Ode To Hawking

Ode To Hawking

A consciousness expanded,
At the speed of light.
The theory of everything,
It was born and took flight.

A body as a cage,
held a mind that roamed so free.
The cosmos and the stars,
a playground of infinity.

The sky seems so much darker,
the stars they shine less bright,
for a visionary has departed
on a quest into the night.

What secrets we have lost,
as we wait for coming dawn.
To our knowledge a great cost,
for truth we therefore mourn.

Written the morning of the news of Stephen Hawking’s death.

Head Full Of Wasps

Head Full Of Wasps

A head full of wasps,
incessantly buzzing under my skin,
Each wasp a thought a feeling,
A notion eardrums filtered in.

My heads a boiling hive of wasps,
a honeycombed place of reaction.
Do I act on every impulse,
allow fabrications to gain false traction?

Do I put my faith in lies,

when all untruths be told?
Will I alienate my closest,
until I sit alone and old?

Or do I take up arms and fight,
standing fast against deceits I find,
or do I take up arms and fight,
the voices in my mind.

©Adam Lucy 2016

Written shortly after the mental break down of a close friend.

The Bottom

The Bottom

As the light begins to fade and die,
and the cold it closes in.
Where the shallows plunge to depths untold
and the waves come crashing in.

At that spot is where I sink to gloom,
where the world seems only sea.
At that spot is where the dark is pitch
where the ocean clutches me.

As the air it burns within my lungs,
and the pressure clouds my mind.
Where the depths are home to sailors lost,
then the bottom I shall find.

When my feet they touch that murky silt,
those desolate fields of sand.
There my legs find purchase and great strength,
for Hope, she takes my hand.

©Adam Lucy 2017

Inky Pool

Inky Pool

That inky pool of darkness,
keeps on stalking me.
No matter where I try to hide,
or erratically flee.

For when the sun is shining,
I feel it’s present eyeless stare.
I turn a side street to evade it,
but it’s always waiting there.

At night below the street lights glow,
it triples up to three.
Oh inky pool of darkness,
why do you follow me?

You Called

You Called

You called my phone,

And I got your text,

I never returned or replied,

There would always be a next,

Time.

 

A next time to converse,

A next time to meet,

A next time to hang out,

A next time to complete,

Our discussions.

 

You asked could you see me,

Spend some time at my house,

Sun ourselves in the park,

Or just chill,

I was busy.

 

A next time to converse,

A next time to meet,

A next time to hang out,

A next time to complete,

Our discussions.

 

You never called me,

You never text,

Your never reached out,

And there will be no next,

Time.

 

No next time to converse,

No next time to meet,

No next time to hang out,

No next time,

Forever incomplete.

 

I long for the day,

For my phone to ring,

Flash up with your number,

Hear your voice sing,

Next Time,

Next Time,

Next Time.

 

©Adam Lucy 2017

Remember The Summer

Remember The Summer

Remember the summer,

its joys and its laughter.

Remember possibilities

of those happy ever afters.

 

Remember bare skinned warmth,

of the balmy evening time.

Those long walks through the city,

when your heart was mine.

 

Remember the azure,

of the blue hours evening sky,

and the golden flourish of the dusk,

where suns embers came to die.

 

Please cast your mind back on last time,

When summers love was true.

When you walked and held my hand and heart,

 when I believed in you.

 

©Adam Lucy 2016

Trail of Memories

Trail Of Memories

I’ve left a trail of memories,

strewn across the ground.

Each piece a spark of recognition,

a bread crumb to be found.

 

Each fragment woven with imagery,

of smell of touch of sound.

Each instance full of life and hope,

just scattered on the ground.

 

I walk down streets and enter doors,

which peak my memory.

They are familiar but not the same,

the differences are clear to me.

 

I’ve left a trail of memories,

I’ve planted in the dirt,

and when I followed back that trail,

great trees had grown from hurt.

 

©Adam Lucy 2017

Read

Read

I took a seat between the books,

A place to rest my aching feet.

The light was dim with dust in nooks,

surrounded by words on shelves replete.

 

These tomes validation could not be found,

for text aplenty but no readers here.

I watched as words moved across the ground,

they flowed with speed as if in fear.

 

They flowed around the shelves and doors,

across window pains and through the cracks.

They flowed across the walls and floors,

whole sonnets, novels, plays and acts.

 

And as they moved with grace but haste,

a subtle murmur I could hear,

“Please help us, please escape this place,

please read us or we’ll disappear”.

 

©Adam Lucy 2016

Past

Past

There is no life left in this place,

Its buildings empty, bereft of sound.

Its colours drained from walls and curtains,

windows glass lay shattered on the ground.

 

There is no life left in this place,

a kitchen still, no tap drips here.

The oven stands forever lacking heat,

dusty mugs forever thirsty,

for there is no beer.

 

There is no life left in this place,

the cold harsh light is fading fast.

This a place where death resides,

this place that bears the name of past.

 

©Adam Lucy 2016

Connection Paradox

Connection Paradox

Heads bowed,

as if in prayer,

not prayer, but supplication.

Slaves to the blue light emanation.

Tainted with the ghostly tinge of the vapid.

A process of sublimation.

The want the need to engage,

departs, replaced by compliance and isolation.

 

©Adam Lucy 2016