Horizon

 

When you look up to a crisp evening sky,
During a late winter’s night,
Glow like the bright stars above,
Bask in the pale moonlight.

But do you know I am holding up the horizon?
Glance back down and you might spot me,
I want you to see those wonders so pure,
So I will take this burden that you might be free.

You must know how heavy it is,
So understand what I say is true,
Every star blinds and burns,
And I will carry them all for you.

When you look out to the still sapphire sea,
As you sit on the golden sandy shore,
Let the slow tide wash over your skin,
And gaze at the subtle ship in the distance moored.

Know that while you rest and take in the rich breeze,
It is me aboard that vessel who wrestles with the great storms,
Lightening severs the sky and rain batters the bow,
But you shall stay safe for the rock shall not be worn.

Can you sense how much it hurts,
To battle this tempest in search of waters blue?
This sea seeks to drown you with a thousand murky sins,
And I will keep them all away from you.

As you walk down the winding road,
That leads you through the twisted meadow,
Do not let the shadows grow too long,
For it is you who casts them to harrow.

Do you not know how much I struggle,
To keep the growing darkness at bay?
If you are able to tread unhindered,
It is because I helped to show you the way.

So you can keep me locked away in the cold,
I know that someday we will come through,
Your past threatens to drag you to the depths,
But I will fight those demons back for you.

Short Story: Wisps and Embers

So rather that leave this page on the shelf till next April, I've decided to post any short stories that I write. So here's the first one. It's a post-apocalyptic piece based on one of the poems I wrote in April of the same name. It's a little melancholy but I hope you enjoy.

 

* * *

            Can you see it? That pale glow out there in the distance? It cuts across the horizon like a blade through grass. It means I’m nearly there. It means I’m nearly home. And that glow I see. I have seen it before. It means that my home is burning. Like everywhere else, the bricks and wood have become nothing more than fuel for the fire. I used to care, but not anymore. I just smile.

                The respirator makes a husk out of my breathing as I trudge through the ashes towards the coastline. The houses by the shore are ruins, and thick soot buries most of the cracked roads. I used to be afraid that I would find my home in this state, after travelling for so long to get here. Now I no longer feel fear. I don’t recall its paralysing grip upon me. I’m not even sure I feel anything at all. I just look up to the discoloured sky and foul clouds, wondering.

                If I had found this place in such a way a couple of years ago, I might have despaired but now, as I drift between the fallen debris, I am almost content. Hours pass like minutes, and the scent of crumbled civilisation forces its way into my mask. Rusted iron and melted tyres. Bones amid the twisted metal. Snowflakes of dust, promising a gentle winter.

                Sometimes I feel alone. It’s been weeks since I last saw a living face. Even wildlife is rare. Few creatures survive the venomous fumes. Most of the time, memories are enough to sustain me. They used to keep me awake at night, the loved ones lost to the fire. Now they kiss me softly in the dark and ask me to join them in the warmth. That’s why I’m here. It seems fitting to me. To go to rest in a place once beautiful, to meet those who came before and will come again. I whisper out to them with hushed thoughts. I love you.

I kneel in the sand. Yeah, this is the place. Water before me, the remains of childhood memories behind me and the final valiant plant life beside me. My fingers no longer tremble as they reach for the mask. With a painless tug, the piece comes loose, and I effortlessly cast it aside. Then the air, unadulterated and toxic, seeps into my lungs. I can feel it beginning to choke me.

My breath draws short.
Thoughts grow scarce.
And I see this place as it truly is.

 

So clear,
A gust drifting,
Velvet under starlight,
Washes over skin,
Tender flesh,
Neither living nor dead,
Life among the lifeless,
Louder than slumber,
Whispers within dreams,
Quiet like dusk,
Ripples on the ocean shore.

A leopard creeping,
The last creature I witness,
Paw prints in the dulled emerald,
Meadow trampled underfoot,
Crouch among the bark,
Watching me die,
Stalking,
Through wisps and embers,
The ashes of all that is good.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Thirty, "The Status Quo"

This is the last poem for National Poetry Writing Month this year (even if it is posted a day too late). I would just like to say a huge thank you for taking the time to read some of my poems. I hope that you have found some of them enjoyable and they have captured your imagination. Writing a poem every day for such a long time is very difficult, but I am proud to have completed the challenge on my first attempt, and I am already considering possibilities for next April, to hopefully use this experience to produce a more experienced and defined month of poetry.

This final poem is deliberately provocative, and is set from the point of view of the common man in the not too distant future, reflecting on a society that we could well be looking at today. Perhaps there are ideas within it that you can relate to, or maybe you agree or disagree. I have tried to leave a level of vagueness to the notions to give you the chance to fill in the gaps and make it your own, while still providing a firm offering of my own reflections. I hope you enjoy this final poem.

These people are afraid of me,
I know what’s beneath their disguise.
For all the talk of raising standards and fulfilling pleas,
I know they hide behind broken alibies.
I find myself feeling frustrated
Their words so saturated with bullshit, I’m disgusted.
An isolated country whose problems are exaggerated,
By the clowns with so little drive, I’m sure they’ve been castrated.
It’s been the same message for countless years,
I’m sick of them spewing this filth down our ears.
Playing upon fears with a host of crocodile tears,
Strutting like heroic peacocks, expecting a bout of cheers.
They may claim to be our peers,
But they lack moral convictions with which to adhere.
Is it any wonder we are more likely to jeer,
When they finally visit here because it’s once again voting year?



Many of these people are so transparent,
They don’t really care or listen, that much is apparent.
It’s an attitude you must surely find abhorrent,
Is this unpleasantness truly inherent?
I don’t trust a society broken,
When we’ve seen screens smoking,
To cover the animals with decadence swollen.
Now in the wake of collapse,
Leaders scuffle to bring the nation under wraps.
But perhaps a relapse shall in time elapse,
And once more these pricks will lead us into a trap.
They’re blind, scrapping without definition,
Contending only because they want to better their own position,
But we all have recognition of their omissions,
And still we sit and listen to yet another rendition,
Of repeated faults and civil decomposition.



But now nationalists lay claim while the centre wane,
And upon each other they heap all the blame.
It’s pathetic to see so many so vain,
Fighting to get to the top of the chain.
These people are supposed to lead us,
And take us into better days thus.
Instead they enjoy the life built on our backs,
Stuffing themselves, regular fat cats.
Claiming they’ll put the nation on the right track,
But with scandals galore, a sense of justice is clearly lacked.
So if like me, you have lost all trust,
And fear that our values are being trampled into the dust,
Take a stand and your anger you must show,
Spread the word that we should not stoop so low.
I’m not asking you to overthrow,
But we must shake up the stagnating status quo.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Nine, "The Man in the White Suit"

This poem is based on the two main characters in the book I am in the process of redrafting. Enjoy.

Have you seen him,
The man in the white suit?
He’s causing quite the stir.
With great pride,
Does he rise,
His eyes filled with devilish allure.

Nobody knows who he really is,
That man whose influence grows,
As does his might and power.
Like a shadow of white light,
He spreads his great dominion,
His force seems to bloom like a flower.

His words are like wisps in the wind,
Winding and falling on our hearts,
Whispering to us deep desire.
With but a speech to the masses,
Does he reach out to our souls,
And light in us passion and fire.

But the man in the white suit is not without foes,
And such a menace is the one known as ‘The Guardian’,
Hidden behind his black mask.
A blade in one hand,
The Kinetic Regulator in the other,
And the defeat of our champion he has made his task.

So to war go these men,
The risen hero and the fallen,
In the greatest battle of our nation.
 What will transpire,
Will shape the rest of our time,
In the aftermath of certain this destruction.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Eight

Let go of your burning hate,
Unburden that unforgiving weight.
The tree will let fall the withering leaf,
Only you were my joy and my grief.
I do not care if what happened was right,
But I did not act out of mere slight.
The tree will let fall the withering leaf,
A drain upon life, an emotional thief.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Seven, "Don't Do Drugs"

One last haiku for the month.

If love is a drug,

It's my parents fault I'll die

alone, "Don't do drugs!"

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Six, "The Little Things"

 

It feels like we live in difficult times,
With demands besetting us on all sides.
And while we strive to rise to such harsh challenges,
The scale can tip and gone are the balances.
It’s important in times savage as these,
To resist and combat that consuming disease.
For it’s easy to lose sight of who we really are,
And though it may seem somewhat bizarre,
It’s the little things in life that keep us sane.
Whether it’s a glass of wine or the sound of rain,
Or taking the time to watch a film or write a poem,
We need these things to keep our minds from being stolen,
By the stresses of life that seek to enslave,
And ultimately pressures that we grow to crave.