The Poetry of Michel St John

"Watch the birds fly". She said to me, & blinked her eyes, smiling, self satisfied. But they don't soar, in empty skies, they weave between concrete towers, chimneys pouring smoke, at all hours, devouring, the bright blue canvass, with dark, grey fumes. Seagulls glide past, dirty, weathered blocks, of flats, with light lit rooms. Over washing lines with socks, sheets blowing in the gloom. Pigeons gather in flocks, on windowsills to watch cartoons. Starlings, Sparrows sing all night, even when there is no Moon. Streetlamps rearrange the light, cycles, now there's no respite, for beast or fowl. No more takes flight, Minerva's Owl, or foresight. But it's alright, for the TV tells us so. Let it nurture you, and grow, in the ways we tell you to. In the ways that you are shown. Shop! Be Happy! Fill your home, With pictures of a World long gone. Tell yourself that you are free, convince yourself that what you see, is simple, right, & filled with beauty. Don&#

Shining Sun, the light of reason, however near or far, I swing from you, throughout the seasons, you remain my guiding star. Illuminating all that's dark, divide above from the below, making light and shadow part, making life wither and grow. Guiding me on all my paths, directing me to reach my goals. Shield me from the wicked's wrath, banish darkness from my soul. Fill my heart with joyous laughs, when troubles they take their toll, Warm the waters in my bath, never let your light grow cold. Nourish me with beaming rays, so my life force multiplies. Make effortless and long my days, short my nights, and strong my eyes. That all truths I come to see, in their multitude of forms, that I may ever break free, from ignorance and other norms. Which keep the World shrouded in mist, and people stumbling forwards blind, brushing shoulders, throwing fists, seeking things they never find. Then sweet light of reason I, will promise you constant devotion. From the snow capped mountain high

  There are objects all around me. A roll of thread. A green glass bottle. A dormant pine cone. There are things everywhere I look, scattered all around my home. Leather bound books. Paperback books. A lifetime worth of books. Dusty, damaged, well worn, ravaged, by these hands of mine. Two mirrors on opposite walls, a ball of garden twine. Two blue weights. A chest of drawers, of rich dark pine. Many pens which often fall, onto the floor, ball points, fountains. A5 notebooks, paper mountains, shifting over time. Two cups in my reach, each stained by tea, one empty. One larger, half full. Lemon and ginger vapours, fragrant, flee, circulate and linger, carried by the steam. Batteries. Remote controls, for radio & the TV, which shape my dreams, with shiny fables. Cables run along the skirting, behind a well used coffee table. Candles, wallet, nicotine, cover it's surface. Earphones and some old CD's. A passport, Watch. Behind it countless things, forgot, and small enough to fa

Here you can find a selection of my poetry from the last couple of years, which will be constantly updated. As well as hand made collections available for purchase.  My first collection of Poetry is for sale now, it's called Box of Tinder and you can get a copy through this blog, just complete the order form and I will be in touch. I am working on another few collections, which will hopefully be available over the next year.   My Social Media links: Twitter Facebook Instagram  

 In a World of throwaway goods, and mass manufactured meanings. Crooked grins on billboards gleaming, salesmen scheming full of bluster. I want something soft of lustre, made by gentle, honest hands. With love and care, and time and passion. Something fair, not fickle fashions, made to fit a business plan, for moneys sake, seductive scams. I want lovers, not just fans, or things just bought and thrown away. I want things for rainy days, when there are no words to say, no jobs to do, or games to play. Give me something I can treasure, made of beauty, made for pleasure. ~MStJ