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A small selection of my poetry, with as little explanation as is humanly possible...
This first one won a prize with a major book chain.
Rat Race Express
See all those guysIn white shirts and loud ties:
Hurrying, cell phones in hand,Scurrying, to make another Grand…Hotel dinners with sultry sinners,
No slack, fast track moversSucking up money like Hoovers,Low morals high stress cynicsTomorrow’s coronary statistics -I used to be one of them. Until I tired of the stress And all the formal dress:
The black tie engagementsAnd back stabbing arrangements,Fancy friends with painted smiles…
Shaking hands patting backsWhile contemplating cash attacks, Making moves on partners,And all of that for starters -Until I got off the gravy train.
My life’s moved on a pace,
No longer a dog eat dog race.I do what I want to do Not what somebody tells me to…Well maybe except for my wife?Life is so much more of a pleasure
Exercising my full measure of leisure,Stopping now and then, and again,Instead of money, I’m using a pen,
Working slow enough to smell the coffee. © G K McLaren, 1998 Reflections Stealing time to reflect:
Contemplating pleasuresOf weekends past, or passed,
With understanding completeness. Memories of spring days:Soft lips - sun kissedBy glowing red sun-sets, our sun sets,
Warming thoughts of love. Thoughts of contentment:Half rememberedThrough an ethereal mist, I've missed,
Our love of weekends past... © G K McLaren The Poet
I watched the poet perform.
He was good.He was funny.
He made me think. He made me think of another poet,A long time ago,Who also made people laugh -
But they laughed at his pain,Not his poetry. I couldn’t understand Why people chose to do that,
Rather than listen to the poet's’ words?But then people still laugh at pain -Ask any clown… What made it even more funny
Was what this poet said:He said, “I love you.”And they said, “show us how muchAnd while you do hold these nails…”And they laughed again. They continued to laughUntil he died,And then their laughter died,Even although this poets act
Was, like this poem,Unfinished… © G K McLaren, 1998 For all the
unfortunate victims of school atrocities -- Columbine School in the US, Dunblane Primary in Scotland, and too many more. Anger and Remembrance
Life's flame flickers and fadesSnuffed out by the winds of evil,And with the fading flame Fades the rainbow –The hopes and dreams
Of cherished life, cut down.
In the midst of beautyAnd embryonic ebullience, Fractured family and friendsFumble, in the dark of grief,To find reason
Where there is none to find.
Swarming media maggots Join in a feeding frenzy,Satisfying vicarious appetitesFrom the pit of aching emptiness,And soul chilling sorrow
Of the many left behind.
Now the many bear the guilt -The guilt of survival…Guilt, where none is apportioned,None is deserved,But guilt stands penitent
Where emotions bleed raw.
God hears the concert 'WHY?'His heart fills with sorrow -Again He questions free will,With all its painful burdens?But in the resonating silence,
God Weeps…
© G K McLaren, 1999 I suffer from PPMTT (pre-pre-menstrual-tension tension) Pack away the breakables
and head for the hills... Emotional Carousel
Until this tide of Hormones recedesI think I had better keep myself to myself,Beached and bleached on the sand in the sun,
Rather than tossed in angry foaming waves,Beaten and bruised by the constant abuse
Of natures unfettered, unbridled affliction. Hidden in the secret sanctuary of solitude I retreat, rebuilding and reforming
Siege savaged self-esteem and ailing ego, Torments of love in biochemical turmoil,
Looking for prizes and brownie pointsTo salve the wounds of untenable anathema.
With each cycle of this emotional carouselI feel myself fall, spiralling out of control - Deeper into dark and undesirable places
Where love has no place and little power,Waiting for the onslaught to subside,
Hoping I can still climb out of the chasm ….one more time.
© G K McLaren, 1998 Desert Fox
I put up my Christmas tree tonight,
Unaware That the explosions
And machine gunsOn the television behind meWere for real, not merely drama –People dying for Politics,Not crass entertainment.
I was in festive spirit,
RejoicingIn the expectation
Of a holy child’s birth –The celebration of a Saviour,Shamefully unaware of the carnageOf hi-spec technologyOn low-tec flesh.
The tree stands tall,
DenudedOf lights and tinsel,
Baubles and frivolity –Adopted pagan remindersOf a festival of joy,Peace, and light,Not death at night.
Is this the beginning?
And is it, perhaps, Too soonTo hopeFor an end to Mortal, martial, folly?
© G K McLaren
All the following ‘big’ words are from one short article in an art magazine. They sounded pretty pretentious, so I cobbled them together to make an even bigger load of BS, which I then used to
‘qualify’ for an online poetry list. It was very well received by some who thought it was for real and not just pretentious crap. Disillusioned, I left the list. Pretentious – Moi?
Variegated verities before me,
Disclosed by apposite exegesis I break from cabalistic obscurantism. Freed from involuted fecundity,
Imbroglio nights behind now,I eye it with pejorative contiguityCongruent with their hectoring:
Nugatory, anachronistic almost…Coextensive visceral decoctionsCulminate in extempore expostulation.
© G K McLaren, 1998
Sometimes
I have difficulty understanding Poetry comp judges. (Except when they choose one of mine.) I submitted this for one. Strangely, it didn’t win...
The Poetry Police The Poetry police must not see this,For they will curse and condemn,Dismissing it as heresy, not poetry,And burn it on the altar of ignorance.
It doesn't rhyme - they must not see this.It speaks naught of flowers or meadows,It does not fill the heart with joy
Or create elegant pictures of sunsets. They must not see this - it's not nice.It shows no favour to formal beauty,
It goes to dark and lonely places…It upsets the twin-set, high-tea set.
It is anarchy - they must not see this.Its revelations may upset and confuse,Its incongruity offensive to use…And an inconsistent rhyme sneaks in,Then runs screaming back into the dark.
They must not see this It's coming apartThey won't understand itIt isn't quite artA nail in the coffin A stake through the heartA remorseless rhyme pattern attempting to startAnd lines that grow longer without having good reasonIn poetic terms It's becoming high treasonAnd everyone knows That this isn't the seasonTo start a new trend In the high poets' provinceThe judges and critics And public to incenseBut the damage is done And it's all written nowDon't be tempted to treat it Like some sacred cowIt is after all just a jumble of wordsOne simple poem if somewhat absurdBut the poetry Police must not see it…
© G K McLaren, 1998. Likes? Dislikes? Comments? Mail me by clicking here, or on the animated quill and book at the top left hand corner of any page. Thanks for stopping by.
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