Scorched Wings - A Book of Poetry by Charlie Ulyatt

This book of poems was written by myself over a period of years so I thought I would share it and see what comments I received if any ... enjoy.

I am now also posting 2011 Poems as I write them here.

Scorched Wings

We fly through fire

Mocking pain,

a crippled flame.

A sadness of wings

unable to beat our destiny.


Night of the Owl

They were seated by the waterfront

looking into the distance

at the rising moon

jeweled over the mountains,

a perfect evening of harmony.

They savoured this moment together,

yet, would never know

the outcome of the evening

or the sound of the bullet

marking the dawn.


Freedom

We were asked to refrain

from knocking at the window.

Our gentle taps on the glass

could be heard over great distances;

it was this of which they were afraid.

They attempted to muffle the sound

with heavy curtains,

yet, still we kept tapping.

one day, the window broke.


The Night Stalker

She observes

the scratches

on my hands,

fresh and deep;

questions their origins

whilst carefully inspecting

her nails for signs of wear.

“They were not there last night”

she says,

evoking images

of dreamtime fights

with leopards

and other wild animals.

She is soon distracted though,

as I point out

the bruises on her face

which have appeared overnight,

without my assistance.

Over Breakfast,

we wonder

at these uninvited miracles

and how the night stalker

trades in his sleep for our flesh.

Miserable Bitter

One last bid,

an empty desert,

a grain of sand,

my skeletal frame.

Transparent – hollow,

ongoing hunger,

scream in silence

yet again.

Purge the inside

of my soul,

a tired worn out

emotional wreck.

It’s cold in here,

an empty heart,

all gone to waste

and left unsaid.


Restrained Days

Restrained days,

too contained

in dead mysteries

and conformity

which rope deep

the knots

round ankles

round wrists.

A frustrated Odyssey

which leads us to beds

of dreams

and wakings,

shameful devices

to break free

from this dome.

I am a sad exile

in the world of man.

Dangerous gardens

grow tall around me.

I must leave this mountain,

keep searching

for hidden Eden.


The Fourth Man

Something wasn’t right;

three others

had entered the house,

though he could see no reason

for their visit.

Out of curiosity,

he too approached

and entered

Inside, upon the wall,

hung the portraits

of those who had gone before him,

and in the mirror,

an empty frame,

awaiting his departure.


The Downside Chill

The downside chill

marked out

by

cool

slow

blows

may cast a stone

into these once calm waters,

and heaven will destroy this ghostly

global town;

a guilty verdict

now delivered

with the passion of a dictators heart.

We can always take the easy option

“We are the new messiahs”!

Yet, when I ask you

from my dark corner

to rescue me,

will you be there,

with your arms outreached ?

Or will there be a silence (no beating wings) ?

My heart is a world

with many holes in it.


Harvest

Not afraid

of the darkness

that shines on the day.

A cry for harmony,

music and poems

of deep image

to illuminate flight;

harvest ills and death

vision and song

for empty souls.


Rembetika

A balmy Greek evening

and Plaka streets

echo with mournful muse;

sad blues of Asia Minor

sweep through hashish haze.

We had hope then Yannis,

and together

we weathered the storm,

nearly died

in the throat of Zeus’s revenge.

Now your absence has left me alone

without a guide

to face the bitter aftermath (of desecration),

and the death

of the kafenion.

I will raise a glass

of bitter retsina

to the ghosts of lost poets

and to those your land neglected;

cont …….


to the old sweeper woman

who throws down her broom

and dances

on ocean lips,

bruising them gently

with her feet,

and the one eyed beast

who howls at night.

(Cyclops my friend, can you still see ?).

And I wonder,

shall I return, again,

to the jasmine nights

of our mad ouzo dream ?


To Escape

To enter

a movie

of our making,

a confrontation

of dreams.

To vanish

from streets,

seek shining culture

of minds.

Worlds are on fire now,

the feast is on.

We leave tonight!


Autumn Leaves

I walk alone,

a solitary figure

on this deserted beach

which hides nothing

but the bloody bones of history.

In the ancient sea,

a disturbed reflection

of nature in the raw,

I see ageing trees,

sadly shedding their leaves,

once employed by Adam and Eve

to shield us from our birth.

Someday,

this stormy autumn tide

will carry me back

to watch those same sad leaves

come to rest

upon the eye of humanity,

remorseful

of all they exposed.


Sabra/Shatila

His fingers

couldn’t quite reach

his fallen walking stick.

The brittle digits,

incapable anyway

of even the weakest grip.

Though dying,

he weaved painful patterns

between the bullet holes in his home.

And on TV

the soldier’s blue eyes

betrayed a menace which ran far deeper.

And, I wondered later,

if they buried the young girl

dressed in green,

with her victory salute

still intact ?


Ocean Depths

Tonight,

I reach

deep

into ocean floors,

nails

rake

fine sand

for bodies

and heroes.


Ill at Ease

Ill at ease

on the stage,

we have become actors,

afraid to unlock doors

which may lead us

to unchained worlds,

where we enter great caves,

escape the knife

which cuts

through our motionless skin,

walk through mirrors

into distressed oceans,

enter battlefields

where poppies do not grow.

We have entered this kingdom

lacking vision,

powerless

to escape the darkness

which wants to take us home.


Cautious of Betrayal

We watched the vulture

disappear behind the mountain,

went back to our friends

in the café.

I smoke too many cigarettes

these days,

and at night,

I stub out

the sound

of angels wings.


Guitar Song

I am

the sad man

with the guitar,

drunk on lust

and fractured feelings.

In a crowd,

I am my own mythology;

my heart,

a percussion

of empty rooms.

Alone,

a guitar,

a mourning song.


At Peace

At peace

amongst the relics

of an ancient dawn,

where colours fade

from green and neon,

to a more gentle shade

of ochre and sandstone;

where, secluded

in the receeding light,

I surrender

to my feelings

of solitude,

of solidarity

with the twisted trees

and the timeless stones.


Futility

He noticed the beauty

of the bare trees in winter,

threw off his clothes

and dived into the harbour.

Someone had told him

of the treasures that lay there.

At this point, he ceased being,

the trees remained bare.


“Fait Accompli”

They circled slowly around the dying boy,

confused about their role

in this incident.

They questioned the purpose of his young death

and who would make the sandwiches.


Snow

An empty bottle,

a small hole

where a cigarette had been thrown.

In winter,

this bleak landscape

changed little.

And though the snow

would hide his sins,

he preferred

the transparency of ice

and the window

that it offered.


Total Eclipse

A dog howls, sorrowful,

in a far off street,

the only sound present

but my own fading footsteps.

I have taken this moment

for myself,

to recollect and recall

everything that has gone before.

The days we spent together,

walking barren mountain paths,

occasionally stopping

to blow cigarette smoke

into the bee hives

to watch the chaos that would follow.

Thinking back,

perhaps it was that very same chaos

that glued our edges together

so precariously;

and that also tore us apart

all too rapidly.

cont …………


Hot, sultry days;

yet, with many a thunderstorm

that broke without warning,

keeping us awake

until the rain subsided.

The seas have been calm though,

ever since your departure.

My heart has finally come to rest

against my tired frame.

Yet, some nights,

I lie awake,

listening to the sound

of the cats,

scratching their claws

on the eyes of the dead,

trying in vain

to raise once more,

the sunken vessel.

cont ……….


And I walk slower these days,

restrained by these shoes

that cut into my heels.

It’s as if they are trying

to constantly jog my memory,

remind me of something.

Perhaps, it was that evening

of pure poetry;

the night you left your handprint

on the sun,

the night your shadow grew

so large

as to cause our total eclipse.


Night of Fools

Survey

the night

of fools.

A breeding

of instant

mania

wounds deep

the calm

arrid night

ready

to sleep now

one more morning.


Naïve

Yesterday,

he had been for a walk

in the woods,

feeling the need

to put some optimism

back into his life.

He had heard the singing of the lark

and had seen the first buds of spring

upon the trees.

The sun had gently burnt his back

and he had felt the dusty earth

beneath his feet.

But today, he awoke

to find himself alone

in a door less room

wearing nothing

but a black arm band

and around his neck,

a chain

with a broken key.


Considering his Demise

The burning ash

of the cigarette

fell upon his shirt..

We expected a sudden panic,

yet, with a shrug,

he watched it smoulder,

reluctant to extinguish

a dying flame.


Culture of Ages

Soft shoes

shuffle

towards dying

in dust.

A solemn mantra

of death,

and fire

of loins

burning

Soulful journey starts here.

“To the forest”,

proud

of gods

and resistance

*

Oh come ye warring armies,

take up arms

and die,

allow our smile

to rise once more,

revert

to culture

of ages.


Untitled

In waxen image

our hands entwine,

bonded for life

in the silence

that once

was friendship.


The Performance

The actors cast a final glance

at the empty stage.

The echoes of applause

had long since faded,

leaving in its wake,

a shadow of indifference.

The spotlight still focused

on the ghost

at the microphone.

“Everything shimmers on the surface”

the voice repeated over and over,

ignoring the increasing silence

that hung above the empty seats.

The madmen and dancers footsteps

were also quiet now.

They had abandoned

their moment of power

to retreat amongst the crowds,

become passive voyeurs once more.

cont ……….

And, as we left the theatre,

we handed our tickets to the usherette.

Her torch guiding us once more

back into the night,

our hearts fluttering with first night nerves,

for we knew that, under the spotlight,

there would be no place to hide

and little room for improvisation.


Time and Words

He moved his pen,

his watch

around the table,

oblivious to those

who had noticed

his actions.

He meditated

on their position

for a while,

then moved them

around again,

secure in the knowledge

that he alone

could enter his world

of time and words.


Wrong Turnings

Illuminated by the frozen moon,

winters ashes blanket the ground,

their delicate acid burn

an impossible kiss

upon our forgotten lips.

In this cold,

I am numbed by your speech,

a blur of insanity

that penetrates the very heart

that once brought hope.

There is no joy in together

any more,

only solace

brought by the crushing

of your final words,

a melting of consequence,

wrong turnings

taken along the way.


Flesh Wound

She walks

towards me,

rifle in hand,

her every movement

shadowed by the cries

of gulls

from distant sand dunes.

Her silhouette

takes form

amongst the drifting landscape,

sculptured footsteps

reflect

against the breaking waves.

Yet, in the space

between us,

there is silence,

a silence that is audible

above the ocean and the bullet.


Star

She takes his hand,

offers no more

than a smile;

a warming star

to fall

upon his ageing skin.


Comments 4 comments

dotty1 profile image

dotty1 5 years ago from In my world

realy lovely poems with a somewhat sombre tone but altogether a great read Dx


Elizabeth99 profile image

Elizabeth99 5 years ago from Milwaukee, WI

Wonderful poems, all very captivating each on their very own! :)


Midianite profile image

Midianite 5 years ago from Australia

Wow, you are an amazing writer, keep it up. I'll be reading all of your work.


donna bamford profile image

donna bamford 5 years ago from Canada

I am very impressed with your poetry. i shall return to read more.

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