OUTLINES OF MY DUSTY SOUL


Her piercing; searching eyes

Penetrate my mental fortress

Burning; prising open a hole

She sees straight through me

Right into the gaping depths

The outlines of my dusty soul

I avert my gaze from hers

So she won’t see the total mess

Inside. Until I regain control

For if she gets inside my mind

I will be forced to confess

That’s it. I’m done. I’m sold.

I’ll be hers completely

For a lifetime, more or less

My heart, she’s gone & stole

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I Never Knew


I never knew what what Love was

Until the day that I met you

Cut open; excavated and lifted up

Out of your mother’s bloodied womb

Eyes wide open, sucking

your thumb, into the Theater room

Your curly hair, matted wet

With your amniotic cocoon

Not a cry out of you

It’d be safe to assume

That you had been around before

This place, it wasn’t new.

An old soul reincarnated

As a newborn baby whom

Was gifted to us

This love.

It grows deeper.

Every day

The more that you grow

The more that you play

With your fingers

And kick your feet

With a smile that lingers

And a look that keeps

Surprising & entertaining

Intriguing us too

How could we be complaining

When we’ve dreamed of you

Since conception

You’re everything we’ve hoped for

And more besides

Surpassing our expectations

With your inquisitive eyes

And your sensitive nature

Giggling at the ceiling

For no particular reason

Pushing yourself up

On your developing legs

Crying out for your bottle

Nearly holding it in your hands

Our Princess

 

We gladly submit to your commands

For this is your Kingdom

And we, your loyal subjects

 

 

 

 

TOOTHLESS WONDERS


Like pirates, they plunder

The very depths of society

For another toothless wonder

And their fucked-up family

Their lives torn asunder

For our consumption on TV

Screaming bloody murder

With a belligerent type of glee

And I’m left to wonder

Whether a bemused Jeremy

Instead of paying for their hotel

Might be better forking out for some dentistry

 

With holes in their arguments

As wide as the gaps in the teeth

They eventually come to an agreement

But they’re doomed to repeat

The same old mistakes and deceit

 

Brother accuses brother of stealing his watch

Wife accuses fella of putting pictures of his crotch

On secret dating sites, which he denies of course

DNA test finds him out, but still no remorse

 

Bickering sisters competing for the affections

Of a father or mother they never knew

Coming to terms with their rejection

While another fight brews

 

Running onto to the stage

They fly into a verbal rage

Separated by bodyguard Steve

You’d find it hard to believe

 

Running of the stage again; shouting down from the rows

When they want to have their say; when they’ve been exposed

As the liars & cheaters; victims or lovelorn

It’s easy to mock them, it’s easy to scorn

 

But, it’s their 15 minutes of fame

Revelling in the spotlight

Ignorant of the shame

That their contrived plight

Brings upon their name

Yet we the viewer lap it up in

Because it’s all part of the game

 

Reality comedy gold

For our guilty pleasure

Our sadistic amusement

A national treasure

Easter Rising of My Heart


Ken Hume

“EASTER RISING OF MY HEART
(Rebellion of Love)

On 29th April 1916,
After 6 days of ferocious fighting
Heavy losses; bloodied pavements
Battered ideals
Padraig Pearse agreed
To the unconditional surrender of arms
To the British Army.
They had made their statement
To the world.
Fiercely they had fought their fight,
Shed their blood
Then bravely laid down their lives
In the hope for a new; liberated Ireland.

100 years later
(Tired of waging constant war with myself
Of battling the darker side of me
Rebelling against the intimacy I craved
Keeping everybody at arm’s length
For fear of getting hurt)
On 29th of April, 2016, I Ken Hume
Agree to the unconditional surrender
Of my arms… my legs, my mind,
Heart, body and soul
To the ruler of my Island
President of my Republic
To the Queen of my Empire.
Anne-Marie Stones.

Royal, Unbowed
I will gladly bow to…

View original post 206 more words

Drawn to the Flame


like-a-moth-to-a-flame

 

Like a moth drawn right into the flame

Mesmerised by the shimmering light

Its flapping wings get singed and burnt

They’ll do the same again if you let

 

Like a bird careering into a clear window pane

With a thud, surprised, shivering in fright

Because they couldn’t discern

Between the glass & open air just yet

 

Like an addict looking for release from the same

Paralyzed by the temporary respite

It gives, unable to control the yearn-

ing for the high of heroin & crystal meth

 

Like a little child whom you must restrain

And chastise for reaching their hand right

Into the fire, only way they’ll ever learn.

Only way that they’ll never forget

 

Like Icarus who could not contain

His ecstasy. Hypnotised by the height

He reached. He flew too close to the sun

Melting the wax. Plunging to his death

 

There’s a lesson for those of us who disdain

The words of the wise by setting out to ignite

Fires from which they cannot turn

Away, engulfing them with the embers of regret

 

Written by Ken Hume

30/03/2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY SIX


Seven hundred and ninety-six

Barely born, young innocent souls

Never given a chance at life

Born out of wedlock,

Born out of luck

Considered nothing more than livestock

To be buried ‘neath sewerage; bricks & muck

By the cornerstone & bedrock

Of Ireland, the Catholic Church, stuck

Still in the dark ages

Who heaped shame upon unmarried mothers then

For “living in sin” as they say

Mothers

‘Give up your baby

Pay your penance in the laundries’

Never told of their fate

Treated them as dirty whores

Social lepers;

Religious outcasts

Thrown out of the Kingdom

Children

Malnourished; neglected

Emaciated & rejected

By the church and state

Complicit with them

Paying money to the run the institutions

Wash their hands

And clean the slate

Society complicit with them

By watching on;

Allowing it to happen

Indifferent to the massacre

Going on behind closed walls

Out of sight, out mind

 

Their voices now crying out

From beneath the grave

The echoes of which

Now reverberate loudly

Through the once locked up corridors

Of Ireland’s minds

Clearing the closets of all the skeletons

Lifting up the bulging dusty carpets

Under which years of dirty secrets lie

 

Written by Ken Hume

March 2017

All about Saint Patrick


patrickislingtonpoetry

All about Saint Patrick

Across the green, the drummer’s drum
and as children cheer the engine’s hum
as floats row-in, they all have come,
to the Saint Patrick’s Day parade.

While flags they wave, a sea of green
beyond these eye’s, horizon’s screen,
uncovered corners, diaspora’s keen
to colour this charade.

Beyond what was, once simple lore
defined our culture and so much more
times knock upon a different door,
and I a riled-up renegade.

Now far away on different soil
my heart’s mistrust still on the boil,
you made me so, I learned to toil
for riches to be made.

And still it burns within my soul;
How keepers watched our empty goal,
Did nothing for us on the dole,
more cuts from sceptic’s blade.

Saint Patrick! Snakes’ still slither here
massaging figures over beer,
It’s time for change, I smell it near,
our dues are overpaid.

No more…

View original post 47 more words

Head Up in the Clouds


I’ve my head way up in the clouds

Eyes fixed upon the stars

Lost in my own little world

But my heart lies in your hands

My heart lies in your hands

 

I stand apart from all the crowds

Losing count of all the cars

My arms around me curled

But my heart lies in your hands

My heart lies in your hands

 

Inside my brain, I talk out loud

My thoughts in covered jars

How they dance and they twirl

But my heart lies in your hands

My heart lies in your hands

 

Though the blues do sometimes shroud

Handcuff me behind prison bars

Your playfulness doth a smile unfurl

Because my heart lies in your hands

My heart lies in your hands

 

Written by and

Copyrighted to

Ken Hume 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ashes Upon their Foreheads


Penance for the public’s eye

To cover up a private lie

In the prelude to

40 days of lenten sacrifice

40 days of wanton artifice

Deprive yourself of sugar based induldgences

Yet indulging in this divine comedy

Of spiritual apology

Of confession without progression

Of tradition without perdition

Of spirituality without the reality

 

We’re just wondering around in the desert

Like Christ.

With sand on our feet

And no appetite

The hypocrisy of our theocracy

Has led to mediocrity

Sincere Insincerity

Insincere Sincerity

To cover up the severity

The ingrained temerity

Of the every day Irishman

 

Our Father who art in heaven

Must get to mass by half eleven

For their lenten obligation

Ashes without the sackcloth

Marked upon the foreheads

Of the “faithful”….

Departed

Long since departed

From faith of any sort

 

 

 

 

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