William Cook

Rookie (New Zealand)

It Has Been Given - Poem by William Cook

What lies outside the heart and soul is restrictive decision
that leads an arterial bypass past life’s true intentions.
Love gone, never to be reflected in the passage of one’s lifetime
tradition all too familiar in the lives of many
too old to go back, to dream the dream
to partake in life’s big meanings.

Losing space in a trajectory of time
net advancement of four walls of fear
all else uninvolved, seems so far, so sublime.
Rain starts falling, damp blankets of ash
caresses turn from light to sodden
with frozen napalm kisses
the light fair fall of a night moth’s breath
a bludgeoning hammer-fall of sharp steel smelt
new ferocious pounding —years of distilled rage
comes racing from the Heavens, intent on forced age.

The capture of moments long ago lost it seemed
as past lapped the present and you became dream.
Marching becomes possible, even after Blindness occurs
programmes control programmers
with a subliminal switch, in guise of fashion
something new created, for betterment of humankind?
Something borrowed, twisted, mutated, mirrored as virgin
brings something broken into being.

The glass age flourishes with apparent lack of meaning
save, for something better, something new — created,
while plans behind the construction became lost forever.
Forgone was the reason and not known, were the results.

Journey we go, into a place where lost buildings of time
stack against each other in a delicate city of memories
walking these barren streets, searching for hidden clues
we get lost in the quest of looking for answers to the future
in gloomy poisonous back-streets of the past
black galloping pillows of cloud
hasten like advancing sentries of night
against the grey sky, proclaiming
ferocious thunderheads glory
blossom and stab tender side of the West
the East’s long sabre, draws out and twists
spilling gushing blankets of deep, deep maroon
all over mortal Earth
casting great floods from the West
decaying plagues ravage the North
famine bleeds dry the South’s cold haven
East connotes slow suicide in prophetic insane seclusion.

Green stems from the smouldering grey and all the glass age:

redeems itself back to the crimson beaches, whence it came.
As the journey recedes and tired time takes its course,
the past (to the future) is no teacher, but a painting.

Always hunting, without knowing
for three properties of motion:
the beginning, the middle, and the end.

Life, death, fire, water, Earth and ocean
bringing in the space of the old: the new
the idea, the propulsion, the result is seen in all things.

Cause, effect, and result of action
is a troublesome discourse
for those beyond consciousness
for those beyond feeling
for all those TV babies breeding...


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Poem Submitted: Friday, July 21, 2006

Poem Edited: Wednesday, August 18, 2010


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