Laurence E. Bourke
Biography of Laurence E. Bourke
I am a 20 year old student, not working at the moment but looking for work, love to write poetry and have done so since i was around 11 or so, alwasy looking for a new poem to read or a new poet I've never heard of, I love to read also, socialise, play computer games(mostly rpgs) and I hope to have a good stay here and maybe get some recognition for my writings...hope you like them! !
Laurence E. Bourke's Works:
None yet lol, hopefully I will someday! !
Laurence E. Bourke Poems
Eye Of The Storm
The doom-noise tumbles in. no colors flee the eye of it. Miles on windy miles succumb, sunlight cant get in. Nothing tells the day from night beneath this grey-black roof, This charged procession of cloudy walls,
Cat On The Roof
Fleet as wind, she slenderly navigates the early morning world. A world unseen to the sleepers, tinned skies distilling the blue of the west, the yellowing east.
In sleep, in sleep, I wander deep, Into minds un-ego’ed keep, And swim in thoughts And swim in dark,
All night, you weighed me up, globular, a mad-god eye, From your jeweled grove. What weight can measure the Sky when you unbalance so. Dark sided circumference, always Hidden, maybe you’ve lived forever,
The over-blue is full of noise, and bottomless, summer sinks its Humid teeth into the sky, boiling tons of barely breathable air, Dynamic flotillas of white clouds graze the illusory crown of sun,
A violent wind-scape overwhelms the outer world, Pry’s open sleepy thoughts, hurling them Headfirst into the rainy wakefulness roaming outside!
The commonplace roof, caked in filthy years worth of grime, Is surely no place for you, King of the sky! Three terrific claws anchoring, perched atop the squared house, an ungainly thing, it has not aged as you.
Sluggish lines of cloud persist, interrupting mid-days Glowing sheet, a spectacular explosion of blue. Springs warming clime slows the cloudy migration above, Dragging their dim underbellies beneath the skies bowled ceiling...
The morning briskly opened its half lit eyes, And me, walking out unknowingly into the dusky bedlam Felt as though the world was one of wind and ice, A world tilted on sleepy axis toward some distant night.
These are the cliffs, proving Ireland's finite edge, Steep slabs, rugged hearts of olden things, of all forgot. We tremble at the slope, skirting these stormy world rims.
Storm Front, , ,
Clouds this morning bear no semblance to those were accustomed to, Rimmed by tides of winter fire, dull goliaths, tired with rain, Yearning to expunge their elephantine loads,
Winters transparent coat, the blustery cape of a November morning Swings downward, erratically and with ultimate force, A barbarous mixing of air and below zero climes, snatched
The world outside, a dark room of water, quiet and unbearably bleak. Movement limited to the grey tides above.
The over-blue is full of noise, and bottomless, summer sinks its
Humid teeth into the sky, boiling tons of barely breathable air,
Dynamic flotillas of white clouds graze the illusory crown of sun,
The garden is a greenhouse, a sultry square walled hell,
No siestas here, just oppressive rays per square inch,
Squeezing perspiration from humans, full of sleep,
Somewhere, a lawnmower is growling hypnotically,