I Am A Saint
I am the God of War,
But I’m not a violent person.
I was going to be called Barry,
But my mum chose Mark.
Most people know me as ‘Warner’
And I have a middle name of William –
Named after my Grandad,
William (Bill), Charles, Warner
My older brother has Charles for his middle name
Although I wouldn’t say we are Royalty!
My middle name is only for form filling purposes.
Banks, Insurance, Doctors and such.
I like my middle name though,
It gives me a different status,
It makes me an ‘official’.
If you say all of my name’s quickly
it sounds quite funny.
Mark William Warner
Mark Willy Warner
Mark Willy Warmer
I am the God of War,
But I’m not a violent person.
So them name things say,
Mugs and that you can pick up for birthdays.
But I did once find a definition of Mark as ‘peace-keeper’.
I think the war thing relates to my passion.
Maybe it’s a French thing,
I mean I’m not French,
But Mark, I do believe, is a French name.
I am a saint.
Alive
The stars that twinkle
the fire that burns
the love that glows
the warmth that spreads
the moon that shines
the clouds that pass
the universe guiding
you on your path
the lakes that lay still in
the fresh morning air
the trees that stand tall
reaching up high
to the dark skies that hold
the secrets of your life
The Smile of Life
A smile has emerged
From a slowly beating heart once thought dead
A song bird lands abreast the monotony of life
She sings her beautiful song
The melody of life floats into the heart of the sleeping beast
He awakens with a smile
Yob
I’m not a yob,
A vandal,
A criminal,
A threat to the public
I’m not anti-social
(I like talking)
Or unlawful
I am an artist
And the streets are my canvas
Tubes
Arrive, walk
Yellow, two, East, walk
Yellow, six, East, change
Red, two, West, sit, drink
Red, two, East, walk, look, lost, ponder, eat, drink, walk
Black, two, North, change
Blue, three, South, walk, wonder, sit, drink, walk
Light blue, one, South, walk
Depart
Ghost Coach
Orange lights blur the distant landscapes
White lines rush along a never-ending path
Grass verges sleep in the quiet black night
The winding road slithers north
The cones stand proud in long neat lines
Controlling the traffic, awaiting the diggers
Bridges pass above;
Cold, man-made structures, slicing into the silky black sky
Colourless cars interrupt the calm,
Their beaming white lights navigate the path ahead
A coach full of ghosts
Only one pair of eyes,
Refusing to rest as they gaze out in peace.
The South Bank
Sat on a bench,
Away from the Thames.
It’s warm; cloudy, but warm.
Pleasant.
Sirens echo in the background from across the river.
Here though, is pleasant.
The twangs of an acoustic guitar resonate my soul.
I feel content.
Content to just sit here for a while.
The Royal National Theatre in front of me.
But my eyes are wondering elsewhere.
The London Eye slowly turns
Behind the trees and concrete and
occasional red bus that obscures the view.
A group of street bikers collect to my right.
They contemplate their next daring manouvre
On the concrete structure rupturing from the ground
That once was a piece of public art.
A silence interrupts the pleasant sounds of the guitar,
As the man takes a few seconds to compose his next piece.
The waves intervene.
Methodically, calmly, moving in and out,
Stroking the pebbles on the shore.
Random conversations travel through the air.
In front of me, past me and beyond me.
Conversations in all languages, all accents,
from all different people.
A biker lines up,
Pressing down on the suspension; he’s ready.
Bursting into a rage of speed, legs a blur,
He launches from the ruptured concrete structure.
A twisting jump and a dead stop landing.
He bounces for a second then hops back to street level.
The next one lines up…
A breeze unsettles me for a moment.
I awaken from from my relaxed state of consciousness,
Realising I had better move on.
My bench is in demand.
I know I could sit here and lose myself in this world
Everyday.
Every culture, every kind, every look, every colour, every sound, everything
I see.
It all reminds me of why I am alive,
The beauty of humanity.
Sitting on a bench,
On the south bank.
I lazily raise myself,
Re-focus, store my last memory,
Leave a copy of Kenaz in my place
And walk on…
Into a different world
Like a King
Like a king watching over its beautiful land,
It stands majestically,
Menacingly,
Towering over all that lives below.
The dark stone mountain
Erupting from the lush greenery encompassing it.
Deep grey rocks jut out at all angles,
Sneering at those that dare to look up at them.
The bright sunlight barely reaching any crevice.
Instead it shimmers on the fresh green leaves
As the breeze sends a soft rustling sound around the valley.
Dark clouds that gather high above
Swirl around the summit of the proud King;
The sunlight never daring to threaten his presence.
The people that walk through the land gaze up in awe,
Paying their full respect to this overwhelming, cold force.
Slaves unto the King.
The King that is the castle.
The castle known as Edinburgh.
Mr Arteest 