This poem Could be the blue touch paper If I could think of the words Instead I have to watch As three hundred and forty three million souls Fail To find even one To outwit A blithering idiot
Crime doesn’t pay They used to say And the truth was hidden away Now we hear the truth at last Obscured in deception in past Now we see in every broadcast
Through shreds of mist I catch fleeting glimpses Of you Twinkling lights, far below Sparse at first Spreading fast like glowing webs Until burning it’s all consumed by fire Only to start again I sigh A watch through the ages Through shreds of mist
In that faraway land Under the star spangled skies There’s a fierce wall of ice Casting frost across the earth The blossoms of the land Wilt in the freeze.
But there’s a fire coming Fuelled by the rage and the ire Of the wronged, the bereft of the poetic dead. It will melt that wall of ice And those that built it
The river was swift today Swollen by the snows Dancing and leaping on its inexorable course I wonder If it could sweep away my aches and pains My sorrows and my stress Could the sea accept them?
The width and depth of the hole Is immeasurable The place where you should be Is so empty The opposite of what you were in life If only the living Could tell their dead The immeasurable width and depth Of your impact in life
Step by step Trembling, shuffling Step by step On the narrow span of stone Stretching off into darkness Unknown length Vertigo threatening Trembling, shuffling Step by step Pressed forward By the weight of the crowd behind Who need you To continue Step by step Trembling, shuffling
Not courage Not duty Just the weight of need Of the others
So, I am undertaking another poetry challenge by trying to respond to the daily prompt by malformed_poetry on threads (check them out!). I will reply their on the thread but will post here too.
I may or may not succeed, I am putting no pressure on myself. Just trying to get the juice flowing again.
English: Green Man. This superb Green Man is carved into an old tree stump near to the Teversal Trails Visitors Centre. The Teversal Trails are concessionary footpaths that cover a range of old railway tracks and Colliery land. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The man in the tree The plank The turned leg The joint The dust and the shavings. The tree in the man The setting down of deep roots The reaching for the skies The drinking deep of the earth The steadfastness and the wielding.
Green fingers Rip open the rusty shell Slow tendrils with irresistible grasp. Dealt with by a blade or a chemical wash They will be back. In time, victory will be theirs.
I am the factory wall, despised and so defaced Covered with graffiti, defiled and disgraced. I am the concrete tower that holds up the concrete road Bleak and faceless white, bearing my toxic load. I am the bin on the street, bursting full with waste Where rats and vermin crawl, around me in distaste. I am the battered traffic cone abandoned in the hedge A used forgotten prize of lives lived on the edge. I am the street side gutter where dirty water flows A place of infestation, where all the darkness goes. I am the discarded knife with bloodstains on the blade The close but unseen menace lurking in the shade. I am the lofty tower spewing clouds into the air That speed across the oceans, killing without a care. I am the broken shelf with screws rent from the wall That supported all the books and caused them all to fall. I am the sodden cardboard box flapping in the street Broken, limp, forgotten, always under feet.
Once I was a poet, bright-browed with golden-haired Playing harp and singing, songs into the air. Once I was a druid learning from the trees Drawing strength from bark and wisdom from the leaves. Once I was a warrior with proud and shining sword Singing with my war-band a deep heroic chord. Once I was a chieftain with princes round my hearth Against war and cold and famine, our mighty hearts did laugh. Once I was a king whose soul was all the land Who tended all his people with a strong and generous hand.
But I made other people suffer Now suffer myself in turn. But as you wreak your vengeance What lesson do you learn?
We can make you a better parent Just come and bank with us We can make you a better lover Just use our scent We can make you more successful Just drive our cars We can make you a better man Just drink our beers We can make you young and cool Just use our phones We can make you healthier Just eat our food
Give us your money So we can fill the gaps Of your so obviously Empty lives
Gone
The sound
The thunder
No silence reigns
And the poppies bloom
Nodding respectfully
To the brave that lay beneath
The swathe of red that remembers
The blood that was shed here for freedom
And the folly of man to his brother
So we may never forget all that pain
To ensure it will not come again
We respect them with silent thoughts
Resist any violent trends
Talk, build bridges, not walls
While the poppies bloom
While silence reigns
Honour those
That are
Gone
Making tiny pieces Of truth Making golden memories Of the past Manufacturing magical times To garner accord Pedalled By the powerful Shepherds Of the sheep
On Halloween, we return to Cycles, a tale that blends dark humour with existential horror. Three motorcyclists—Gary, Tony, and Ray—discover that death is not the end. Their lives, abruptly halted, begin anew in ghostly form, forcing them to navigate a spectral cycle of existence.
The tale balances tension and absurdity expertly. The camaraderie of the three friends contrasts with the dread of their unending predicament. As they revisit old haunts and confront both the whimsical and terrifying aspects of the afterlife, readers are reminded of the permanence of consequences and the fragility of human arrogance.
Cycles serves as both a cautionary tale and a darkly comic meditation on mortality. On Halloween, it resonates deeply, reminding us that even in death, we may not escape the echoes of life. It is a fitting conclusion to a month-long journey through Thirteen Tales of Ghosts, leaving readers with chills, reflection, and a smile at the cleverness of the storytelling.
The Church revisits the terror of scepticism, meeting the supernatural. Five friends, confident in their rationality, enter a ruined church for a night of bravado and ghost stories. The tale quickly strips away their illusions, immersing the reader in escalating dread as the night progresses.
The story’s brilliance is its exploration of belief, fear, and mortality. The ruined altar, broken crucifix, and creeping mist are not mere settings—they are instruments of suspense. Each step the characters take tests their courage, forcing the reader to contemplate the fragility of life and the permanence of death.
The storytelling maintains tension through pacing and atmosphere. As the friends’ laughter fades, the supernatural becomes undeniable, leaving readers with questions about what lies beyond, and whether death itself might be a form of eternal imprisonment.
Returning to A Ghost Sighting, Thomas’s journey across centuries highlights the interplay between human emotion and spectral manifestation. Jealousy, forbidden passion, and violence converge, pulling Thomas into uncanny experiences that blur time and reality.
This layered narrative combines haunting with moral reflection. Each apparition, each transformation, challenges Thomas’s understanding of himself and the consequences of his choices. The story is not merely about fear—it explores guilt, justice, and the haunting permanence of unresolved actions.
The power of this tale lies in its layered storytelling. The spectral and the emotional intertwine, creating tension and depth. As Thomas navigates both past and present, readers are invited to consider how the echoes of human emotion might reverberate across time, leaving traces that refuse to fade.
Earl is a haunting tale of inheritance, legacy, and the enduring power of the past. A young man returns to his family estate, seeking to reclaim what is rightfully his. The mansion, decayed and shadowed, reveals secrets tied to his father’s downfall and the lingering presence of vengeful spirits.
Here, I construct a gothic atmosphere where the estate itself seems alive, a repository of grudges and memories. The confrontation with his father’s ghost challenges the protagonist’s courage, morality, and understanding of power. Through tense pacing and evocative descriptions, the story examines the human struggle to reconcile ambition with reverence for history.
What lingers most is the story’s exploration of consequences. The ghosts are more than apparitions—they are echoes of unresolved injustices. Earl’s journey through darkness and revelation reminds readers that the past never fully relinquishes its hold, and that the living must navigate a world still haunted by what came before.
Fire and Ice is a tale where love and death intertwine under the pale moonlight. A woman stands on a remote rock outcrop, confronted by the fiery apparition of a man she once loved. The spectral figure embodies both awe and terror, his message both urgent and heartbreaking.
This tale explores the tension between defiance and survival, illustrating how human choices resonate beyond mortality. The woman’s resistance to abandoning her dangerous path adds emotional complexity, contrasting with the man’s spectral plea. Their interaction creates a haunting meditation on love, loss, and the impossibility of returning to what has passed.
The story’s strength is its vivid atmosphere. The wind’s howl, the flickering moonlight, and the man’s fiery form immerse readers in a world that is both real and otherworldly. Fire and Ice demonstrates that ghosts are not always about fear—they can carry love, warning, and sorrow, leaving readers with reflection as chilling as the supernatural itself.