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.
In Grey Hues
Booze, to much booze
today, tonight I snooze
unweary,
unawares of every youse
in every house
dancing in grey hues
yet dreaming of a souse,
of rainbows, and a muse.
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.
👋🏻
I reached a milestone today. For the first time I told someone who knows me (in the real world) that I write poetry, and have published two collections and am working on a third. I’m happy the response was so positive.
Muted Moon
Embedded in the muted Moon
curved claws spurned the crumbs,
my bones
my shadow
my longing for another
demanded the sacrifice
of a soul: my soul
my own goal
and the voice
turned silent.
New Moon, never noon
no crumbs left
to follow; I caved
I … gave
no crumbs
no crumbs
no way to find
me. Me and my voice
sacrificed.
Spurned.
Silenced.
Scorned like corn
kissed by Fusarium Verticillioides
on the night of a muted Moon
rising, and a voice silenced
on a rattling heap of bones
behind the shadow of a soul
– longing.
I saw the three faces of Eve
and bleaker days came and went,
through lingering smoke
a blue china cup, and memories
like an old TV set
the white and the black
dreams came and went.
I saw the three faces of Eve
hoping, dreaming, wishing selfishly
for replacement faces
for other places
to leave more traces
for you to find; a bleaker face
watched her turn
into one.
I saw the three faces of Eve
wishing
for more
than one.
I’m baked beans
looking for toast,
an old lover’s tape
silenced; remember
those tapping sounds
across your heaving chest.
I am cold baked beans,
a stream of dreams
beyond the fears
of finding the player
broken;
I’m broken,
a mere token
of withering skin
and soundless whispers
wishing you home
where the fingers
once did the talking.
I’m baked beans
{looking for toast}
in a tin – shelved
and forgotten.
Maybe Death comes knocking
when Time has left you behind,
when all hope is gathered
in a pile
awaiting E10 climate-saving petrol
to infuse
and succumb to the Eternal Fire,
if ever a light or spark be found…
or
maybe Death comes
looking for the low hanging fruit
left as Time withered and waned,
unknowingly pilfering the last truth
known to man: a fruit – any fruit
tastes sweeter when picked;
Death knows only bitter ends
to birth, life, and our ultimate
sacrifice: like fruit, our decay
is not remembered, no struggle
or sweet moment recorded
for prosperity, we leave nothing,
heading towards nothing,
no sweet dreams after the struggle:
Death’s an empty bowl of soup,
life without ladle, spoon, or hope.
A Nut
Sorry but my head don’t rhyme
exposing oddities like
my words that aren’t poems
rhyme either not does,
and
as evident
the characters lined up
fail to say anything using
established literary techniques; so
in a nutshell (not a metaphor) there
is a nut.
