Halcyon days'.

I`ve thought about those halycon days.
So carefree, yet so empty.
Tried to feel the pain of others.
For that outdated notion
Of us all being 'brothers'.
Oh yep!
Humanity.
Cried so hard to set you all free
Of the shackles,
Of our intellectual poverty..
'Matieralism'!
Manna from heaven?
(What an overated concept) .
Playing 'Ballerina' loudly in my early flat,
Thinking i was on the edge of stardom!
How you can fool yourself.
Believing in all those pipedreams
Of the man on the shelf.

poem by Peter Vealey
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Down the road of play.

We`ve all run along
Down this road of play
Today,
All to say.
There`s nothing there.
Old ghosts of no repair.
The illness is over
The soothsayer said the teddybear
Is told to stand and stare.
There`s nothing there
It`s fair to say.
It was a while ago
You told me so.
There`s nothing there.
Just old paranoia,
Circle in a square.
There`s nothing there.
What`s to compare.
Fools on a roundabout square.
Horses going up n` down,

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Wise Love.

Old love, cold love.
Nothing so wild as
Unfolded love.
Scolded, unmoulded love.
Never can get away from
Unsold love, bold love.
Time`s so cruel for
Old love(never growing.)
old love(dried tears of)
Nothing`s so tragic
As aborted love
Destinations without word.
Looking forlorn,
As a doorless winter waiting room.
Old love, sold love.
Never can change the past lie.
Old love, frozen love.
Never can forget or revive
Overblown love.
Goodbye love, goodbye love!

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Dreamboats.

You were a passing ship
In the night.
At once a momentary delight.
(With a shadow of a fright) .
The free untamed spirit of youth!
Dangling free.
Scaring the old man in me.
Someone said like fatal attraction.
One could be drawn in.
Gossips whispered,
Better to stay on the straight and narrow.
Might have sounded more honest.
From all you`s.
You became overnite,
Someone i would probably
Never see again.
My attraction to you,
Not physical,
Only intellectual
Such things don`t form

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Little Ripples

On a tranquil sea.
Are they really that calm?
Can I cross them,
Like a bump in the road.
Do I find the strength
Like in youthful naivety?)
To speed on through
Till one overtakes me
In my mind.
Little ripples.
They scare me so.
I keep swimming day by day.
Eyes just above the ripples.
Little ripples, Little ripples
Be kind to my mind!
The salt water relaxation
Is taking me away
From earthly cares.
But how many more ripples
Can I surmount?

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poem by Peter Vealey
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A precise art?

That place we were.
How right it seemed then.
The look, the feel of each other.
A precise art?
Flawed by time.
So now sadly out of
Rhyme and communication.
Memories captured
Somewhere in time.
A hidden pain, an unrecognised crime
Of betrayal.
Who's to blame?
This precise art of lovin'
Is never known.
Two minds in synchronicity,
Or in different worlds of relativity?
The ongoing reality of life.
What was that?
Oh just a scientist's thesis on relationships.
A precise art or another fools'

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Dry.

Where did the dreamer go to?
Who`s this hard faced man
In my pose?
Well the trees still rustle
In the summer winds.
And the grass
Still smells sweet.
Closing my eyes
Only sadly to realise,
My mind
Has screwed up my smile.
With troubles (of your) times.
Whatever made me feel
Had learnt it all.
A time just left behind
Rightly.
But was so wrong,
Like a child.
Probably even more so
I need to lie down

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Rare Meat.

Rare meat.
The blackbird seem to sing.
And though I spluttered
'I am vegetarian'
Rare Meat, rare meat!
And my neighbour
Talked of the importance of
'Being in harness again'
Then I realised,
The bird was much nearer to understanding
The kind of species I am!
Rare meat!
And cannon fodder for the cowboys
And manipulators,
All the same!
For my heart
Will always stray to the unheard tune.
And the song of the bird,
Comforted the taut nerves
Of a weary owl.

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Mediocrity or purpose divine.

A poem does not look much,
Just scribbled on any scrap
Of available paper or tissue.
Put it into print,
Give it a title.
All can be revealed
in an instant.
Mediocrity or purpose divine.
A poem does not always
Seem relevant.
Just scribbled with
Errors and adjustments.
Crossed out lines and words.
Does not do it justice.
Put it into print.
Give it a name or two.
All will unfold,
In an instant.
How pompous it all seems,
This little old poem divine

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poem by Peter Vealey
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Distant object.

You are becoming
A distant object.
Your light and influence,
Strong right now.
I can only bear for it to fade.
Object of my desire.
You`ve chosen
A different road.
Who knows where.
To patch a broken stick.
To relove an old half-sealed wound?
You`re becoming a distant object.
Light dimming by the hour.
I wait for that infernal
Tone.
To bring some
Partial temporary relief.
That i have
Love of some kind,
In my life.

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poem by Peter Vealey
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