Harry Is A Poet

I am a Christian, but I am not an evangelist.
See, I do believe, I find beauty in the bounty of creation, and without hesitation (or even much provocation) I can say why I find it amazing we exist.
It's had an impact on my life, minimised my strife, is important for if I ever seek out a wife, and that my faith is never something I have missed.
But that's exactly it, it's been ever present never evanescent simply a part of my element and evident in more ways than I could ever list.
I'm not sure I could ever do without, and so I'm scared to shout to preach aloud, though I'm allowed, and truly proud, but too much of an analyst
See, I never enter argument without indicant that I myself could find I could change mind were I too unwind and find myself an unwanton errorist
I care too deeply, too invested in the answer, to be tested, lest I'm bested, not in jest but in a way which strikes me as a theorist.
And yet, that's nearly all that I encounter as a doubter I will shout the protestation that "I'm still not sure about this"
And so it goes. All around me know and show certainty and thus I stand awkwardly in piety for myself that while I do believe as a Christian in Christ and all his gifts.
I am not an evangelist. ***

https://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/12/im-christian.html

It's one of the nicest things I've got to do
Be a friend to someone a little like you
You know the situation, go somewhere new
Scared about what you're going to go through
Not sure if people are friends or rival
On your toes from point of arrival
You're being judged, it feels the whole while
I'll be the friendly face and smile
It's not much effort, I swear that here
To realise if someone is feeling fear
To just be kind, and tease them out of the shell
Especially if you remember going through that hell
As they come and go, replaced with many more
To be kind to all who walk through that door
It's similar for you, but unique for them
Worth the effort to be a port in the mayhem
***

https://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/12/a-friend-in-strange-place.html

An animal on the street is must curious
Because usually you find them furious
Cars honking at them from both ways
Doesn't help to alleviate delays
Equine was the creature that I saw
Four legs stood on tarmac floor
Giving no sign of trying to move
Happily painted in paved road grooves
I'd been stood a while at the scene
Just wondering what it could mean
Key to this scene is that I waited
Let the scene progress as it was fated
Making no attempt to startle the beast
Not tempted to approach, and become feast
Obviously this irritated those at the wheel
Politely yelling if I was real
Quite clear, I pointed at the danger
Realising I had to help the stranger
Slowly, carefully, I explained clear
That stripes on the road gave me fear
Understanding nothing, he started to yell
Very loudly that I could go to hell
Walking out his car door to shout
X-ing the road to engage in the bout
"You an idiot, you fool" (He shouted to chafe)
Zebra crossings are perfectly safe ***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/12/zebra.html

I've never had wings.
I've never felt the wind.
Yet for what I have known.
I may well have flown.
One time, when I was five, I ran really fast.
Everyone around gaped and gasped as I galloped past
I leapt onto the bench in front of me and pushed down
Nor the lack of height nor the impact could make me frown
Age twelve, older, wiser, I did slightly better
All I simply did was to pen my predicament in a letter
Attach it with twine to the leg of something which could fly
And feel my insides and my words jump high
One year ago, actually, on this very day, I
tried to see if I could touch the sky
I got very close, by climbing the tallest ladder I could find
(Or at least, I got quite close in my mind)
Then, in fact, I tried once more just last week
I am sad to say that my arms were too weak
Though I flapped up and down, it just wasn't enough
As just a sadly (un-avian) ball of muscle and fluff
But what can I take from there steps into the unknown
For I still can't really say by any measure that I've flown
But I still ignore the doubters, and those with contempt.
For after all, I've tried. And the pleasure's in the attempt ***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/12/flight.html

I'm ignorant, I'm ignorant, I don't have all the facts
I'm ignorant, I'm ignorant, there are points of view I lack
I'm ignorant, I'm ignorant, but I'm trying to pick up the slack
'Cause I'm ignorance, and that ignorance, is being but under attack
There are so many things that I know I don't know
And I have to say that sometimes it really does show
That to stay ignorant is a common status quo
A place I have to try hard not to go
See, I don't know much about many countries
If there is any interaction between birds and bees
Why it is that mornings cause so much pain (say what?)
Or how to stop a runaway train of thought
I just about know how to tie a bow tie
But not what to do if I see a baby cry
Why it is politics causes such heated debate
Or why some people so quickly turn to hate
So, here's something I really don't know to be true
Which is really, just who on earth are you?
Your religion, your faith, or your philosophy
If you consider sleep saviour or monstrosity
Like so many others, you are the sum of many parts
Adding up to give the world an impression to impart
In this world where we are so quick to blame strangers
We don't often stop to think of the dangers
I've seen so much recent hate, it's startlingly common
Insulting and scapegoating in manners ad hominem
I can't argue against, because I don't know enough to represent
All I ask is that you too realise you are ignorant. ***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/ignorant.html

In art, no one has a blank canvas.
...
At the start of all art, you have to be reverential
Because at heart every start is purely potential
We could unfold any world with that blank page
Because the world is whirled onto every stage
So why then, why? Do we have styles and trends
Because my oh my, don't you even pretend
That you don't have topics and tropes that you prefer
Have themes and schemes you always wish to infer
See the blank page is blank. That much is true.
But let me be frank while seeking no thank you
As the artist we must be incredibly stained
As someone who's the sum of how we've trained
Even the creative take comfort in what they make
Don't sink in to thinking this makes you a fake
Don't infer it's a sin to prefer one style or thing
Else you'd likely never ever make anything
When given the blank canvas. You must be aware
How your past steers you to the art hidden there
And other pasts would steer you in other ways
With no past you'd be staring at blank canvas for days
But, here's the twist, in case you missed it (and you care)
The more empty your mind's canvas, the more you find there
***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/potential.html

To say I'm an old school cur is a rule of thumb,
But I love things that whirr, and things that hum.
A machine with too many gears and too many parts,
Is something I revere in my heart of hearts.
It's not at all suspect, in fact it's quite clear
When that thing there hits this thing here
One part goes clonk so that another goes clink
Which leads to a bonk so I don't have to think.
Machines these days are way too small,
How to know if they work at all?
If it erks 'n' jerks on a molecular scale,
With what size hammer do I smash it when it fails?
How am I to be a handy type of dandy man,
With objects that fi in the palm of my hand?
I love to grind, to tinker and to strive,
But this machine thinks and it's not even alive!
So back to the old school, with rust dust and levers
I remain with no shame the most ardent reverer
Down with the scientific witchery of present day
Who do modern engineers think they are anyway? ***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/things-that-whirr.html

No one watches tv anymore. We wouldn't dare.

We've got real life if we want our scare

We tell stories and tales of days gone by

Of the lost generation, of those on standby

It used to be, we would stare long into screens

It would give us laughter. It would give us screams

We'd plug ourselves in at the start of today

Put on our boots-up, and then press play

The key was never to acknowledge, of even admit

You'd lost days to a being, forced to commit

But what did that being do, with it's extra hours

What was the reach and source of its powers?

We tried to plug it up, but that made it worse

It would screeach and wail, if put in reverse

So we let it go on, stealing our time

Until we had none left to give of our prime

That was them, the standby generation

Who watched it happen without hesitation

They're gone forever, each boy woman and man

But their neon ghosts still haunt our land

***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/neon-ghosts.html

Here's the answer to a question that you weren't even asking

There is no such thing as a perfect casting

For that book you adore that fills you with amour

When put on screen just leaves you wanting more

See this is the issue with our imagination

We fill in details and cracks with no hesitation

There are no seems, just seamless transitions

Which never even endeavours to require our recognition

Even right now, somehow, you are reading this in a certain way

The voice in your head acts with emotion, with disdain and dismay

And were I to read it to you, my way, in a voice of my own

It would not seek to replace the seed or tone your imagination has sown

There is no such thing as a correct way to experience art

But there is the first way, which left the imprint on our heart

Such that, when someone seeks to recreate that anew

It's just natural it wont be in the way that is personal to you.

***

http://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2015/10/reviewing-art.html

I've done this before.
This day to day
Waking up in dismay
The repeat and replay
To all work and no pay
I've done this before.
I've done this before.
The eternal tired
The never inspired
My headache is fired
My nerves are wired
I've done this before.
I've done this before.
The ever-fake smile
And yet all the while
A face in denial
Of internal trial
I've done this before.
I've done this before.
You may know it too
And this to be true
What we've been through
Is never that new
We've done this before.
But what is it for?
That glimmer of change
Just out of range
Asks much in exchange
It may seem strange
I've seen it before.
I say nothing more
But that it's worth fighting for.