We'll Laugh

One day it’ll all be over and we’ll laugh together at how we thought ourselves clever. We are all performers for the human audience. By Mark Shackleton

To Us

Move on with a new lesson in mind and watch as the pieces fall in time. Follow your only real guide stretched out comfortably on the sofa in the back room of your immaculate mind. By Mark Shackleton

A Note From The Backroom

I love this thing that we call poetry. I guess it's the point of not knowing what your going to come up with when you start, a line comes into your head from something you're looking at or thinking about and you write it. From then on you could be sitting there for half a minute or half an hour, just feeding off the moment your in. Sometimes when I read something back to myself I'm blown away by it, it seems extraodinary in a way. Occasionally I write a piece that comes out fully formed, sometimes I may only use a quarter of it but most of the time the writing in my journal will end up there, in my journal. It's mainly the novelty of knowing that the essence behind the words sitting on the pages seem to have come out of knowhere. To me, it comes from a part of the mind that lays dormant in our everyday world. The uncontious "backroom" of the self, it's something like that anyway, I wrote that in a poem called "To Us" while back. I'll put it in my next post. I was curious about it at one point so I borrowed a book called "Man And His Symbols", which talks about the work of Carl Jung. The first chapter was writen by Jung himself, and the rest was by his colleagues and students. I know this is off the point of poetry but if you want to understand a bit more about the whole uncontious creative part of the mind I can assure you Jung is a good place to start, it explained a hell of alot to me. By Mark Shackleton

Shadow Man

Here he lays on a lonely bed, can’t get past the clutter in his head. He knows he has a soul he can feel it deep inside, though his face will age he knows he’ll stay alive. He sits in a spacious room, close to his dream so chased again his wish came true, he’s in a comfortable place. But for all his big ideas the trouble is he hasn’t got the space. He knows he has a heart, hears the cries from deep inside, within the mess that he sees. His song is playing again it tingles through his vanes “To my healing I am change but to myself I am estranged, within a heaven of god given bliss I am a hell of burning pain. Now I watch possibility looking at me in the face, who is this character I see and why is he so strange?” By Mark Shackleton

Reflecting Sun

Moon up high reflecting sunlight, rising tides, the surface once more shines. All of it’s own driven along, through the empty night to a brand new dawn. By Mark Shackleton

Last Night

The world is in a projection screen through our wanting eyes, it shows all we choose to believe within these aching minds. All the truth and all the lies and all the products of our times are all the creations and subsequent destractions calculated to our own designs. We have chosen to be here playing in this disjointed rhyme, on this whinding road following these beconing signs. Within ourselves in this terror we may yet find a comprimise. By Mark Shackleton

In The Head

Angels and devils heaven and hell enemies and friends good and evil waiting threats living and dead, all composed inside our heads. By Mark Shackleton

Distant Silhouette

The boat sails across the sea to the islands of the outta Hebrides. Were the weather comes in a sweeping storm brushing the tiny land playing with the breeze. A distant boat is all I see alone and slow across the open sea that stretches out to the silhouette of the outta Hebrides. By Mark Shackleton

Angels Of My Soul

The angels of my soul speak louder than the devils of my mind. Endless desires hover high in my soul, how much beautiful fire I want to hold. By Mark Shackleton

Same As Mine

Under the wanting city are the people who created it, under their shuffling feet are the souls searching for love, challenging the gods as they climb high above. Beneath the wanting city are the sewerage runs, the wastage passageways of the folk who carry guns. Doing it out of dependants, pretending they do it for fun, living in nervous pretence, mimic of tribal defense. The same as mine when I ware this face, the same as mine when I wanted embrace, the same as mine when I wanted you, searched for you but never ever found you. By Mark Shackleton

Through Me

My whole self is shaking I feel like my heart could be breaking As I wait as I watch and think of life without you. The worse case scenario tears start to fall My mouth starts to shake, could it be that this heart could break as it never has before and tears of love; sadness or joy could fall. I wait I watch and try not to think of you. Because if I do the thought of life without you won’t stop coming through. Unrelenting Unrepenting In a quivering shake through my beating heart.

By Mark Shackleton

Roads And Signs

Sitting on top a mountain breathing in the air, lazing back on the edge without a single care. This life rolls on as a single flowing wheel, imagination creation of all our false and real. Plains we rise to and things we create on this spreading web of fate, will come together in their own time as long as we follow the roads and watch the signs. By Mark Shackleton

Welcome to The Poetry Pages

Poetry, To be able to write something honest in a simple and clear rythmical verse is one of life's most unique pleasures. I'm sure anyone who has looked at a mountainous landscape or seen some extreme of human nature and suddenly felt an urge to create in some way, only to look back over what they've come up with later and feel a sudden sense of completness and what they see before them will no what I mean. I invite you to post your poetry, quotes you like or any thoughts or ideas you have.