On the way to the house that separates the mad from the sane. River Cam by Midsummer Common.
The Summit
I write and rewrite
the final chapter,
but the sun always sets
beyond the mountains yonder.
No version ever reveals
the path taken, the steep hills
climbed to reach the summit;
the pinnacle of life, oh really?
I write and rewrite
the final chapter,
as if the end would matter
to someone so inept.
No twisted ankle
or spilled truth
could ever covey the way
doves die in hawk’s claws.
I write and rewrite
the final chapter, …
The Theatre of Mischief
In the Theatre of Mischief
I play the fool, a mere tool
in a sinister plot unfolding.
You find comfort in the unknown,
the pretentious paces unfolding
and the matching hubris revealed.
In the Theatre of Mischief
lives come and go, portals open
and quickly close.
You sit in silence, watching
my undoing; my luddite life
barely keeps you awake.
In the Theatre of Mischief
I was born a janitor, much later
did I graduate a fool.
You leave in silence, shimmering
swiftly through the backstreets
of life, of love, and sentient stench.
In the Theatre of Mischief
lives come and go, portals open
and quickly close.
You never stop to contemplate,
all other eyes and juice
and their dreams and callings.
In the Theatre of Mischief
lives come and go, portals open
and quickly close.
In the Theatre of Mischief
you are the one watched,
beware the optics of departing.
In the Theatre of Mischief
I am – The Fool
watching your lives unfold.
Innocent
You dressed yourself in innocence
Twirled like there was no tomorrow
Sighed at the feeble attempts wasted
On getting you right.
No need for saving me you yelled
This life of mine is short enough
To give a fuck
Tonight we ride
So we rode the night
Gave a fuck
As morning dawned
We had lost our innocence
Caged
Caged, stainless gleaming steel
and one creaking gate left open,
unguarded
the silent moan of another ghost
left wanting,
left
wanting, wishing to dye
the pale bones
of the merry Makers,
the troubled Takers
of a life given,
unawares
the youth led astray
to become a man
in their hollow image
would lock the cage
without a key, eyes shut
– and moaning.
So What’s Next?
An idea I had a long time ago was to turn Ghosts into a Greek tragedy, with a lot of emphasis on the Chorus to give context to an otherwise rather bleak and minimalist piece of … me.
So, what about Bumblebee you might ask. Well, most of the writing is done; a few more weeks of tweaking and I might be looking at an another printable piece of … me.
Additionally, there’s the idea of adding music to my writing, as in Hayden Veil and the Sauntering Shower Heads; but my progress in the area of music is even slower than in literature. Oh, well…
But most of the next eight months will be focused on studies, studies, and … studying; halfway towards a degree in … something useful I hope. Looking forward to the new academic year starting on October 1, with life returning to predictability once again.
Oh, yes … there will be some poetry posted here… drafts as always; drab as expected; but hopefully showing a quill pen sharpened, and ink newly brewed.
👋🏻