The Pilgrimage And...(Home Is So Sad)

Oh what pride!
To fly on a train with friends by my side
And not to be judged by wealth, divine!

Oh what a bore!
To sit barely sober by the sliding door
A powder-choked mess that wants much more.

Oh what haste!
The majestic city weaves magic like lace
With no-worry smiles 'pon the poorest of face.

And oh returning!
Back home to the town of ceaseless yearning,
As my heart remembers with unending burning.

Thomas Bennett

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Oscar Wilde & Adam Smith (Us & Them)

I

Parents tell us we're special and so we believe,
When really they're lies which unintentionally
Deceive.

II

Lasted emptiness like a disused cellar,
That without coal, bears no purpose
Other than its former utility...
And like that cellar, my mind, that
Once yearned use, curls, balled
Into an impotent coil like the
Long dead docks or padlocked pits
And realising we were left like this,
A forgotten formation of girls and boys
That grew without dynamism, believing
Idleness to be as rewarding as scrabbling
In Their back garden...
And what a world? So soaked in wealth
That one can earn a living from answering
Their phones and delivering Their messages.
Though who'd have thought that you'd be
One of Them and I one of Us?

I guess we will all find our own way,
Though apparently Their way is better than Ours.

Thomas Bennett

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Sleepless Suicide

Blankets tossed to knots in sleep,
That cuff my hands and bind my feet.

An idle bed with broken neck noosed,
And in my mind, bloody dreams run loosed.

06:47 - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

The Bowing Trees & The Swelling Dunes

Where wind sprays sand that soaks saliva dry,
Limbs aching laboured through each sinking step.

Soil blurs from black to a paler grain and grass
Grows sharper, whipping cowering skin uncovered.

Looking past sand, Liverpool rules the southern landscape
With a panoramic aptitude, though north across sea

The offshore wind-farms that are falsely proclaimed

Eye-sores, act as foils to nature's unending horizon…

Behind, pine trees groan as wailing gusts hammer

The wind bent boughs that creak mellifluously…

Here nature manipulates every inch of land,
The bowing trees and the swelling dunes.

Thomas Bennett

10:35 - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Bath Street: Midnight
Category: Writing and Poetry

On open water it gathered, rising above the
Knotted river that rather than rolls, rocks.
Below, pinned down we shuffle along,
The wind spins wild around aching ears,
Coloured by cold, like frozen minced meat
Thawing.

Pubs in decay glower down at deadlocked docks,
Inside, ale-soaked pews sit empty and unused
And long dry optics reflect on damp-stained ceiling.
Warring waves tousle in chaos, watching me with
A smirk of self-confidence, reserved for the
Unchained...

Thomas Bennett

http://whateverhappenedtopoetry.wordpress.com

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Ideas poem

The streams flows freeze, like a lowly last breath
An aching rattling wheeze beyond the sharp grass
And reeds...

Behind the skeletal leaves, where winds cackling mutters
Shake-out and murder, making the rake doubt he can
handle such burden.

Death clings round the shit-stinking bins. Away!

Shouts the frozen stream, "Away!"
Shouts the lazy rake, "Away!"
"Away!"
Screams the bins, unwashed.
Sadness is the folly of bitter Jack Frost.

Thomas Bennett

http://whateverhappenedtopoetry.wordpress.com

07:23 - 1 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment

New Blog

Have started moving some of my poetry over to my new blog, so if you'd all add it to your favourites that would be extremely helpful. All new poetry will also be posted here. Thanks for your support.

http://whateverhappenedtopoetry.wordpress.com/

Many thanks.

Thomas Bennett

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Late Night Television (The Pits)
Category: Writing and Poetry

Changed channel.

Some BBC documentary about terrorism
Scares me witless which I have no doubt
Is it's intent.
Anticipating the apprehension i'll feel when
Next on public transport, then to realise the
Likelihood pretty remote...a terror cell plotting
To blow up the two-o'clock train to Southport!
Changed channel.

On ITV, ceaseless poor people converge to 
A posed question with innumerable answers,
One is correct.
Thinking of some lonely, old lady whose legs
Are drunk-lame and falls asleep nightly here...
Repeatedly bashing redial for a pound and a half
Pot-shot, dreaming of the five-hundred pound
Pension-stretcher.

Changed channel.

Thomas Bennett

Currently listening : Heavy Deavy Skull Lover By The Warlocks Release date: 23 October, 2007

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We Make Our Own Fun
Category: Writing and Poetry

Sometimes I like to smoke a cigarette fast,
Preserving the ash as a resplendent mass.

The fire it glows and my face grows warm,
Each pull of smoke throws flakes from the form.

Until the one last puff which I courageously draw
Scatters the pillar to the expectant floor.

Thomas Bennett

Currently listening : Shotter’s Nation By Babyshambles Release date: 23 October, 2007

08:41 - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Beef Poetry II : The Old Dog’s Escape

There was an old dog,
He used to camp by me,
Share heat from my fire
And milk for our tea.

But then one day,
Fire gone, burning ashes.
The old dog fled
Ringing tears from my lashes.

Eye-brow furrowed,
Rain overhead.
The old dog's gone
And left me for dead.

Thomas Bennett

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