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These are poetry drafts. I consider all my poetry in a constant state of drafting, some with revision ongoing, others merely gathering dust. Some have been published but will still be considered drafts.

N.B. When these posts were imported I noticed some of my reblogs also got pulled in. It should be ovious from the contents that they are reblogs from other writers. I am in the process of removing those posts.

Spring

By -

Why the lack of fairness? This life I’ve been handed
reeks of old clothes
handed down the generations. Fairness
in the pills forced to feed upon
to tune the mind to tuition
turn the feelings cold, frozen thoughts
never emerge to essay … convey the vivacity
of the cheep and cheerful smile of Spring;
The proud promise — a pale Poet’s vanishing act
as tanned Publishers rage
of deadlines and deeds not done. Fair
the play to be written
in anger — a biopic
never to be seen on a larger screen
than in a teardrop reflecting
Spring.

Beyond the Edge is the Void

By -

I followed your advice
to take a step back
” see the bigger picture ”
of a world — round and riveting.
I followed your advice
To take a step back
& so I fell
and
keep
on
falling
from a world — flat and gruelling.

Like Lightning

By -

Glaucoma struck like lightning
To a minds eye made to muse
The wicked ways of Many
& the carnage that pursued.

Very Well [ Fading Exit ]

By -

Some day, far or near there will come a road
crossing my bushy byway — a junction
to stop at; to decide; to avoid hesitation
fear or dear lord make me not cross
over
to the side where, like the back of my hand
the black bush hides every well — left lost
with hands needing turning
over
to reveal no traces
of life left — no wells, unwell
in a world with no wells

[ fading exit ]

with no source for life

— our lives end

The Great Breaking

By -

I went for a … sleepwalk — apparently
Strolled for hours awaiting a sun
To rise — to smile
On a face long hidden
Behind dark winter curtains
Drawn and locked shut
In waiting — waiting
For the great breaking:
A sad and sleepy soul
Stepping out far beyond
Its cozy comfort zone
To once again awaken
Free.

Y Gwyll

By -

The dusk crept over the ridge, unframed

The cheap canvas stretched

Between the dipoles of Men

Possessing the ridge depicted.

 

Oil smeared by childish hands, layered

A world so slowly built

To honour the fallen Men

Defending the ridge depicted.

 

The dusk crept over the ridge, framed

The completed canvas signed

Sealed

Stored — ignored.

 

The aging begetter contemplated

The unsettling dusk sinking

Deep into the artist’s soul —

The sun’s return and forgiveness.

The Boy Who Played With Matches

By -

There once was a boy with alien bones
That made this world his merry home.
He shared his wisdoms great and small
With all who listened, and few ignored.
As winter winds turned pale and soft
The boy grew restless among the posts.
In mirrors reflecting an innocent face
Sparks of fire felt right out of place,
A boy’s intent of a world — ablaze.

The Mirror Maze

By -

The mirror maze showed no reflection, a sign
I took to heart — heartbreak some would say
needs no precursor; the harbinger on this very day
an event long since erased
from a history still in writing: a Life
lived only leaving wee traces
eventually fades
into the forgotten realm
where only eyeless roams the maze.

Mittens

By -

Mittens — you only need to say the word
& I will come, I will follow
to the end of every shady forest // every
lonely meadow of madness
along the lark-lit pastures of your past
— I will walk by your side [say it!]

Say it, and I will weave it: the love bound
by one thread — over and over hands
tied to no gilded parachutes [say it!]

Our tracks to be, thoughts permeate
like hands walking in blossom beach sand
mumbling through a grandmother’s toil
and threads that binds the clouds to us

Mittens — you only need to say the word
& I will follow
like a sheep
to sleep
beside you [say it!]

Siphõn Dream

By -

Their disappointment begun
Upon the fair realisation
That the fields of Elysian
Needed constant mending

There was to be no holiday
To follow the life of lies
Where the uneven elders
Kept the flame hidden afar

Gas, petrol, fumes to fuel
The lawn mowing monster
Needed to weed out the rules
The faun of Lyra possessed

Oh, Librarian with no books
Like scholars with a mind free
To roam the roads less wandered
Towards the end of another dream

Betrayal of no truth lingered
Longer than the care would wait
For the Child to be, to become
Like the prophecy declared — at ease

Their disappointment begun
Upon the right and proper remembrance
That the pastures of the divine
Require continuous repairs.

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