Peter Lilly: Poems

Spacial awareness   let us down again, and shattered  another urn, spilling that morbid sand. In the irritation  of  vacuuming respectfully    we give a moment of meaning  back to sooty remains.  Referendums pass the time.  They draw out experts who,  with shouts and keystrokes,  fling the spittle of their opinion.  Elections pass the buck.  With their signs and slogans  they draw out the masses  to choose between arsenic and anthrax.  The French call their ballot box an urn.  It is where we cast  the ashes of our expired ideals,  to be scattered amongst  the winning or loosing percentage,  as the fate of the nation  teeters on the whims   of  fickle voters and loyal tabloid readers.  All the projected outcomes  are varied shades of ash,  and a different decor  of the receptacl...

Hope distinguishes itself from now. It is gazing at milestones that keeps the rhythm constant. Thud, Crack, rustle, shhh Thud, Crack, rustle, shhh... kicking stones. Hope is a hammer.      It fractures skulls,      it embeds nails. Hope is a hammer.      It cracks metal,      it shapes what is forged. It is the violence at the door to keep you inside. It is the violence to bend the bars of your entrapment. Find your hope, a hope that builds and frees,  know the reason behind it and wield it.  wield the hammer of your hope. Written in the Autumn of 2015, about the violence of hope that can be for good or for bad.