Poetry by Iain Stephen

Author: Iain Stephen - Contact: evilwisemonkey@btinternet.com
Published: 2017/06/14
Contents: Summary - Introduction - Main - Related

Synopsis: A collection of poems written by Iain Stephen.


A collection of poems written by Iain Stephen.

Main Digest


1996: sixteen children souls taken inhumanely,
The futility and finality ruthlessly executed,
Cries for help ignored divertingly,
Young lives lost forever for no reason,
Never realising their potential in the world,
Never showing love and loving their children.

Lifelong anguish and heartache will ease with the passage of time but will never be forgotten,
Parental ordeal is day to day and year by year,
Seasoned politicians show the horrific mindlessness.

A town's vibrancy carries on energically and understandably,
Forever painfully and woefully scarred.

© Iain Stephen

Sanctimonious Hypocrisy

Geocentrically orbiting the Earth rotationally,
Milky-way of infinite empty space,
Revolving ball of humanity and caring sanctuary.

A World of self-righteous duplicity and perfection,
Hypocritical flawless impurities and puritanicalness,
The latest teabag or the unseasonality of the weather,
Designed to show the simplicity of character.

Subliminal darwinianism is purposely disguised,
Survival of the fittest ensures differentiation continues,
Denial rigorously refuted with epitaph proportionality.

The World continues to spin on its axis,
Caring do-gooders continue to speak new teabags,
Simplistic patronisation judged on Brocial appearance,
Spontaneity will never be without character familiarity,
Species propagation potentially and superiority.

© Iain Stephen

Callanish Stones

A land shrouded in mystical and ancient past,
People worshipped to celestial Gods,
Offerings of appeasement ritually offered,
To improve body or spiritual forgiveness.

Callias respectful of their ancient inhabitants,
Stone circle in praise of astronomical wonderment,
The village courteously gracious of centuries past,
Their achievements and piety reverence worshipped.

Stones of past civilisation erected in homage,
Their mystical significance remains lost in time,
Ancestral ancestors impregnate my DNA,
My time capsule to the past lies biologically hidden,
The line of linearage will sadly end with me.

© Iain Stephen

Patronising Perceptions

The figure sits in his own small World,
Bereft of sense and rationality and neuronal connection,
How graciously society bestows accolades.

Readily the crown of physical imperfections honoured,
Broca's damage just adds to the imbecilic patronising,
Retardation and disability is causally linked insinuated.

Educated to just write their names 'after all that's all they will need' the 'professionals' procrastinate,
Preaching Freudian misguided nonsense,
In a World of psychological bombastic impurities,
The old school mentality continues in ridiculousness.

The figure sits thinking of his thesis and possibilities,
Lost in his own World of higher educational attainment,
Higher than the procrastinating professionals,
Who want to take the praise and credit,
Personal endeavour and fulfilment only driving force.

© Iain Stephen

Old School Yard

Boarded up the stone building weathers,
Not revealing past years of educational achievements,
People who stop unaware of childhood dreams,
Abandoned and vacant and neglected,
Unknowing testament of a forgotten past.

Children played and laughed together and loved,
Not caring of the World and it's introspective harshness,
Unaware of life's multiplicity of layered carpeting,
Labelled chained boxes of physical imperfections,
Lifelong barriers to overcome of unfilled aspirations.

Those were the days of untarnished minds,
Unconcerned and carefree childhoods,
Unknowing of the World that lay beyond,
Unconscious of what the future may hold,
How the labelled boxes would shape and determine.

Days of uncluttered purity and innocent childhood,
Distant remembrances in a sterile environment,
Decades pass memories become transient,
Old adages of imbecilic slowly diminishing,
Memories fade as downward slope looms,
Old school yard gradually fades in the mists of time.

© Iain Stephen

Lady with the Mystic Smile

People moved to the side; parting of the waves,
Shuffles to leave a clear passage,
'Let` the wheelchair through,' security said,
Symbol of recognisable difference,
A chariot of unknowing announcement and simplicity.

Vinci's Mona Lisa still draws magnetically,
Osmotically drinking in the Lady's smile and charisma,
Shrouded mystery of her true identity just fascinates,
Who is she? What was the connection?
Centuries roll and theories mount but no definitive,
A series of possibilities adds to the conundrum.

The Louvre, right of the Seine, home to Mona Lisa,
How far removed from Italy and her lifestyle,
Now being spied upon in a conspicuous capital,
Solitary hanging for all to admire and marvel,
Small in presence though tall in populous recognition,
Eyes following in an act of compulsive observation.

Few paintings are memorable as the mystic smile,
Mass populous popularity determines continuation,
Mona Lisa captivates and Worldly worries forgotten,
In a World of uncertainty Mona Lisa forms escapism.

© Iain Stephen

The Rendezvous

Coat draped over the chair,
The couple speak of ice-breaking trivialities,
Medical ailments are designed to show imperfection.

Shrouded in an enigmatic curiosity,
Who are mysterious couple?
Where are they from?
Who really cares,
Lifelong friendship or first date to gauge compatibility.

In a World where togetherness represents normality,
Two lost souls searching for companionship,
Romance may blossom if the chemistry compares,
Briefly coming together in a game of mind,
Physiology sparks inquisitiveness.

Gender roles are in-acted and shines,
The enticement of the next level subliminally lies,
A life of togetherness if compatible.

What is the future for the mystery couple,
Was the chemistry right?
Did physical appearance match the utopianism?
At stake a life of togetherness or singularity.

© Iain Stephen

Distant Hills

Scotland's hills of towering majestic magnificence, Brings memories of wonderment and magnitude, Deceptively deceiving in their imposing splendour.

Glencoe magnetically draws the brave and foolhardy, Osmotically drinking the atmosphere with every breath, Captivated with their impressive grandeur, Buachaille Etive Beag and Bidean nam Bian, Meal Dearg and Sgorr nam Fiannaidh and Sgorr Dhearg and Sgorr Dhonuill, Guardians of secrets of a massacre centuries past.

Climbers climb being mesmerised by beauty, Some triumph and some do not and remain encapsulated in a world without end, Hills of tranquillity and seductive elegance.

© Iain Stephen

Stornoway Gael

Madainn mhath and Feasgar math,
Gaelic phrases of my youth,
In a land of ancient tradition and Cleared people,
Sheep over people!

I lie in the sofa bed, in a Laxdale living room, watching the magenta skyline,
Watching, through the four panelled window, the sodium silhouette of Stornoway,
Land of my nostalgic reminiscences and proudness,
The berthed Cullivan ready to return to Ullapool,
Right lies Sornoway castle standing guard over the Island.

Laxdale, a few miles North of Stornoway,
Up the cluthan and to the right,
Tar roofed white cottage with lovingly crafted peat stack,
Long days cutting peats at Loch Crinabhat,
Eaten alive by midges,
Tea made from ice-cold well water. Best ever,
Crackan biscuits; hard insides and brown outer, superbly delicious with butter and jam. An anticipated treat.
Recollections of a bygone age.

Brown corrugated cow shed at the bottom of the croft,
Once a sanctuary of bovine activity,
Now a refuse for feral kittens.

Walking down the starran for adventures,
Green wire-messed gate, at the end of a stony dirt-track; protection from the outside World.

Running down the croft, before becoming a member of the lifelong club,
Asian Flu robbing a boy of his childhood and adulthood instead succumbing to societal vagaries,
Relatives reminding of this memory loss; 'I remember when... !' only served to frustrate,
Early years of forgotten blankness.

Now, on the downward spiral, a time to reflect,
Long summers of distant memories,
Rose tinted views of idealism and utopian perfection, Though it might not have been,
The desire to go back to Stornoway does not appeal,
Reminiscences are historical recollections of the past,
Always will be proud of being a Gael and of my heritage.

© Iain Stephen

Remembrance: Glorious Dead

Every year remembrances are remembered,
The Glorious Dead remembered,
Names on tombstones and walls and memorials,
Forgotten through the mists of time.

How glorious is dead?
Gassed, shepherded for cannon fodder and butchered,
Numbered in millions in WW1 is how glorious.

Binyon: 'They shall not grow old....',
The poignancy rings irony,
Young lives fatally lost,
Never realising their potential,
Never lovingly embracing.
Those who came back from the Glorious squalor,
Scared and tortured till they too became Glorious Dead.

What price humanity?
Orders given on high for foot soldiers to die,
Cowards hiding behind screens.

It is right to remember those who sacrificed,
Not calling them the Glorious Dead,
Watching; uttering nice words and forgetting like a yearly shower of conscience.

© Iain Stephen

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