Back from the Dead...

Back from the Dead...

Wondered where the page went?
Yeah me too....
Lets see if this fixes it.... lol

xx
P.W.

New projects

Hello dear readers, sorry I haven't been here for a while.

The new home of Peaceful Warrior

I have been busy though so click any of the links below to see what and where my efforts have been directed.

A brand new WEBSITE.

IMAGINE  a new poetry blog.

ADD YOUR VERSE  a new sharing blog.

CLOUD CUCKOO LAND  a new blog for letting off steam and sharing items of current  interest.


I hope that you will all follow me there and see what you can find to interest you and keep your taste buds satisfied...

All poems here on the 'old' blog, remain the explicit copyright of Peaceful Warrior, and any copying or quoting is possible, but please ask first and give a relevant atributation to he, the copyrightee..  

(thats kinda poetic dont you think?)

I love you all.

P.W.

Another World Express

Another World Express

Clicking along the tracks of time,

A huge engine came.

Steadily, determinedly pulling cars.

Pullman carriages from past eras,

When trains were really trains.

Out here on Sleaford’s platform,

The anoraks, the spotters congregate.

And I realise this is unusual,

Where is my local train?

Maybe I’m Harry Potter,

Stepping onto the weird steps.

Going into another more surreal,

Time of passionate hearts.

Had I stepped out of here?

The way things are,

Became all fuzzy, confused,

But oh so wonderfully reminiscent.

“All aboard,” the guards’ shout.

“Mind the gap,” a cautionary word.

And then we are rolling stock,

Off into the world of dreams.

So many faces I can see,

Laughing with joy, a memory,

Of days when innocence,

Was known amongst them.

Turning wheels dragging faster,

Our passage easing homeward.

And I notice I’ve become,

Relaxed, renewed, faith added,

For something much more simple.

Courted here, ghosts of passage,

Better knowing how valuable life,

Was spun on friendships’ days.

Witness I, of fairness given,

Towards each passenger here-in,

Seated in comforts hand.

My jaunt here,

Into tranquil thoughts and memory,

Has left tears in my eyes.

The tiny platform of home,

Now draws closer,

And with it the sadness.

I alight, yet not alone,

But gone now is the mood,

Where I have felt peace.

Stretched away into time,

Those carriages move away,

And with them a fonder memory.

My tiny blessing to see,

The Orient Express passing through.

A strange coincidental gift,

And a powerful after taste lingers,

Watching her disappearing now.

God is a Golfball

God is a Golfball

Revered of your ancient being,

I smack you in the face.

Full swing of a 5 iron,

Stinging the crap out of you!

Though times have changed,

And your rules been adapted too.

Your brightness, and sacred being,

Still hold the masses in awe.

Getting you round under par,

Fuels the passion and the desire.

To get you reduced at the pin,

Into a neat little manageable hole.

But what of your view,

When we would knock you about?

 As if we were your masters,

And a hole in ‘one’ we seek.

The ghosts of Skidbrooke Church

The ghosts of Skidbrooke Church

Bancroft and old willows weep on her holy lands.

The children of mirth dancing between the stones.

Heads shall roll if you should call down evil.

And all the woes of a spell maker hang in doubt.

In the middle age I saw a bright light,

Falling amongst the shadows when John laid down here.

Coming from the east on winds of gusting squall,

A memory of the three having done no evil remain.

Brother Michael knew too much and suffered the fate,

Remaining here for all time protecting those in distress.

Don’t enter the sacristy if you fear your last breath,

Being lost upon the alter when baying crowds will kill.

Yelling at the boughs, burn them devils witches now,

Be gone ye children of the daughters of wicked men.

For in the wild September nights has come a pallid light.

That reaches way beyond the grave and into visions sight.

Emotional Blackouts

Emotional Blackouts

Laying here alone, has moved me into hope,

That what follows not having, is actually having of more.

Cold as the icy mountains freezing in the bitter day,

And as warm as lava flooding down her side.

Part of the day sings of the love behind your eyes,

The rest is a ghostlike memory that cripples my heart.

Panic at the lack of faith kills all of my passion,

Where no life, no thought of recovery exists in time.

Calamity brings a certainty of troubled days to come,

When all could, should, would have been glorious wonderment.

Standing here on my lonely hill, fighting tears hurting more,

I fall under the dread not believing strongly enough.

And I wake in the dew, arranged as the dead,

Fighting to rise, what for, why carry on not being led?

And in your expectancy I desire to be all and more,

But find I have not predicted the falling away of my floor.

Paradox

Paradox

See how things change,

Nothing really fits or doesn’t.

Here we are listening,

Maybe, sometimes, often not.

But my eyes have seen,

What feelings taught me well.

As I look at you now,

You are the epitome of,

Everything I will not become.

Not through fear,

Through all love.

In you I would be lost,

All that I despise and loath.

And yet here is the paradox.

You have taught me well.

For not becoming you,

Is the greatest lesson of all.

Regurgitating in Ětre.

Regurgitating in Ětre.

The trouble with languages,

Are the improbably large,

Disparities in what is meant,

And what is said.

I tried French and Gaelic,

But couldn’t quite install.

All the memory chips,

I had needed to compute.

Conjugation of verbs is naff,

When I’m thinking of Michelle.

And J’t’adore is my wave length,

Upon rhythmical currents flowing.

I tried to sing like Asnavour,

Hoping that would accent more.

And the memories of Paris,

Came flooding without a clue.

Down in the Rhonda valleys,

Boyo!

My connection with nature,

Has no affect at all,

When I hoped for more,

Than the occasional Yakidar!

And even the sheep here,

Couldn’t help to elocute me.

Putting dim stopio in my progress,

And boeri brought a caustic blow.

But all in all,

When said and done.

I have learned a trick,

To help me run.

Just smile throughout,

And nod your head.

They’ll believe you knew,

Just what they’ve said.

Better if you’re pissed.

Better if you’re pissed.

Saturated, Glenfiddddddich haze, hic,

Speaks volumes now I’m able.

Coveting the languished word,

Gets me almost under the table.

Wouldst I be hither,

Or more free to concede.

I would leave the notion open,

Still more purchase to proceed.

Come what may, whoever asks,

My story falls beneath me.

Sailing on a sea of booze,

Has lost repose, I’ve become free.

And listening to my ‘Bard’ Duffey,

Has filled me to the enth.

So all I see is poppy cock,

E’en if her voice be immense.

Quiz Winners

Quiz winners.

Who really believes,

It is about the competing?

But somewhere, deep, profound,

The passion to come out,

On top of all our foes.

If we had all the answers,

Why would we compete at all?

 In our strange revelations,

Is our fervour to go on,

And believe in tiny miracles.

Those that tell us we achieve,

A worth of new renown.

And in the clapping,

The frenzy of debate,

All our answers now become.