Peter Lilly: Poems

We do not know everything about you, but we know the truth of what you have revealed. The creativity that glitters those raging, fiery suns to twinkle in distance and pin- point the night sky with soft beauty. The creativity t hat speaks with intent and purpose, causing nourishing growth to unfold in vast petals of colours that inspire more creativity; that shapes a being with choice and all the complexities of what it is to be a person... and you breathed life into our nostrils . We do not know everything about you, but we know the truth of what you have revealed. Your unbridled compassion that pursues and chases. Your patience that endured the dust of centuries of ignorance, and the filthy spiral of broken human aspiration to claim our own divinity, or to label the most putrid of selfish gain with the will of God. We know your patience, that keeps turning cheeks and refuses to destroy the guilty. We do not know...

What is it that unifies us? For the boiling bad blood of heated boarders has polluted all the air inside the firmament-sky, and false belonging spits at empathy as personhood is domestically defined. What is it that brings us together? For self-perpetuating open wounds are blinding and searing any concept of an 'us' and reactions chase reactions chase reactions chase reactions chase reactions. What is it that brings us together from this hopeless hate? The most hurt party not only abandoned vengeance but mirrored it onto Himself, and demonstrates frail victory that looks like failure to us, unless we abandon vengeance in an embrace that crosses every dimension of this sickne ss. This is what brings us together: A divine reconciliation stained in the blood of hurt, and risen in the germinating promise of immeasurable change. Written 22/02/12 2 Corinthians 5:18-21 'All this is from God, who reconc...

Skin chases skin alone and stretches itself until it dulls every window, pouring restlessness into home. Skin knows its pours are suffocating and draws its own ink to display fading ideas as permanent tracing these tattoos, hallucinating. Skin licks mirror's cold and clouds wet circles, yet at it's most lucid it realises it's own translucence thus, realises its potential for skin is part, not purpose. Written late in January 2012

So the rungs of your ladder  became blades. But you would never chase your fingerprints as they fall, and a rumour of identity will lie on the blood-stained birthing floor, along with your name and your first pair of tiny shoes. All waiting for the teeth of scavengers. The metallic surface up here has been weathered rough like your face you have forgotten; another discarded picture, ruined by blind obsession. The wind from above whispers only despair as the portraits on currency are merely official black-ink-pop-art. Those notes of paper  take up no space, they communicate nothing, but  flitter a mocking snicker in the blustering; worthless as leaves. Echoes screech for answers in the frustrated perpetual motion of a monologue that wishes for conversation, because all your companion s took their own tributaries and disappeared in distance. With hindsight we can see that they took with them all the scraps of meaning...

Broken rain falls independently without potential for perichoresis they do not forming puddles as they should. Every separate ambition is at odds with all the other little ambitions, trapped in a snow-globe world of self-significance and matchstick babel towers of our own sordid achievements. Cheep philosophies rebound from the walls of this snow-globe, self-fashioning limitless echoes which guess the content of any counter argument. They chew off their own ears in the self-importance of being a teacher, like a faustian imbecile who has littered the floor with pages of children's books but thought himself above their pictures. Who punctuates his life with commas of conversation: All opportunities to shout white noise at bored and tired ornaments of ego, and thus banish listening to the caverns of past lessons, that are remembered and repeat but in fact, never learned ! Even in the nursery we piled ...

Oh two leaf tree. Did somebody leave you behind? Ever expectant of the fruit You’re desperate to produce, But The ground around you is only Littered with the brown leaves of former glory, Last year’s windfall; now fertilizer And a fractured birdhouse, housing damp. Oh two leaf tree. Did somebody take your branches? Shaping your shadow to fit the outline of a tired summer, Saving your limbs to thaw a bitter frost, So The sundial has lost its strength, Derelict greenhouse fills with rain, Forgotten firewood now dampens sparks, But you can drink of this cold and feed your new limbs.. and grow. Written in the winter of 2007.

This total aversion to movement has left the vehicle drifting because You are not contained in static, solid, stability. Just hit this wall and see it move see it bleed and hear it weep, as it knows it cannot grow, only slowly crack and fall apart. Denial of entropy is exhausting and accepting it is death... and the middle ground indecision is a twisting of rumours and a whispering of fact. The context of these chaotic patterns is one of a wider purpose. Revel in the insignificance of what is universally observable, and know that they are but measly matter in a reality that is under divinity, spheres within spheres of acceptance and denial. -so here we are... standing still, plummeting and breathing Written October 2011