Cross-Tears Tales

Sometimes, Lord,
I wish to cry,
conceiving all the great things
shown me.
But right now,
do I feel you?
Yet, you are here!
I don’t hear you
but your echoes resound still.
You love and bless me
more than man can understand.

Lord, the loneliness now flickers
by caressing candlelight
but yet as we walk and talk,
like dying embers
do the flames flail.
My hand you hold
as my silent tears fall.
Still, no matter…
I know now your love cannot die
because of the Cross-Tears you cried.

Loneliness is a state of mind?
Then let my mind state truth…

You are My Lord,
My Life,
My Love.


I wrote this during a prayer time in the prayer room we had at Mattersey in mid-2005. The poem was basically written on some scraps of paper whilst I read Hebrews 11 and almost lost when the room was cleaned out except I found the scraps and restored and tinkered with the poem. Much to my pleasure, I'd found I could naturally seperate the lines (originally one big chunk) into separate stanzas with some kind of 'symmetry' to it which wasn't my intention but it was naturally there. It was later picked to be read at an auction we did at college. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

God Bless,
-Matt K

Ghosts of Poetry

Do you remember
all those pretentious words
trying to tell you what you already know?
Stories of love,
peace,
and war,
and lust.

Of those
love is the kindest.
Sweet and tender
to touch;
eternal to savour,
pure and innocent…
But almost impossible to find
for some who possess it.

Peace
is a myth.
Peace was shot
to pieces
a long time ago.
Yet, like dracos are
to dragons,
isn’t peace a real myth?

Ah,
but it’s lust I see most.
When lust destroys,
to dust it turns the heart.
Promising passionately;
heeding hollowly,
lust be the evil
in all sin.

So why not war, evil in all?
Because lust,
presiding over peace,
lying in the place of love,
mixed together
in a venomous cocktail
create all the war and confusion
that will ever need be said.

What are left
in whispered writings
of laboured lust
are ghosts of poetry,
pretensions without meaning;
words with empty echo.


Matt K, 2003.

The Rejection Prophecy

The rejection prophecy;
a strange beast that beats
its hooves across my head,
self-fulfilling melody unrelenting.

Looking to doubt
doubtless faith.
Surprise, surprise,
I see clearly once again.

(Clear as mud.)

Waterproof Blonde
scatter a calming crescendo
across the pain of my brain
and tears well in my eyes.

I'm forgotten, I'm denied,
so why cry
because self-fulfilled am I
to an endless prison
called the fifth wheel.

Abandonment to oblivion.
Danger of self-fulfilling,
self-pitying
prophecies of the moment.

Matt K, 2006.

The Art of Opera

Life is an art;
an Art of Opera.
Slowly so,
to crescendo grow.
Crying themes
of broken dreams
and ghosts on roads a’ winding.

Songs of love
parade the ears
of the sneering
and sobbing audience
demanding drama,
comfort and horror
entwined sorrowfully.

Falling to the knees,
begging the curtains,
building to climax…
a never-ending climax
of twists and turns
in this eternal
love story.

Tragedies run
but soon
echoes will turn
to apparent salvation.
Meanwhile,
interval time…
suspending the conclusion.

Who knows
where this opera will end?
Ins and outs,
haunting shouts,
betrayals
and requiems.
And redemption.
Redemption.

Playing to the audience.
‘Tis not all that matters in the end?
No, ‘tis not.
If one must paint
the Art of the Opera,
then one must do it
with passion.


Matt K, 2003/4

Dignified by Destiny

Ultimate destiny
heralding from times past time,
reaching like a tender lamb,
the great I Am.

The long night is past
but a knight I remain.
Destiny is my steed,
the knight's mare,
facing the face of the mirror.

The robes of royalty...
The armour of victory...
Now I can be
what I once sought to flee.

Resolutely, I stand
sword in hand
facing those demons
once scaring, staring, swearing,
now vanishing back to their whispers,
the path once walked.

Destiny is my friend,
freedom my saviour.
That which binds me
in a velvet love
sets me free
to soar above
dark desolation,
death herself.

Now in freedom's bosom
I walk a Sir,
my dignity retained
at the very last.

Matt K, 2006

Melting of the Frost

I understand now,
my love,
that the hand that holds near to my eye,
that wipes away the tears,
is a hand long rejected
by my childish fears.

Why have I walked
in the court of darkness
and wasteful sorrow
at the expense
of your tender splendour
and clarity of sense?

I wish to cry at your feet
but you will have none of it.
The coldness that chilled my cheeks
has thawed from my sore skin
and your love has warmed
my soul within.

Up you bring me,
up from my sojourn,
and again my heart burns
with this slight smile
that in but a while
shall consume all darkness in my life.

I peer into your face
and I find that I can’t see anything
but love for me.
My friend, my friend,
I find myself knowing that our love won’t die
as long as walk both you and I.

In youth I pursued
the pleasures that bring pain
but once again
I find my heart broken at the loss.
Now, my love,
I want to stand.

I won’t turn to peer back
in the shadows and snow
of a cold winter-time,
mistakes made in greed.
Why would I, when now,
my soul can walk free?

That tiny passion
has already blossomed
into a summer of warmth
and the body once blue-dead
has become perhaps a Vivaldi, a Van Gogh,
a musical mural without limit or wall.

Past the point of no return,
from a place I do not wish to see.
Let’s walk together in The Way,
your hand never denied me,
never lost from my sight
even for a tiny moment,
my love.


Matt K, 2005

Noir

You feel hurt
yet hurt to feel.
In the end, is the yin
worth the yang?

Crying tears of joy?
Still crying.
Looks like
once again,
this world of extremes
has you.

The black fact
is that
you can’t
escape the hate.
It will find you.
Oh yes!

What do you do
when it comes for you?
Will you run and hide
or hide your running?

A figure passes by;
her eyes a murky shade of grey.
But her conclusion
was never meant to be in the middle.
It lay somewhere
on an extreme.

These extremes
of black and white.

Sad to say
but she lay
crying away
her yesterdays.

Yesterdays… full of fear
to live to see
another day
in this cinema world
we live in.

But she is alive.
Even in the noir,
is there not colour,
not hope?

Is the breath alone,
escaping her lips
with eager tension
not enough to persuade
her never to fade?

Fading to grey.
Not a good thing
in this noir world.

Life is all,
always ‘til the end,
complete
black and whites.

It’s how we deal with them
that is the movie.

Do you like happy endings?

Matt K, 2004

Snow at the Seaside

Sitting
in a Butlin’s holiday camp,
he read Aliens
and wondered why the world of fiction
didn’t have as terrible creatures
as the real?

Trapped in a world
of screaming silences
and of lonesome cavorting
in crowds of thronging people
chanting his name.

Walking through the snow,
book still in hand,
peering out to the dreary sea,
seeing all the people
that have fallen beneath the depths
to death.

That kid didn’t know his real reality.

Teleported into a rapture
of adoration and applause
and emptiness and loneliness
and music bouncing across the walls
and noise and more noise
in quietness.

Adventures clamoured for
became true realities.
He never wanted for anything
because he had nothing of everything
he wanted.
And he filled the gap
with pointless nothings
whispering in his ear.

Now that boy is dead,
but he is not a body in a coffin.
Just like his prison
was his mind,
he realised that dreams
could liberate as well as captivate
if he would just wait,
sow them,
and believe.


Another one of my favourites, I still remember typing this on my first laptop in my flat shortly before I redecorated that week.

Matt K, July 2005

The Dirge of Weeping Praises

Agony,
agony,
yet but praise-full agony.
Gradual torment
tempered by gradual bliss.

Dying to self
yet once selfishly killing
all the dreams I wished to have,
because of fleeting whims
and dim desires that fall
to the shadows of my past
when I raise my hands,
blood pouring
in euphoric praise.

The offering cup,
seeping from my soul,
soothes my aching hopes.
Tears caress my cheeks
and I realise, as I raise my arms
towards the sky,
that dreams may not yet die.

My vision goes pale red
and I know instead
of falling to fears
and yesteryears,
that my future is encapsulated
in the possibility of praise.

My words come in fleeting whispers
that none but God may hear.

I don’t even truly know
what lies beneath the surface.
All I know is that
I’m built to last,
and I will not fall…
Even when I’m lying in the coffin
of praise,
I will not fall.

I die in praise,
I die in kindness and beauty,
and fear falls from my frame
as I remember that I am to blame
for all my sin and shame,
and yet Jesus takes it all again.

Each day, He comes
and sits beside me as I weep,
and I know that tomorrow is tomorrow,
yesterday is all over again,
and now I am His son.

If all I can do is weep,
might as well weep praises.


Matt K, 2004

Under the Influence

Cart-wheeling ignorantly,
oblivious to dependency,
on a one-way trip
under the influence.

There is no medication,
there is no cure.
It is as certain
as it is memorable.

It will be
what it wills to be,
but will it be
what you will it to be?

In moderation
bringing pleasure;
in addiction,
pain.

I wonder whether
curse will someday
outweigh gain?

Men and women…
their most appealingly appalling drink;
a fluid bouncing
confusing cacophonies.

A dreary train ride
or patient love affair?
Sweet nothings
or nothing sweet?
Clouds or sun,
tears and fears,
bliss and rapture,
certainty or not…
This drug seeps through
all we’ve got.

This fatal, futile, fleeting thing…
… called emotion.


This I wrote on the train coming back from Swansea on a small notepad piece of paper. It looks nicer with the custom fonts I produced for it and it fit well in a hand-written form but here it is presented in a slightly less creative form. This poem was in the interim between my first and second years at college and that day, I remember very plainly struggling with the Lord about my apparent lack of missionistic output. Ironically, it is one of those poems which could be extremely personal for me, but ended up not being at the time I wrote it. It usually works out that I start a poem from a present experience and then it has a future disassociative affect but here I was writing it after the experience, way after. I quite enjoy this one, it must be said...

Matt K, Summer 2004

The Aposteriori Exodus

Hope once held,
like baited breath,
and dying just like passing so.

Tears of torrents
rained across that land
tainted by fields of darkness,
weeds tightening their territory
and eternity leaving to the past,
gone, lost, now ‘til last.

And then! There was a light
that shined through the deepest blackness.
Colour has eradicted the shadows
and now there is Hope.

But the weeds tighten.
They do not want to pass.
It is not until the last,
that we all see,
as the land is scorched
by searing light,
that the only way to keep the land
is to leave it be.

The good times spent here,
were never good times at all.
Just fading memories
and reminisces which pale
compared to the Light.

The land passes by
and eternity begins again.
Time is washed away
and it finally makes sense.

If you know where to look, you can find the original draft of this poem (which has been called many different names at different times) on my other blog, 'McKay's Missives'.

Matt K, 2005.

Pearls of my Heart

When I look at you,
all I can see
is beautiful light
falling upon me.

You are warm to my heart,
perfect every day;
Awesome, Brilliant,
Amazing, in every way.

Your beauty is more to me
than anything I have ever seen,
than I dared to dream,
Love of my Life.

My eyes fill with tears
as I realise
how I am blessed from above
with things so captivating.

There are many wonders
in this big, strange world,
but of all the things I’ve seen,
thought of, experienced
and wondered at,
the greatest wonders
are still you.

You and you,
pearls in the eyes of the Lord,
who loves you more than anything,
who has made promises in his Word.
He too looks at you with wonder,
wishes to walk with you for all days.
He too loves you,
more than anyone could ever say.

I would very much bet that if this poem had never been written, this site never would have been made.

The story is simply this; a pastor friend at college, a very dear man, asked me to craft this poem (which hasn't been produced here in its entirety to preserve the personal nature of the original draft for that family) for his children as a birthday gift from their Dad. It was an honour for me to do such a thing, but also more when he presented me a gift: several volumes of classic English poetry for me to read and enjoy and learn from. That man sowed several months of patience and time into my life and encouraged me greatly in my poetry at a time when I really got bored and even dismissive of the gifts God had given me. If not for that man and the warmth he shared when I printed the poem out for him, I'd probably not be doing this site now. This poem isn't, by my own creative enjoyment, one of my best but it is a personal land-mark and I will remember it forever. Thank you, my dear pastor friend and brother.

Matt K, 2005, written on the day of watching my first live football match.

Listen Hear

Why can’t you hear the words
so boldly spoken,
dripping like wet ashes
from a cold and crystal tongue?

My heart does wrench,
unflatteringly so.
To ridicule and idiocy
my reputation does go.

Because I stick my feet in the ground
and do what’s right.
I never move, I never surrender,
instead I turn and constantly fight.

But now, after all these years,
I look back and everything seems hollow.
Listen here,
and hear this,
because after all these years,
all I can see is an empty seat.

My conscious haze repels
at the thought that you’ve done wrong.
I can’t believe it even now,
when all seems to say the different.

So what is truth,
My Love?
Am I to believe in the face of coldness and shame
that not you, but I, am to blame
after all these years of attempted loyalty
and curse?
Tell me the worth
of all of these sacrifices I made for you
because at this moment,
it all seems so hollow.

All my life seems to be
is my backside placed on an empty seat
in an empty four walls
and many empty promises
and empty feelings.

Sitting, remembering all the people in my life,
loving and tending,
and yet, it still feels all so empty.

A lone figure, sitting in the white.


Matt K, 2005

Closure Exposure

Many hollow words
walk these ways.
Confusing, exhausting
love
caresses my callow heart.

Lost in love
am I
confused?

But isn't this rejection?
Isn't this acceptance?

For every time
I bid you 'way,
you're here
and nowhere,
never leaving,
never going,
never staying.

Every time I let you in,
you stay your course,
but when I look
to touch your hands, your face,
you are gone.

Gone in whispering winds,
lost to me like a ship in the mist.

Now I see that you love me,
but I never did trust you.
You see,
I never really let you in at all.

Am I destined to be alone,
or can you get in?
Am I still worth fighting for?

Fight for me,
even though, to get me,
you'll have to fight me.


This is another one of those ones that was very much for a time, a time of questioning, understanding, grappling. The person I speak about in this poem is, in fact, the Lord and my relationship with Him (which may sound heretical to some, but I don't apologise because my faith is very personal). Jesus accepts me even now totally as I am, a work in progress but still a work He died for. So I am very glad for that truth. At the time I wrote this poem, however, although I can't remember the specifics of writing it, it seems I was having some serious self-confidence struggles and grappling with the potential doubt that God may not come through for me that time. I'm glad to say two years later that He certainly did, and always does. My guess is, I wrote this during my first year at college...

Matt K, 2004

Asking Pointless Questions

If I can fly through the sky
Cry with joy at memories restored
Look to life where I never die
Lie at azure shores
If I can find myself lost in euphoric music
Listen to a chord played with the faintest touch
Gain the world and loose it to gain it
Live life more than my dreams ever could
If I can do all these things and more,
Then why don’t I?


Matt K, 2004

Aftershade

Dying
to just speak those words
that slip past my consciousness
like wind whipping away.

Wanting to open
the book that needs
closure and waiting,
against all the odds.

Against the flow of existence,
I still stand,
crying, shaking;
A Little Boy standing on his own
in the pouring rain
waiting once again
for someone to come in through the door
with a bottle to numb the pain,
‘knowing’ his son of shame.

Why do all the colours fly by
my eyes
and my teeth grit and
I just really want
the hole of my heart to be torn out.

Tear it out, rip it out,
I won’t cry for it. I don’t want it.

There is so much love,
in my boyish eyes,
and a smile to die for.

Somebody already died for it.
But I can’t relate, I can’t say what I want to.
Instead I play hazy games
and evoke a word play
and never say
what I feel today
when it should be so simple.

Why shouldn’t it be so simple?


This one I can't remember writing, but it is very personal and very specific, relating to a certain period of my life where I was simply struggling to understand some facets about my faith. This is one of those examples I mentioned earlier of something I was writing to expunge my feelings on the matter which isn't something I would necessarily believe or say in the present or future but maybe they are some things said that people may very well sympathise with.

Matt K, Jan. 2005.

Slaying Silence

A caustic killing,
inflicted intentionally
caused by solitude selected
in self free will.

The slaying silence
that resounds these walls
deafens the child,
crying for an hours more play.

Choking tears bite back
and fail to fall.
Senseless emotion is swallowed
as perception shifts.

The playground of the mind
begins to spill
and after all these years,
boundaries become limitless.

The soul expands
to fly through the sky,
walk the clouds
and stride in the Hand of The Heart.

Everything seems childish.
Everything seems silly.
So below, so far away…
only the memories remain.

Memories of those long, humid days
of trite, childish ways
lost within an echoing bellow
which no longer holds me down.

Freedom is attained
from the personal prison,
if only the key is lock-placed
and tenderly turned.

The solitude and silence,
the white noise and hazy vision
have now long gone,
now that I am free to wander…

… here, in these four
mint green shallow walls.

Matt K, Summer 2005

The Prophet's Hourglass

A ship passes
in the cool winter breeze,
lost aside the noontide,
consigned to already yesterday…

This is the sand that drains
in the dreams
of the prophet,
holding his hourglass.

The future is possible,
probable,
predictable,
and even profitable…

But are these profits,
these goals, these desires
worth accosting at the cost
of the memoirs of the mind?

Is it worth leaving it all behind?

The hourglass is empty
but the sand the prophet sees still.
Like all men of wisdom,
he remembers and retains
although desolate his dreams
of yesterday remain.

Matt K, Summer 2005

Welcome to Poetry in Motion!

Well, I'm hoping this Blog takes off as well as I want it to. Within the next few weeks expect a flurry of different, varied poems from my own brain appear here.

Here are the rules of conduct:

1) Feel free to distribute any of these poems as you please as long as you produce them exactly how they are presented here and with links to this original site (http://themotion.blogspot.com).

2) They are never used for any kind of profit without prior permission. I may let them be used for charitable use but I didn't write these poems for financial purposes. All I want for them is to bless people of all places, races and ages. I don't want them to be exploitative. I may in the future charge small costs for stuff like publication costs (should these poems actually ever get published - that would be an amazing honour beyond my dreams) or the like, but for now (and the future) I want these poems to remain true to their original aim - to be available for all, and I don't want the pound or dollar ever getting in anybody's way.

3) I am given proper accreditation. Just because the poems are here for free download and consumption, please don't take advantage and plagarise. I wouldn't recommend it anyway, as I have ways of proving these poems were mine (protected backups, etc.). Some of these poems have very personal significance for me and it would be hurtful if somebody tries to take advantage of that. So please, don't.

4) Please suggest changes to the poems through the 'Comments' forums here. I will definitely accept criticism as I don't know everything about poetry or even grammar at all. I would love input, even if it's just asking what something means in some of the things I have said (some is deliberately left vague, however).

5) Feel free to get me any kind of publicity you can muster - I'd muchly appreciate for those in churches, if you can direct your congregations to this site. The poetry definitely has a specifically Christian spin but some, such as Noir are nothing at all to do with 'church' and are aimed at people who don't go to church, per se. So please bear that in mind.

6) I am on a journey. If I make a doctrinal statement in one poem, it may not be how I think now. On the other hand, it may be. But however it is now, it meant something to me then. If I said downright heretical things but have come through that period, I want other people also struggling that there is light at the end of the tunnel and you can get through it also. So to save myself embarrasment, I will post dates on the poems to give you an idea what mindset I was writing in. It'd be interesting to compare these things with my other blog - http://mckaysmissives.blogspot.com.

If you've gotten this far, I'd just love to say how awesome a privilege it is for me to post anything here and for anybody to read it. Poetry writing is a dream of mine; I'd love to write poems and stories as a full-time job, but I believe I am called to other things so a creative outlet like this will have to do. For me, this is an immense privilege and I hope you enjoy travelling this journey with me.

God Bless,
-Matt K.