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    Poems For Ocean: Lyric Poetry
    Poems For Ocean: Lyric Poetry
    Poems For Ocean: Lyric Poetry
    Ebook193 pages59 minutes

    Poems For Ocean: Lyric Poetry

    By Simon Pole

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    About this ebook

    Enter a world of brave soldiers and valueless killers. Experience the consolation of those who grieve, but also the fruit of love. Examine many human qualities, and those of nature too: view the humor, the pathos, and the pain.

    This is the poetry of Poems For Ocean, a bold collection, told in traditional rhyming verse of many syllables and forms, by Simon Pole, author of The Saga of Terminal City.

    Bio

    His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Vancouver, British Columbia. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon Pole
    Release dateAug 10, 2017
    ISBN9781370423569
    Poems For Ocean: Lyric Poetry
    Author

    Simon Pole

    His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Kingsville, Ontario. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

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      Book preview

      Poems For Ocean - Simon Pole

      I know he sleeps, but let us praise

      The man who gilded all our days,

      Reflecting on us godly worth:

      No greater man has walked the earth.

      I know he sweats, but let me say

      With him we’ve marched since Philip’s day:

      First in Greece, then with him foremost

      To battles far beyond our coasts.

      I know he sighs, but let me show

      What we his camp-mates ever know:

      To be as heroes he us called,

      And him the bravest one of all.

      I know he tosses and he turns,

      Break down the wall, let those who yearn

      Into the regal chamber troop,

      And one last time before him stoop.

      I know he stares, and speakest not,

      But still his eyes I see burn hot

      With pride to see us, men of steel,

      Who with him Asia made to kneel.

      I know he dies, and far from home,

      While we to verge of Ocean roamed.

      But here he planted town and field,

      Where plough in place of sword we wield.

      I know we weep, and him adored

      We watch into the ether soar.

      But all is Greek, where once he walked,

      And always will they of him talk.

      The Paratrooper

      In your film I will not paraded be,

      Nor with my comrades replay our capture,

      With wooden arms, and so instill rapture

      In you, our congenital enemy.

      By all means throw me in your pit, and let

      The waters close and drown—I will not act,

      Nor will they, for human pride is a fact,

      Without which we are like the cringing pet.

      It is our essence which proceeds from God,

      Which against the able foe is measured,

      In accord with correct usage of war.

      But this beret I most of all treasure,

      Which we all wear, and will for evermore,

      Though it be our sore death countrymen laud.

      Apartment Man

      Apartment cat, apartment cat,

      Do you know where it’s at?

      Do you know those hipster folks,

      Who pack the bowl for a toke?

      Apartment mouse, apartment mouse,

      Dude, chill: don’t be a louse!

      Your persistent scampering,

      My sleep is a-hampering.

      Apartment dog, apartment dog,

      With I.Q. of a log,

      The door you push opens in,

      In case you were wonderin’.

      Apartment flea, apartment flea,

      Tiny speck I can’t see,

      Legacy without a doubt

      Of the tenant who moved out.

      Apartment bird, apartment bird,

      Author of constant turds,

      Daily cleaning of your cage

      Stokes ornithophobic rage.

      Apartment man, apartment man,

      What don’t you understand?

      Inmate of the human zoo,

      Inside our cage, you live too.

      The Killer’s Brain

      Arid is the killer’s brain,

      Like a desert without rain,

      Where the lidless sunlight glares

      On the brittle breezeless air.

      On the lawless streets he hunts,

      An animal, for whom grunts

      Of anger affection be,

      And music is agony.

      A strange, starvèd place it is,

      The rented room that is his,

      Where there pulls like gravity,

      Poles of negativity.

      Here is staked the tortured prey,

      Which he takes from light of day,

      And into night plunges deep,

      The realm which his lessons keep.

      From what planet, or what moon,

      Has he landed? To what tune

      Does the rage within him dance,

      Bred by birth or circumstance?

      But against there rises here,

      With a badge, and conscience clear,

      The agent which counters him,

      Doggedly, since ages dim.

      Protector of friendly stock,

      Those who like us nod and talk,

      Observing all nicety,

      Though with grudges crotchety.

      Cunningly he lays the trap,

      A ruse which vile vices tap:

      Plants a lady without shield,

      On the killer’s hunting field.

      Her observes the slinking lout,

      Scouting all the exits out,

      Thinking thus himself unwatched,

      Attacks with chloroformed swatch.

      By the agent startled then,

      In act of her stranglein’,

      To the summit is he chased,

      Where open roofs skyward face.

      There to rant, and rave, and swear

      That forever has he beared

      Fetters unfair, and their hurt,

      Since he was a little squirt.

      From his days of killing cats,

      Right behind their owners’ backs,

      And then the homeless in their shacks,

      With an axe, and forty whacks.

      Never could he understand,

      Since his lust for death began—

      The purpose of his lifetime,

      Why these acts were counted crimes.

      Later when they searched his room,

      Found the corpses and heirlooms,

      Made of bone and hoarded hair,

      Some surmises made they there.

      A man not like us was this,

      Some connection went amiss,

      To the God who made our hearts,

      And the chain of ethics starts.

      Like a man who lacks the key

      To the box of memory,

      No amicus could he give

      Of why what’s born weak should live.

      So up there they shot him dead,

      One swift bullet to his head,

      Applied by the sniper’s gun

      From the ‘copter where it spun.

      To his home the agent went,

      Where his children joyful spent

      Their lot of idyllic days,

      And, glad of heart, with them plays.

      Honing The Blade

      Ring, ring,

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