By Thomas Caterer
I was pleased to see the old school had been built over
a new housing estate in its place
somehow it soothes the pain
yet the memories still remain
and they will remain until claimed
by death or dementia
whichever comes first
Tag: Poem
Whether it’s Wise or not
By Thomas Caterer
‘Kindness is the first step towards cruelty’
it’s a fatally depressing statement
I guess it’s a comment on the inseparability
of opposing forces
‘ying’ and ‘yang’ and all that
whether it’s wise or not
It just makes me sad
There will be more Deaths to Come
By Thomas Caterer
I see the pain in you, that I felt before too
it does get easier, you do become desensitised
eventually you must, or else you can’t play the game anymore
What you wouldn’t give to see that smiling face once more
or to hear their laugh again
sometimes the traces of their life and love are left in your dreams
you awaken to find them slowly receding as the day’s light chases your ghosts away
Responsible parents are those who buy their children some rodent
or other small mammal when they are young
to teach them life’s rules
and with tenderness as they cry over their pet’s lifeless corpse
you say ‘sweet child these are the rules, and there will be more deaths to come’
and they will understand that their eternal ‘I’ must change too one day
Contempt Leads One Way
By Thomas Caterer
Contempt leads one way
You can pause and observe
how these unchecked feelings can lead you astray
Jealousy and rage drag you further away
from the child you were, a wise one who knew
life’s purpose was in kindness and play
Growing impatient and cynical is easy
you wear away as a flower wilts, or a tree bends
from nature’s and time’s forces acting boldly
You are the bark chipped off an old Oak
with cruel cutting, scraping tools
contempt has left you exposed, no robe, no cloak
You may not like what see when you cast your gaze
upon a mirror, and you feel the serpent crawl inside of you
that bitter regret for allowing contempt to lead you and leave you in this maze
What’s the Opposite of Thanatophobia?
By Thomas Caterer
‘Belief in the afterlife is just a fairytale
for those afraid of death; of their own mortality’
this sounds like something that needs to be repeated
to convince oneself of its veracity
What of those afraid of life?
are they not comforted by the oft repeated mantra,
the materialists’ recruitment slogan; ‘there is nothing after death’
you can never be hurt again, you are safe and sound
You are safe from pain, and safe from having to make hard decisions
decisions that can break your heart and the hearts of others
infinite darkness sounds like the real fairytale
that in one violent instant or at the end of a steady decline
we could be free from all of the world’s suffering and all of our kind’s crimes
Could we all be let off so easily? Enough of this dreaming
Awaken even though it’s hard
Awaken even though it hurts
Awaken because it’s hard
Awaken because it hurts
Let the Old Ways Die, Son
By Thomas Caterer
Life is pain and suffering, in every breath
you take in the fundamental truth
every passing moment is a death
each transition transforming life
Our energy as narcissists drains us
as it gives us false power
drinking poison from the pool stains us
as we lose ourselves, lose real connections
Order disintegrates to chaos
Chaos recedes and order arises from it
Bitter sombre beauty lives in loss
In accepting death, I’ve let anger die, its pyre’s lit
Admiration for the Duke
By Thomas Caterer
His lips quivered and eyes were moist
as he spoke with great regret of the deaths
of so many troops, and so many were just boys
so many volunteered from local villages
looking for excitement or the chance to be men
trying to prove something to their absent gods
I grew to admire the Duke in the end
even though I’d been taught it was unwise to show weakness
he had unflinchingly displayed his vulnerability
for all the council and lieutenants to see
some scoffed that he cried like a woman
were they not moved that he cried more for their dead sons than they?
There was an exquisite beauty in those tear-stained cheeks
his old greying eyes had seen so much horror in his short human life
there was an undeniably intense strength in his willingness to admit to life’s weaknesses
there was irony that in being soft, he was harder than them all
having known pain he could not be shocked by it
instead of choosing the easy path of being cold,
he’d taken the tough decision to be warm
Dancing to the Rhythm of the Man with the Clock
By Thomas Caterer
Beaming a wide grin he thus spoke ‘tick tock tick tock’
The man in the bowler hat and white suspenders
‘You’ll dance till you die to the rhythm of my clock’
From princes to paupers we’re all gloomy dead enders
‘Right leg, left leg twist, now right arm, left arm swing’
The conductor merrily waves and weaves his batons full of hubris
‘Do not fail to dance to my tune, poor helpless thing’
Empty feeling marionettes singing and dancing to fill the abyss
It’s all on offer in the blood-soaked mall of the macabre
Fill yourself up on all the shiny things in the endless spree
There’s a price on it all; from love to peace to laughter
Ravenously feasting to fill the hole; that cosmic, undying ‘me’
The Spire
By A. O. Wallat
City-slum, low and small
On rolling hill, the buildings still,
People strange and fevered, all
In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands,
Directing all
Working metal
Welding, drilling
Sounds and screams
Like wailing children
In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands,
Controlling all
Within the spire’s colossal sphere
Frozen ears and stolen tongues
Asunder, under blackened snow
Books,
Nature,
Bone,
Remnants of old and young
In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands
Enslaving all
——
Night Thoughts
By Thomas Caterer
There is a chill in that spot
in that corner of the mind
Lost around the bend
Lost in time’s labyrinth
The dull thud of the cascading crush
of dead dreams’ post-mortem spasms
crash inside the cylindrical mind
cycling frenetically through images,
sounds, colours, smells, feelings
callously oscillating in time’s velodrome
It’s a feeling of the uncanny
that feeling of the soul leaving the body
You try to shove it back in but can’t
Try to convince yourself you don’t mind if you die
The night thoughts are inescapable
Every memory played back in such a sharp, clear hue
it’s painful to see all the hurt and lost opportunities
Every memory plays back crystal clear, more real than the real,
more alive than the living present
The zombies in your decaying head
have grown too big for their black dress shoes
they’re keeping you up again
with their morbid sense of humour
and devilish sense of timing
Entropy’s smiling like the grinning skull
of Zen fables, cheerful in its evergreen peace
its humour’s left me in stitches
reeling from the laughter, clutching the sides
Lost in time’s labyrinth
Notepad Stories 