‘An Experience’
By T.W. Humphries
Dashing fence posts whip past my eyes,
A magnificent river quietly stirs,
With the ebb of a flowing breeze.
Such an experience it is just to gaze,
The stirring river and changing seasons, all an experience.
Human beauty is an experience, one I continually recall.
Lost in the landscape of this runaway train,
Sunlight darts in a shimmer past me.
Transfixed by the panorama below, the sensation consumes me.
Gaunt and rugged mountains in contrast to motionless grassy plains,
Are dwarfed by a rock laden bridge and thunder struck tracks.
I turn, reality bites, and I realise an experience is an experience.
The gliding scenery changes and the sensation switches key.
Rust clad trucks rumble to their destinations,
No one knows were they’re heading, but what an experience.
The droning engines pulse as the red gates fall,
And the towering locomotive hammers past.
The throbbing heart of a handsome suitor swoons in the field,
He has an experience to tell.
His crushed heart, against the hands of a woman, of experience.
He has witnessed the wonderment of her eyes,
And the flash of her sweet breath against his heart.
What must he do to win her over,
Then the truth sets itself, he kicks himself and watches the fading train.
An old man, sits bewildered, his eyes a darting confusion,
His large rimmed spectacles cannot fathom society.
He remembers simpler times, when experience was earned with experience,
Not by books or culture, but by long days spent in the endless sun.
Yet the man realises that the university of life has escaped him,
He is obsolete in many peoples eyes,
But within himself he is content to be what he is, A worker.
Then a school girl, who clutching her books, wonders aimlessly,
To her, life is but an endless game, a pool of hapless chatter.
Her experience is clasping to the dream of maturity,
Passionately she dreams of living happily ever after,
Then she looks down at her undeveloped body and wishes to be older, with experience.
Three men stand quiet in an unassuming group,
Each man wears the cap of his own experience.
One is short, fat and another is tall and lanky.
They are escapee’s of a mental institution and gesticulate profusely.
These men have volumes of experiences, within their minds,
They brilliant at maths and physics,
No one judges their capacity, for they are capable men.
The eloquent pages of a book dance before a student,
He is swept into a fantasy with welcoming eyes and an open spirit.
Knowledge and wisdom are to him a fact of life,
Experience follows with analysing these delusional segments of life.
A questioning mind awakens and still he thinks of experience.
Pondering the subtle messages of that hallowed binding,
The student notes enlightenment and casts the page, for the next and so on….
A dark glassed woman, sits with suspicious autonomy,
Her demeanour is rigid and she tolerates nothing,
Shiny tightly laced boots are reinforced by a depressed and languid attitude,
Neat colours of black portray a defiance that no one can or dares to trace.
A ornate necklace hangs limp against this woman’s chest,
Memories of the past surface and the necklace reveals all.
Yet her long hair deceives me, it is a man!
A young boy scribbles on a blank page,
His life is marked by the verse of repetition.
And the age old cliche ‘I must remember not to be late’,
This is an experience reflecting marvellous days of mischief.
Climbing trees and gazing out at endless afternoons.
The fading landscape reminds me of an experience,
I had it when wondering what to do with myself.
Depression, insomnia and internal thoughts of dread,
Pressed hard against my tired, unexperienced head.
Yet all of this was an experience, catching a glimpse of people’s lives,
The speeding train falters and is consumed by a stormy guise.
The unknown, the future, a sensation is this an overpowering experience?
The luxury of time tells me more interesting things are on their way.
‘Experience’
By T.W. Humphries
Dashing fence posts whip past my eyes,
A magnificent river quietly stirs,
With the ebb of a flowing breeze.
Such an experience it is just to gaze,
The stirring river and changing seasons, all an experience.
Human beauty is an experience, one I continually recall.
Lost in the landscape of this runaway train,
Sunlight darts in a shimmer past me.
Transfixed by the panorama below, the sensation consumes me.
Gaunt and rugged mountains in contrast to motionless grassy plains,
Are dwarfed by a rock laden bridge and thunder struck tracks.
I turn, reality bites, and I realise an experience is an experience.
The gliding scenery changes and the sensation switches key.
Rust clad trucks rumble to their destinations,
No one knows were they’re heading, but what an experience.
The droning engines pulse as the red gates fall,
And the towering locomotive hammers past.
The throbbing heart of a handsome suitor swoons in the field,
He has an experience to tell.
His crushed heart, against the hands of a woman, of experience.
He has witnessed the wonderment of her eyes,
And the flash of her sweet breath against his heart.
What must he do to win her over,
Then the truth sets itself, he kicks himself and watches the fading train.
An old man, sits bewildered, his eyes a darting confusion,
His large rimmed spectacles cannot fathom society.
He remembers simpler times, when experience was earned with experience,
Not by books or culture, but by long days spent in the endless sun.
Yet the man realises that the university of life has escaped him,
He is obsolete in many peoples eyes,
But within himself he is content to be what he is, A worker.
Then a school girl, who clutching her books, wonders aimlessly,
To her, life is but an endless game, a pool of hapless chatter.
Her experience is clasping to the dream of maturity,
Passionately she dreams of living happily ever after,
Then she looks down at her undeveloped body and wishes to be older, with experience.
Three men stand quiet in an unassuming group,
Each man wears the cap of his own experience.
One is short, fat and another is tall and lanky.
They are escapee’s of a mental institution and gesticulate profusely.
These men have volumes of experiences, within their minds,
They brilliant at maths and physics,
No one judges their capacity, for they are capable men.
The eloquent pages of a book dance before a student,
He is swept into a fantasy with welcoming eyes and an open spirit.
Knowledge and wisdom are to him a fact of life,
Experience follows with analysing these delusional segments of life.
A questioning mind awakens and still he thinks of experience.
Pondering the subtle messages of that hallowed binding,
The student notes enlightenment and casts the page, for the next and so on….
A dark glassed woman, sits with suspicious autonomy,
Her demeanour is rigid and she tolerates nothing,
Shiny tightly laced boots are reinforced by a depressed and languid attitude,
Neat colours of black portray a defiance that no one can or dares to trace.
A ornate necklace hangs limp against this woman’s chest,
Memories of the past surface and the necklace reveals all.
Yet her long hair deceives me, it is a man!
A young boy scribbles on a blank page,
His life is marked by the verse of repetition.
And the age old cliche ‘I must remember not to be late’,
This is an experience reflecting marvellous days of mischief.
Climbing trees and gazing out at endless afternoons.
The fading landscape reminds me of an experience,
I had it when wondering what to do with myself.
Depression, insomnia and internal thoughts of dread,
Pressed hard against my tired, unexperienced head.
Yet all of this was an experience, catching a glimpse of people’s lives,
The speeding train falters and is consumed by a stormy guise.
The unknown, the future, a sensation is this an overpowering experience?
The luxury of time tells me more interesting things are on their way.
‘Morn’
By T.W. Humphries
The dismal sound of thrashing, collides on a window,
Laughter of darkness, plagues the moaning light.
Rain and thunder roll at the narrow roof tops too,
The joy of early morning, set against the sparkling dew.
The smell of spring rings so clear and the sun begins to rise,
Tender puffs of white lashed cloud, shifting in the sky.
Yet as the glorious break of day shines, mountains rise so stark,
The growling rustle of winter wind, distanced by the lark.
Wonder of all great wonders, the blue sky meets the horizon,
Sea of oceans and endless awe, lashes beats and evens.
Humming drones flow out to work on canvas neatly wrought,
Craftsman ponder natures glory, of bees sweet life in the garden court.
Flowers burst with loving life, gardeners are brought to their knees,
Thrumming fingers in tender soil, a constant sound of glee.
The wispy day unfolds and heat murmurs against the hedge,
Lashings of sunshine, transposed to heat, beat and grasp and sledge.
The morning wains the shadows fade and storm clouds gather again,
Dusk falls silently as the prowler, waiting for its prey.
A twinkling star pokes, the crimson, tired sky,
The night spins a yarn of deep regret and rumbling shudders by.
Thrashing droves of endless rain, pierce the fickled window pane,
When will this endless nightmare, recede?
No one knows, yet the nightmare spindles on.
A scream is heard, a stirring bird all within my mind,
The sun suddenly reveals its face,
Undying and Unrefined.
Caressed by the break of day again, the cycle plods unhindered,
Spring recedes to summer and long days press the seed.
A man stands by an old oak tree wondering at the breeze,
Of early summer mornings, comfort filled, serene.
Breaking a blossom so tenderly the man stares off content,
The storm clouds wither instantly, leaving, gone and went.
The smiling man sighs a sigh and bathes with natures scorn,
Some things in life will never compare to the simple sight of morn.
‘Ode To The Night’
By T.W. Humphries
A broken portrait shifts within the dusky sky,
The furrow and the rustle whistles then asks ‘Why?’.
Beads of light flicker, in and out and in,
The falling, fading, mixing night kindly settles in.
The dry old moon shimmers with a carefree smile,
Stars twinkle in its wake with such tender style.
The leaves of beaten jasmines float upon the night,
Shaken madly by demons of sin, plucking them in the half light.
The howling wind batters in bruising all who pause,
Smashing those without the strength to abide with common laws.
Yet beyond the many slums there are men of stately thought,
Pausing at their windows comfort filled and taught.
The smiling moon’s playful address shudders, then switches key,
Lingering faces in wind smashed streets, prompt all within to flee.
Then to the clashing harbour from which the seaman stir.
The vengeful wrath of ‘Howling’, forcing in the blur.
But alas the clock strikes “12″ and the distant gong chimes forth,
The rustling howl of wind struck lanes and murmuring seasons of thought.
The night drags on unhindered and jabbing braches prove,
That ghosts really do walk the night, and moan and blatt and move.
A distant scream, the lovers gleam, all within the dark.
A silent garden wonders, as a sparrow begins to spark.
The groaning of a night, so dark, grotesque, and jaded.
Reminds the stately class of old, of vulgarity shattered, yet shaded.
The ghastly dark of night, stabs at those lingering hollow faces.
Beaten by darkness and cursed by light, the reality of their lives.
The garden again stirs quietly, a speck begins to rise.
The swelling form of daylight, quells this dismal guise.
Ode to the Night of pity whose winds die and moan alike,
Those men of old both rich and poor now ponder at the sky.
‘Portrait’
By T.W. Humphries
Note: This poem is my omage to Oscar Wilde’s work “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. It must be noted that at the time this work was written, I was naive as to the full contextual meaning of Wilde’s story.
I stand at the doorway of time and gaze upon a portrait,
Sweet with the scent of summer and its joy.
I behold the reflection which is my life,
Who knows of my inner self but me.
And perhaps the few shallow friends which share my days.
They know me not, yet the portrait reveals me,
The sun streams in, lighting a sparkle in my eyes.
The beauty of youth radiates throughout,
Yet as the willow blossoms in the summer,
So too must it wither at the call of autumn.
Watching I see the portrait smirk back at me,
The winds of the hourglass have battered me.
Yet within the grand canvas lays a life untouched by time,
Unpierced by the chorus of the centuries and the experiences therein.
Stealing a glance at the noon day sun I wonder,
The city sways and the breeze softens my face.
This portrait remains youthful, yet change corrupts me,
The noon day recedes and the shadows of afternoon set in.
Soon the youth of this face will be mocked by the frivolous dark of night.
The shallow moon rises to survey its subject people,
For in doing so a strange light touches the portrait and for a moment, it is alive.
I wait, my heart pounding upon my chest, the past returns to my vision.
A stab of candlelight sways my attention and it is now fixed on the canvas,
Shocked at first the portrait again stares ominously and I wonder upon its refinement.
Looking back over a canon of time, I realise that life is cruel,
And yet I behold an image untouched, unblemished by the cruel ravage of time.
Shuddering I realise my naivety at a time when I thought I was invincible,
Another moment passes and my heart settles to a thump and then another.
OH, what great service did this portrait do anyway?, Was it art or was it self indulgence?
Or was it merely a moment of life, where purity was everything my face portrayed.
Shivering, I ponder the sweeping curtains as they quiver in the chill of night,
Closing my studio doors, I stare out into the open blanket of space, pondering my true fate.
Watching a streaking star plummet to mother earth I realise,
There is more to Life, then obsessing over an obscure, portrait.
‘This Is Your Life’
By T.W Humphries
Shards of light dart in and out,
Shimmering coils of energy flow and suck.
A heaving sensation fills the air,
As sunlight plays aimlessly there.
At the point of no return,
The event horizon from bow to stern.
The emerging light is gaining strength,
Thwack, pop, WAA WAA WAA WAA!,
This is you, a new life.
You entered this world naked and cold,
And so you will return at your journey’s end,
To a sleep beyond this mortal world,
This is Your Life.
At the point of your birth,
You begin that decay.
A slow and painful process known as death.
You might be healthy, but your biological clock is ticking.
And so you grow and learn,
Of summer days and winter nights.
Of playgrounds, bullies, teachers and University exams,
All of which seem so sudden.
At the blink of an eye you reach working age,
You vote for your inclinations sake,
And pay for what the politicians take.
But who really cares,
This is Your life.
You marry and have beautiful children.
Expensive as it may seem,
The cycle has repeated itself,
For this is your life.
Your children grow up and move away,
Your left alone for another day,
To contemplate life and if its yours.
Surely you had a life?
You collect your dues and retire in peace,
And enjoy your grandchildren and their mischief,
Then you remember being their age.
Life’s vicious cycle plods precariously on,
You wonder with your short time left,
What things you have left undone or unsaid,
What things would have made a difference.
Experiences, memories, recollections,
Sensations if you will of another time and another place.
But what you have is your life.
You grip onto life with everything left,
And wonder who will go next.
For your friends are disappearing one by one.
Surely your time is almost come.
To lay down peacefully and call it a day,
And allow life to go on its way.
Your fading memory slips,
Your eyes fail and hearing recedes,
Your faculties desist to exist.
A faltering breath and you are gone,
This was your life.
Many attend your funeral,
Mourners from all walks of life,
Whom you know and whom were influenced by your personality.
You are remembered for who you were,
Laughs are exchanged and a reflection is noted,
You were special, someone complete.
But as time passes idle by,
No one passes to pay respects.
Except a grounds keeper who occasionally lays a rose,
At your families request.
You have faded into obscurity,
And everyone forgets,
That you held meaning and much respect.
The cemetery is paused in contemplation.
For all life is fragile, like the rose.
It can bloom to beauty and wither just as fast.
Hold on to everything you have,
Because, one day you won’t have it any more.
‘Crossroads’
By T.W Humphries
Here I stand at a crossroads,
My childhood far behind me,
Maturity & reality set in.
I am a young open mind,
Thirsting for experience rich and true.
I long for peace yet still my soul rages.
Unsure of whats behind and whats ahead.
The roadsigns of life seem to jump out and catch me unaware,
I am vunerable, idealistic, a dreamer and a thinker.
My thoughts and instincts guide me.
I wander aimlessly, drinking in all of lifes wonders.
Yet still what will I do?
My frustration bubbles wildly,
I am untamed, raw and ambitious.
Yet my dreams are crushed by the world,
The world is a harm-filled, cruel place,
Where am I going in this brutal world?
Must I travel this journey alone?
Do I have a destiny?
Where will I find a bountiful source of wisdom?
If I am successful, who will I share my life with?
So many questions, so few answers,
Yet I realise at this crossroad,
That the answers I seek will come, as I go.
Thus the journey will never end.
‘Silence’
By TW Humphries
An imposing theatre stands tall,
Crowds gather at the door in a throng.
The fading shadows recede and a newly formed family waits.
The mother is a composer and the father a conductor.
Music is their life, they eat and breath it.
Their joy for their baby son is overflowing,
For it is their first chance to introduce him to music.
The passion of the symphony,
An experience he could have on any instrument.
Whether loud or silent,
Soprano or Bass.
The father dreams of educating his son,
And giving him the opportunity to go to the best university.
So that he would one day himself take up the baton.
In scanning the swelling crowd the boy’s mother also dreams.
She dreams of introducing him to the piano,
And the church choir,
All something that would instil in him their love.
The crowds filled into the magnificent auditorium, expectation rose.
Culture escaped the rambling’s of those in box seats,
In silence all eyes centred on the awaited moment.
With baited breath, the conductor strolled out,
He bowed at the applause and settled into his score.
The musicians readied themselves,
A moment of sheer stillness filled the room.
The conductor paused,
And launched into a passionate display.
Beethoven’s “Allegro ma non troppo” filled the air,
People whispered over the rising sound.
And the young couple relished every moment.
Every beat satisfied their desire.
This first moment of music for their son,
What magnificence he would enjoy.
Years passed and the boy grew,
His love of music took shape.
He learnt theory and embarked on the journey,
Sound to him was such a natural thing.
Passion revealed itself as the brilliant actor does,
And he ambitiously set himself goals.
As the years further transpired he learnt more.
Silently one day his mother dabbled at the volume control and Beethoven’s Symphony boomed,
Her son was going about his chores.
He did not seem to register the sound,
Curious her mother called to him.
He did not respond, Until he faced her.
He was deaf, He had managed to lip read,
Shock reverberated throughout her soul.
Relaying this news would crush her husband.
With tears streaking down her silent face, she rang her husband.
He picked up her apprehension and inquired lovingly.
She wailed out the facts she had discovered.
This moment crushed the husband’s heart,
Considering his progress, they agreed not to let it affect them, yet somehow it did.
However the son continued on in his passion, of the tender sounds of the piano.
Never to know the feeling of music,
A leaf fell outside his window and he continued on in silence.
‘Conversations’
By T.W Humphries
The grinding steel of a hulky train jolts forward,
The fence line whips past in a frenzy.
A fading sun meshes with the open horizon.
I am on a train,
It is peak hour.
The thrumming sound of the train drones in my ears,
Cluttering conversations rattle through the halls.
The distinguished gentlemen of the public service.
The intrigue of the supermarket magazine,
The turmoil of the world swirls,
Within a paper.
Everything in it spins before my eyes.
A young family sits content,
A mother, a father a beautiful baby.
A wonderful scene.
Yet, a stark contrast to what is outside.
Students scatter about the train,
Debating openly.
Politics, Religion, Sex, nothing is left unsaid.
A lady stands out from the rest,
Very much the conversationalist.
The beaming crimson of late afternoon strikes her face.
Beauty beyond anything I can or ever will imagine.
My heart races for a moment and the train jolts me out of my quiet thoughts.
She’s too classy for me,
With her brilliant career, computer and friends.
If the comparison were made, she is a goddess,
And I am a boy, wishing to be a man.
Then my eyes turn to another lady,
My age, sitting straight, reading a novel.
Deeply intrigued, her glasses slide and she slips them up again.
She is nothing incredible to look at,
Yet, surely she is a success,
Not boastful, but unassuming and ready to strike when everyone is unprepared.
‘That Brash Boy’
By T.W. Humphries
There he stood in the driving rain,
Dancing to victory and at the same time laughing at his adversaries.
He had risen to the summit,
He had realised his dream in that moment.
That Brash boy, soaked to the bone,
Drank in a freedom lovers victory that had been a long time coming.
This brash boy had been the weakling,
The one who was targeted.
But on that fate-filled sporting field he unleashed a power,
A power he never knew he had, a power unknown to everyone.
He stamped it hard on his enemy and crushed his exploding superiority.
Here stood a brash boy, content to admit he had risen to the occasion,
Victory was finally his!
Oblivion
by T.W Humphries
The words simply read,
An eternal void enshrouds me.
Such a woeful and depressing sense,
Sharp sensations jab my enthusiasm,
And drain my passion for life.
Blankness is life now,
Dark and unending,
Blankness a veil, shoves me,
And tells me what to do.
There must be light at the end of the tunnel,
What am I supposed to do?
Thoughts of political death blanket me again,
A comforting thought to me.
I want to rebel,
Yet responsibility presses hard.
The unknown is the blankness,
Jarring and depressingly hard.
I’d rather be politically dead now,
True blackness this would be.
An escape into oblivion, oh yes this is for me.
I ponder escape then wonder,
What really should I do?
Blankness and darkness are everywhere,
Inside and outside too.
I want to feel content and happy.
Please have mercy on me Oh God!
And allow me to pass quietly,
Into quiet, loving political blackness.
My name is precious Barnaby,
And I am a member of the National Party.
‘War’
By T.W. Humphries
Death at war is like a predator,
stalking its prey like a fine sniper.
Who would have thought political blood was as bad,
as an old drunken tramp raggedly clad.
These boys and girls coming home were far to young,
Sorry to late they’ve already been stung.
Wars heroine “Julie” walks up and down,
Like an old beaten jeep, shot up and round.
A cold heartless mist slowly lifts up,
And a general named Malcolm screams desperately, after getting shot.
When the war finally ends at Xmas everyone will go home,
To worry filled lives, all of their own.
War is like sausage making, something no one should see,
So don’t get excited, war isn’t glee.
‘Heart Of Greed’
By T.W. Humphries
A radiant mist surfaces against the shadowy landscape,
Sunlight slaps behind the veiled horizon,
And proclaims the fall of night.
The day has lost the battle and the heart of night has fallen heavy.
Strange, mystical sounds murmur with the crystal sky,
The heart of greed is unleashed.
The heart of greed is a frightening thing,
Brings a child to sobs and a man to his knees.
What dark force, stirs in this great abyss.
The crack of a howling wolf rings clear in the night,
The fullness of the moon reveals its glory and shines down in all it’s might.
Greed who are you?
Do you sit high and mighty or low and powerless?
Is your domain the darkness or the light?
Is your life petty and full of spite?,
Or is the truth your redeeming feature.
You possess a man’s soul and tantalise his spirit.
Acquisition is your lure and fame is your sinker.
The Heart Of Greed makes a man take to the armour and the sword in defence,
Of an estate in ill-gotten gains, putrid yet content.
Honour and glory are nothing in the sight of greed.
Hearts are shredded and families torn,
Yet still the joy of greed burns.
The stinging desire for more, perverts and smears the truth in pathetic lies.
Men yet fall heavy with the night,
And ponder what could have been won.
A streak of lightening flashes against the black sky,
A mansion towers into the night,
A man emerges, rubs his eyes and dreams of more.
Yet he coughs, the sound of a dying vulture,
And still he ponders for more.
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