Peter Lilly: Poems

Confinement, A melting pot reaching boiling point. Neighbour's needs clash,  Irritations become sparks. Tiny kingdoms close in on their kings, Yet tiny kindnesses shatter walls. Cold weather confines further And our neighbours rattle inside their shells As our boy bounces off the walls Of our little world, Where the music is constant And his breathing always  Sets the tempo of our hearts And the rhythm of our sleep. This little poem was written the 24th and 25th of March, 8 and 9 nine days into the lock-down here in France.  We're doing well, trying to keep creative as keeping our little boy entertained takes up most of our time. Things can get a little tense between neighbours in all this. We've had to encourage our nocturnal neighbours into a healthier rhythm as they kept waking Gabriel. Please be considerate and patient with each other, especially if you live in a flat.  And while your locked in, get to know the poetry of M...

Scattered moments of inspiration. Drying ink captured in ruled lines, Filed as rustling wind-chimes. A creative mess. A short poem I wrote in 2007 when I was 19, about the creative process + having a messy room.

What can make darkness itself illuminate your room? What fills you eyes with images yet takes them from your mind? What keeps your attention while shortening its span? What can teach facts, while lowering intellect? What stimulant acts as a depressant to the imagination? What makes writers' names known yet takes away the desire to read? What can make darkness itself illuminate your room? My wife and I do not own a TV and we find it very liberating! This is not at all a criticism of all TV programs! It's more concerned with the lifestyle of switching the brain off and switching the TV on, watching hours and hours of TV per day and also the adverse effects of exposing children and infants to too much TV, educational or otherwise... The poem can also be applied to facebook, twitter and youtube etc!

Crayon fingers clasp at the pictures of another's mind. Leaving you to salivate over silhouettes of broken pieces of conversation: chiming a random anthem as they settle in the sad lifelessness of silent fragments, and I want to hide from the ocean beneath the sand of the coastline you fashioned with those crayon fingers. Rain peppered beaches sigh moments of fresh water at the salt of the inhalation waves. It waves me farewell to your listening. So make a water world of your speaking and dream the abyss of walls away. Contact your forgotten ambition in the misassembled shapes of frozen water and draw what you see in your own contrition taste the flavours that your art tried to achieve and feel  the purity  of all dimensions  of this creation as it awaits the artist's  restoration: injecting pure colour into the hearts of each willing figure of this moving canvas ...

A magnitude of grey refracts the sun into a wide spectrum. If time is taken to watch it, see it slowly changes: ever ageing in smooth perfections. The firmament of the sky's skin is beautiful, regardless of weather. This rotating work of art is permeated with the stylistic splendour of its painter's mind. Fragments of storms, which were split by sunlight, are beautiful as they rain themselves dry, exposing coursing veins glowing neon in the ambience of echoes of completeness to come. This rotating work of art is permeated with the stylistic splendour of its painter's mind. And I am loosened from fabric shackles having grown my own linen and exhaled reasons to move with the painter's gift of air.  Written 28-30/12/12.  We can learn so much from the changing beauty of the sky.