail to see the empty seats, yet you write your own reviews which they read with little interest.

The failure to truly invest in the game, the play, the scene to be set or script in flames, burnt by the contradictions that have been penned by quiver and nib with ink wells filled with gasoline, and the spark that ignites the fumes being caused your trusted few as they slam the door behind them, door catch sparking in metal.

The catastrophe of that day, still plays in my brain, as I left behind all that I had built, before I could fit the front door, or alarm the windows from unwanted intruders.  I never saw you creeping through the backdoor, locking it behind you, as with knife firmly lodged I staggered out of the building only to be opened up by the bluntest of blades.

I drop the pace of this articulate array of pebbledash passion to ask….you knew it was me, didn’t you, who walked at the front of the column my troops carrying your colours, flying your flag as we , never lagged, despite the lunacy of your attempted conquests.  Not once did we falter, or lack faith at the alter when it all became dire in your thirst for an empire.

How do we get back from here, as I sit in this oasis of safety, free from the ignorance, from the lost meetings, free from you sitting in front of me head in hands asking what you need to do, when it is me that follows you.  As I reached out with my hand, you took it holding hard, then as I looked away you sliced up my forearm as trust drained from my empty and confused soul into your bowl, and a day later you looked into that vessel with confusion as to why you were sitting with the blood of a warrior.

Whilst away I have raised an army, and found allies who will rise up and crush all that you try and promote, not in your field of vision, or your drained moat but on the many battle grounds of integrity, honesty and truth, their mission.

So my fine reader or listener of this rambling of recovery where do I go from here, when the actions of my once trusted command, had left me open, violated and drawn, as my guts spewed into the street as they stepped over my writhing shell watching, devoid of emotion, as I gathered up all that made me, as others flocked to my side catching my blood in discarded plastic cups.

The wounds I keep clean with the rebuilding of my self-esteem, which you managed to clumsily unpick in a few short years which took 2 decades to build – as the more passion I showed as authenticity glowed and lit up your way, my threads they frayed, until no clothing was left and I had to leave the trenches.

You need to lose me, and reflect over the loss of a warrior who laid down all arms for your success, who crushed rebellions and took up the slack, who you rewarded with a dagger in my back. Wound is healing, with my own self believing, and with the words I have written to you as I explain where you failed. 

A page never to be sent I have now dismantled all letters from the script, melted and forged into steel thread that now holds my flesh together.  A constant reminder of the time where my trust turned my chrome into rust, with actions so course, and safe that I know that I not the one weak, but you backed the wrong horse.

Pedrobatpoet Copyright 2022

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

Moments ultimately lost, light deflects off my words as they tumble.  Porcelain sentences shatter and scatter.
Impact liquefies my hope, fractured before descent.  I see intention, your fingerprints amongst broken splinters.
Angles acute, ragged edges and registered shards.  Piercing only hope not dreams, internally I bleed.
No pills to pass or ills to savour, neutrality ignored.  My self-blame traps guilt with emotions not belonging.
Observers offload their monkees.  I travel light, baggage abandoned at the roadside.
Past failings left in darkness, a switch is flicked.  I walked quietly into the night, for survival.
Space needed, clocks hands are never still.  Discarded empathy is no excuse for vessels.
No links to intelligence and emotions.  The passionate will seize the day, as ducts open.
Tears flow into seas of feelings, not feared by its owner.  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 am restored through clear water truth.  With glass covered, launched impurities 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 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

Ramblings of Recovery Series 1 – 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