The Poet

It’s the hard edge that makes it real
The grittiness that makes you feel
The bitterness really comes across
And makes you feel the poets’ loss

He’s a tortured man, a lonely man
A man for whom nothing fits in place
His books and his words are everything
I’ve seen them write sunshine on his face

For in the world of normal men
He moves without a trace
But when he reads on a Thursday night
It is with aplomb and grace

It brightens up the drab, grey life
He lives from day today
When words leap from page to tongue
And explode upon the listeners

This is what his life is all about
This is what makes him tick
Not his job on the factory line
That crushes his soul and wastes his time

But this, this poetry in his soul
This wonder at lives rich hue
That burns in the hearts of us
That would listen to, the poet

(c) PETER SEMPLE 2009. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.



Flotsam and Jetsam

We are like flotsam and jetsam bobbing on the tide
Moving here and there, being pushed and pulled
Further and further from where we began
Without hope of ever returning , to that far off beginning

Far from those that were our anchor
That grounded us and kept us from harm
Far from the innocent games we once played
Far, Far from those halcyon days

We in mind, as sharp as ever
Whilst our bodies decay
Lost forever in our thoughts
Of long passed times

Never quite able it seems
To get a hold of the reigns
To make a sense of it, this condition
This painful passing of time

Flotsam and jetsam we have been
And are likely to remain
Drifting on and endless tide
Moving with its ebb and flow

(C) COPYRIGHT PETER SEMPLE 2009. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED