Three Hours After Midnight

I was lying awake trying to stop my mind from thought,
but I was losing the fight, my attention was caught.
Sleep was the last thing my mind had in store for me;
it intended to saturate my thoughts with creativity.

It mixed words and flowing colours in an extraordinary blend,
slowly, at speed, smooth, then textured, the mix had no end.
The flowing beauty made no sense; however, for a second it did,
but the speed of the images made everything appear short lived.

I couldn’t capture or freeze any image and retain it in my mind,
my memory couldn’t cope with the instantaneous designs.
The images became chaotic, as I tried to slow everything down.
I thought I’d succeeded, but it only slowed to turn things around.

I became hot and sweaty, and threw back the covers from my bed,
this mental turmoil was having an effect outside my head.
I had to get up to splash cold water over my eyes and face,
and then I just sat trying to stop my thoughts from taking place.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Nicklin’s Torment

I woke up in a cold sweat
and turned on the light.
A shadow was moving over me,
cast by a spider of the night.

By the time I’d blinked
it’d vanished from view,
but then I saw a larger one,
followed by another two.

I closed my eyes for a moment
hoping they would disappear.
When I slowly reopened them
the bedroom was spider clear.

With my hand I mopped my brow
and then saw several more,
they were crawling on the ceiling
and marching across the floor.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Rain

Come on, where are you, long lost sun,
the rain looks finished, I’m sure its done.
I spoke too soon, its coming down again,
it’s even swamping the house’s drain.

The rain’s surging force as it hits the ground
creates a noise like no other sound.
Our wheelie bin is being beaten like a drum.
Oh, where has that hidden sun gone?

I can’t even see through the windowpane,
it’s covered with huge drops of rain.
Look at it streaming down that outside wall,
the guttering looks about to fall.

There it goes; it’s shattered against the ground
but the rain has dampened its crashing sound.
I keep looking for that cloud break in the sky
for the sun to push through, or at least have a try.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Old for New

It’s not every day a spud jumps out
and asks you to take it home for tea,
but this old King Edward potato did
and it wanted to be chips for me.

He said that he had been discarded
because of his sell by date.
I told him that this was no reason
to become chips upon a plate.

I asked him if he’d considered genetics,
and he said that it was too late.
His extended shelf life was now over
and he’d go out in style with a steak.

“With tubers sticking out your head, ” I said,
“you could produce potatoes by the score.
All it takes is a few months in the soil
and nature will do the rest for sure.”

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Jack

Did you hear that horrific shrill break the silence of the night?
What made that unearthly sound that gave me such a fright?
I can’t believe you never heard it I thought it echoed out loud,
why even the trees cowered that seconds ago stood so proud.

Listen! There it goes again surely you heard it this time,
it was louder and more piercing like a high-pitched whine?
It was also much closer possibly only a 100 meters or so,
look the grass has turned, as though it wants to up and go.

What could frighten nature this way, I’ve never seen the like before?
It has to be something unnatural it’s the only answer I’m sure.
I wonder if it’s some kind of animal, or a primitive type of man
it can’t possibly be both… at least I don’t think it can.

Jack! Jack, where are you? This is no time for fooling around,
stop playing silly games… I can hear a breathing sound.
Did you hear that branch snap? It sounded like a cracked bone,
I don’t like it here Jack… I think I’m going home.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Teddy Bears

Up to the age of four years old
Edmund was called ‘Little Ted’,
but the day after his fifth birthday
he was called something else instead.

For his birthday he was bought a teddy bear
and of course that night he took it to bed.
The very next morning he told his mummy
the bear was to be called ‘Little Ted’.

Two ‘Little Ted’s’ would be confusing, said mum
so you ought to change your name.
Because you’re bigger we’ll call you ‘Big Ted’
and then your names won’t be the same.

‘Big Ted’ and ‘Little Ted’ became great friends,
and went everywhere together,
upstairs and downstairs, indoors and out,
and in all kinds of weather.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Hedgehog and the Fox

At dusk a fox walked down the street
searching for any scraps to eat.
Across gardens and down folks’ drives,
oblivious to many peoples lives.

An adult hedgehog scurrying by
caught the watchful fox’s eye.
Being a fox it instinctively thought,
this meal was as good as caught.

It stopped and sniffed it from head to foot,
and couldn’t believe its stroke of luck.
However, a time for friendship this was not,
the wise hedgehog had sussed the plot.

Waiting on ceremony was not its style at all,
the hedgehog rolled into a ball.
A predicament not met by the fox before,
which made the creature a mite unsure.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Book

I have found myself searching for a book in my father's attic.
A book that he meant to burn, but instead hid away.
On his deathbed he told me categorically to destroy it,
by burning each page come what may.

The book was a Greek translation from ancient Aramaic text,
which was discovered in eastern Turkey in 1886.
The goat herder that found it sold it for a few Turkish lira
to a Greek mountain climber and archaeologist.

In Athens he read it and told a learned friend about its contents,
his so called friend told someone else and so did he.
This inevitably led to the book being stolen and repeatedly sold,
until my father bought it from a French soldier in 1943.

As a young man my father studied ancient Greek at university
and soon realised what the book contained.
It was a powder keg of mind blowing revelations about the psyche,
its development and expansion were explained.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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My Search for The Perfect Host

When the sun comes up I’m going to a place
that I’ve never visited before.
I’m a little apprehensive about the return trip
because I enter through a one way door.

To my knowledge no one has been there
and come back to let me know.
It is accepted that one doesn’t return
after they have left to go.

Despite that fact, I need to visit a man
who died many years ago.
I don’t expect to see him looking well
he’ll be more of a spiritual glow.

He’s the only one who can give me answers
to the questions that are troubling me
about this man I met about a week ago
who looked and spoke the same as he.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Path You Chose

I can remember even as a child
you looked at life as a curiosity.
Asking questions beyond your years,
you were a ‘one off’ oddity.

Even then you had eccentric ways,
it was just the way you were.
You didn’t do it for the attention,
but you got it, and didn’t care.

Your weirdness didn’t bother me,
I accepted you as my friend.
Whenever you were bad mouthed
I defended you to the end.

I was also very proud of you
for your unpretentious way.
You were what I aspired to be,
each and every day.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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