Peter Lilly: Poems

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.

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!

Even on this boat, on this fjord, there is someone looking at a screen. Oblivious to the passing beauty that will outlive our LCD: our acid and our own synapses. Overfamiliarity is no excuse. I got burnt today, in the wind below where the dregs of slowly melting snow are the glacial prints, where ice age fingers were dragged towards the permanent peace in narrow streams. I got burned by beauty that leapt from the sun and was magnified by every contour, every millilitre of pure water, every centimetre of distance travelled, every knot of speed, and every quark of every atom of every cell of my love's generous and radiant being. Beauty leapt from the sun, was magnified in those obscenely majestic ricochets, and left me burnt and tender. The Spirit hovers over the deepest fjord in silent sparks and seemingly random flashes of purpose. If you let the collisions burn you tender, those sparks w...

Control. It wastes not like the lust that chases tides, then tries to take solace in dryness. But it is lost. Control believes in itself, despite stacks of books with the irrefutable weight of a million combined pages. It is fundamentalism. Control, draws on its own skin. It is an artist that neither acknowledges the canvas, nor the fingers he uses to paint. It is ignorant. Control: A safe delusion and distraction in the ocean of death and birth where we are given and taken. Control: A grasping at status beyond man. Control: A rejection of intuitive breathing, and a swallowing of cloud that would have one day dispersed in the revealing of beautiful truth, but Control: Impatience. Written at the beginning of October 2012.