Home » Poems » Best » Roy Austin » Best Roy Austin Poems

Best Poems Written by Roy Austin

Below are the all-time best Roy Austin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Haiku Trail :(Inconsistent With Environment)

It is hard and bleak
now, below his tired feet
with the grey above him,

albescent with time
clouds bubble above him there
like an old man’s  beard,

though you, his sweet one
are the soft green in between,
bring back salad  days,

when you address him
you greet him with such relish
to flavour his life

and so he holds on -
ever in mind  as at hand,
leaning on the wind.

Details | Roy Austin Poem

The Inner Voice of Mark Birros: Excerpt From Epic Poem.

With that invisibilty of age
I can fly my life like a kite !
Uninvited and unseen,
albescent, grey, you know what I mean,
( not the first flush of youth or strong,
the young forget that we were young, )
hold on to that, the string of that
to grip the meaning of it
as I grip the iron balustrade
along the miles of esplanade ;
think the century's wise men are ignored,
each lamp a light, a sage for each lamp.... ...

Drawn to the Sailor's Arms, her kegs
the weight of years upon the legs,
for whispers round an inglenook
where galaxies are in the glass,
to swap a tale, another round,
a golden fleece, a crumpled map !
Or waft around for words, like smoke
along the butt - ends from the tar,
or vanish down into the draught
if Alan Watts is at the bar.... ...

Below, where gulls quarrel in kelp
no harbour there need shelter me,
no life - boat slip to cries for help
need bring my spirit to the lee -
I hear the past with all its murders,
the wind wail through the rusting girders
yet still am I, free to fly with you
who lean against the railings, too !... ...

The world may seem to come in bits -
let nonduality begin ?
Come celebrate your opposites
for all depends on loss to win !
Tribal culture in your face -
to win is everywhere you turn,
if God is losing all the time
then will we ever, ever learn ?... ...

'You'll win' he said, 'its in the bag',
out on the point
what can the mindless wind do
but wave the flag?
Missing the point forever
signalling our nascent spirit.

And the voice said
'raise your head when the night is cloudless 
and tell me who you are subject to, 
remember the truth of your own story
as your eyes take in the glory'.... ...

Full to be empty, empty to be full -
do you hear the paradox, do you feel the pull ?
I do not mean to be patronising,
have I asked you too soon ?
Do you see what I mean when you gaze at the moon,
when the full moon, lifeless is full of light ?... ...

I sit upon the lobster pots
that decorate the harbour wall,
if you come a little closer
you can see me in the hall,
if you do not hold the key-
Mrs keepings locks the door,
I'll be looking out to sea 
after eight but not before.... ... ...

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Red Eye (Conventional Self)

The counter change  ahead
from many air - miles made,                                               
there is no tomorrow
only the light and shade ;

descending from above
the landing lights look strange,
my astral empathy 
is ever out of range

and if I really am
invisible as air,
the stamp is ignorant
the passport doesn’t  care ;

to satisfy custom
with that which isn’t there
I’m always  in the green
with nothing to declare :

I mirror back my face -
cold water to ennui
and wonder why I have
this false identity.

Details | Roy Austin Poem

The Inner Voice of Mark Birros Ii (Excerpt)

THE INNER VOICE OF MARK BIRROS  II



From world war two in the Atlantic
I hear the drowning cries of men,
climbing out as in spirit from waters
that lap the steps of the harbour wall ;
time erodes as the sea -
washing up these thoughts that linger
here and on many beaches,
thoughts that stick and have the stench
of  used oil around them,
the name on a memorial
does not reflect the horror ;
the surf rejects such cogitation ;
for a moment, ' try again ' 
the gulls seemed to say,
' let go ' said the movement of the ocean,
but I cannot, I simply cannot
for what transcends these waves
and breathes out the universe
is love, the love of a father....   ...   ...
 

The old clock ticks away the day
that haemorrhages the evening,
and like a night- nurse at the bed                                         
as growing lesions slowly spread,
the crescent moon would nothing say
to see the patient pass away ;
the stars call out but they are late -
what metaphysics spring from that
while in my soul eternity
is smiling like the Cheshire cat !...
A presence haunts me as that touch -
that hugs the heels in failing light,
with eyes  that peer through space and time
and follow me into the night....   ...


The pine wood has its secrets -
I am one of them now,
like the columns of an ancient temple,
straight and upright
where no priest intercedes -
I trust it with my life,
I am theirs and they are mine,
growing inside me, sturdily and strong,
transcending their roots with my secrets
to their archetypal heaven...   ...   ...


As if a change of consciousness was meant,
against the pull of ego, the body
inwardly swept up in spiral ascent,
spirited away from me
from all the world below,
from all that I would ever be
that anyone might know ;
raised  the cloaked arm
of my archetype
to draw the void across my eyes,
and I did rise to heights of bliss
to see  the world from this -
dancing in vortices, tiptoeing on pools 
as through a mesh, devoid of flesh ;
our world is an illusion -
a carousel to light,
as in the midst of heaven
we ghost on through the night...   ...

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Self of the World

The self of the world incarnates
   held by her flautist  charms,
gripped by the heels, slapped on the feet
   wrapped in a mother’s arms ;

now ‘ other ‘d , non existential -
   never a moment’s doubt,
weaned on a past and future tense,
   always the moment’s rout,

always the outward focus here
   reigning down from the top,
turning us round and round again
   until our pennies drop !

What need then, for magic mushrooms
   under our mother sun ?
The flute plays  on into the whole
   'til  the  millions are   one.

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Zen Pipes

Clogged - up to the eaves
time to roll  one's sleeves,
is this the way of zen
raking the leaves again,
observing one's thoughts, but never
tying the two together ?
Asking of mother earth
what was ' I ' before birth
and of the autumn sun
what will ' I ' be when I'm gone ?
When letting go would  say
dont grip your life as booty,
colourful hints of red
voicing  a dying beauty ;
tossing thoughts with the leaves,
clearing a way for Zen -
what  I  heave to the wind
the wind may blow back again :

Fancy I hear a voice -
' You are the trees turned yellow,
turn you to brown despair,
'til you are ripe and mellow,
three pounds of flax for a rope -
hang you on threads of hope :

 
The whole edifice of  belief
is built on the ancient brain,
clear it away and let it flow-
and rain, rain, rain ;
Love  speaks through nature
with such sad empathy,
and is this less than the swirl
of  grouts, in my cup of tea,

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Medius Aevum (Burnt At the Stake)

The light was brief
on that ' figured leaf '
when man trembled
to the outer spheres,
that once made keep
when the vault was deep
in the omen years ;
the insane rage
of the median age
for a heretic's life,
when the Abbott, knew
the souls, that flew
from such frightful ken,
and thereupon to Acheron
in skeins o'er the fen.
......................................................................................

(Old Ely, England.In such times it was believed
 that the souls of those put to death, escaped in the birds.)
From the mysticseed series.

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Real Men ! (Satire)

We do not send our sons to college
to become followers of the Buddha,                        
or to seek any ancient,  spiritual path
that might lead them to themselves,
we prefer their windy, notions  of God
up there in the air somewhere,
so they can get on with the business
of cleaning up our mess down here !
They have no time for contemplation
or what is called, true meditation,
enlightenment is for wimps !
Not real men  or chimps !

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Not of Ergot (Vision)

Am unready for the substance
    of the bodhi tree,
I will drink the cactus  rain
    and wait for glory,

but is that water just the heat
    tempting me to cross,
are those desert blossoms my
     infinite regress ?

And will I ever be the same
    where those sand dunes blow,
if my time has come and gone
    will I ever know ?

Will I be lost unto my self
    if the vision stops ?                                           
I will lay just where I am
    ‘til  the penny drops !

Seeing through the unborn self here
    Through the unborn eye.
made that green oasis, my
    caravanserai,

at one to leave or part with ease,
set down the camel on it’s knees.

Details | Roy Austin Poem

Life Is Short

Remember time, remember place,
when feet to knees seemed like a mountain,
that smile upon your mother’s face
as from her eyes your living fountain,
when life was yours - a world unspoken
when on all fours your ' glass ' was broken,
that bright surprise - a robin show -
how everything was there, to know ?

A life - time sits here in recluse -
the wood-seat waits to be of use
and mocks my age with Poke - the tortoise,
happy, crawling to have caught us
underneath an ageing sloe,
with nothing more, or less to know.