Hey gang, we're back with a bang from our hiatus with Tom Wilson taking a brilliant and slightly different approach to his "feetured" blog post with three stunning poems.
Remember, this is the series where we get to know more about the fantastic creatives and artists in the North West of England and the wonderful work they produce. We aim to build a safe and engaging networking space that will allow creatives across different art forms to find one another. We also want to spotlight the incredible talent that resides right here in the North West! We hope our readers will not only keep up with the series but support these groundbreaking artists going forward!
Now, take it away, Tom!
The God of Entropy
Betwixt each footprint the autumn shore met, remained a figure whose clothes remained unwet, his bare feet yet grew from above the sand. A wrinkled hand, that felt the breeze through him, time and age set a stage for those who knew him, players who played and had their bows: now’s too many faces than a memory allows.
All gone,
Except for him: The God of Entropy, whose worship demands disintegration: a nation to crumble as our icebergs sink us, the Gods of Olympus drowned too. The last decade of man, of us, of you, is a Sunday and someday there will be no day to rest lest we forget Entropy does not sleep.
No time,
The man on the shore said goodbye to the sea, he shared a wave between it and Entropy and made his way to the graveyard where she was buried. Her name lost to the moss of ever and a day. The Universe had forgotten what he’d hear her voice say. He could not find her smile in his mind, only that this stone stood above someone he knew to be kind.
Just space,
Did a year pass or did a thousand? The God of Entropy allows land to erode the same. The man still stands, stood still in vein, almost to defy us. Like a living ‘mandias who forgot the world instead. A man living no life but still not dead. Nothing but the red sun beating upon his head.
Tears for Stan
Tears for Stan, Stan the man, he'll
understand when no one can, still
standing in arms, they’re open.
Fuel for the tank to help you cope and
write another piece of writing,
pain as ink, memory's lighting.
Adjust the frame to paint with ease, you’ll
learn to brush the tears, your easel
will be the tool you need to
illustrate the fate that meets you.
Recall the fall to act natural
Ignore the truth, don’t say the actual
Reason you’re sick of Stan.
Sick of things not going to plan,
Of places not gone to.
I’m so sick of having something for Stan
for me to respond to
and this so-called “art"
this so-called experience for my
so cold heart is
the life signs remaining from
my child-like dreams, my youth in disguise,
the meant-to-be leftovers that Stan won’t mentally euthanize.
I’m fed up of the feeling of a fan that doesn’t ask me
I’m fed up of those tears, those tears for Stanislavski.
The Summer of Twenty-One
In the Summer of Twenty-One,
I felt it all gone: my anxiety, my desire to be
left alone by none,
because I met someone.
Who not nearly, without fear she
made me feel better than the sum of my parts.
But I guess without ends there’d be no starts.
It’s Autumn, now she’s gone.
But at least I’ll always have the Summer of Twenty-One
If you would like to see more of Tom's awesome work and support him going forward, follow him on his writing Instagram: @Toms.Poems. Or, for more general updates, his primary Instagram: @Tom.Wilson.507.