Hear the music
Of the spheres
Calling
Feel
The irresistible
Attraction
Of the singularities
Pulling
See the twinkle
The burst of life
Shrouded in the
Nebulous mists
Here the roar
Of the silent yaw
Of space
Here the call
The dare
Will we share
In the song
Or crack
Our own end
In response to the daily prompt Calling
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
The scarlet mountain
Hangs in the sky
The scarlet mountain
Lies
Through the blood
Of the mountain
All of us
Relate
This is the place
Dreams instantiate
Where the scarlet mountain
Dwells in the clouds
That is where
Hope flies
In response to the daily prompt Relate
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
The compass has no compassion
The waves care not
The road goes on forever
Whatever your feet yearn
Rest is not an option
For the currents will always win
Only those that fly
Will win
In response to the daily prompt Compass
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
From the unimaginable
Power
Of supermassive black holes
To the delicate
Dance of quarks
It all contains
Elegance
Beautiful and precise
In the conclusion of horror
And the breaking of joy
The shining of rain
And the sweep of the dune
From the swell of the tide
And the retreat
Elegance
Rules
In response to the daily prompt Elegance
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting, #postaday
Defying downing gravity
To delight in dazzling dance
Shimmering, shining sparkles
Showering tiny tears
In response to the daily prompt Sparkle
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting, #postaday
A piece of me is demanded
Every waking moment of my life
One day the critical piece
Will be withdrawn
And the inevitable
Tumble will come
The final fall
The end of the game
In response to the daily prompt Tenterhooks
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting, #postaday
Age is the revealer
It strips away the lies
And wears us down
With harsh reality
Pares us to the bone
In response to the daily prompt Age
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting, #postaday
Waiting on tenterhooks
For the next Big Idea
The next Winner
The next Wedding
The next Divorce
The next Leader
The next Messiah
For some
Just
The Next Sale
In the meantime
We are bled
And the fruits of our labours
Snuck out of the back door
In response to the daily prompt Tenterhooks
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting, #postaday
This is the age of reason
Apparently
What reason then
Behind the starving child
Tortured by hunger pains
What reason
Behind the women
Sold as toys
What reason
The stockpiling and use
Of weapons of blood
One reason
One alone
That pounds every moment
Of our lives
In response to the daily prompt Age
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting, #postaday
Snippet
Clip it
Crimp it
Crumpets
Strumpets
Trumpets
The clear, pure note of a trumpet
Filling expectant silence
With celebration
In response to the daily prompt Snippet
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting
The sparrows scatter the pine cones
Down the valley and down
The salmon are jumping the ladders
The bears are shiny and brown
The river digs through the mountain
Too deep to hold any sin
The current rolls over and over
As ruins come tumbling in
Deep in the widening desert
Rumbles mistakes from the past
Mad birds scatter their debris
The light is shattered and cast
The stars shine high in the nighttime
Burning the rocks bare below
Melting resolve of the greatest
Like newly laid snow
Darkness pushes the light
Further and further apart
Stillness covers the chaos
Silence claims every heart
#iamwriting
Time is a one way street
There is no going back
A Saturday now is not a Saturday then
Monday morning comes again
Time drips
Dreams trip
Words will see us through
In response to the daily prompt One Way
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting
The scrabble for the dream
Prevents the dream
As we fill every moment
Chasing here and there
To get things done!
We never stop to ask
Why
The things we are chasing
We will never have time for
As we are too busy
Chasing
Mankind and I
Have become
Empty husks of purpose
#iamwriting
The percussive beat
Of a heart pounding with life
Stilled by quick, sharp teeth
In response to the daily prompt Percussive
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting
The underdogs are many
Trampled underfoot
While they fetch and roll
And play dead
Until the day
They remember
They are
Wolves
And the pack arises
In response to the daily prompt Underdog
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting
The smallest of crumbs
Of hope keep us all trying
Generating cash
In response to the daily prompt Crumb
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting
The gate swings
Welcoming those who have come
Waving to those who have gone
The wear on the paint
Remembrance
Painting it over
Will not erase the memory
In response to the daily prompt Gate
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting
I wandered lonely as a brick
That sinks and dives in stream and lake,
When all at once I was so sick,
And an awful mess I did make.
Beside the lake, beneath the trees.
Splattering my stomach in the breeze.
It must have been the bread I had
Or maybe that old Milky Way.
This puddle of sick smelt so bad
Along the margin of the bay.
Ten pints I had drunk, at a guess.
Tossing my head, I felt a mess.
The waves in my head danced, and they
Dashed my weak legs from under me.
A poet could not be so gay
As the one who stood over me.
He gazed and gazed and then in glee
Threw up and fell down next to me.
Next morn when on my couch I lay
In vacant and in pensive mood.
I swore I’d give up drink that day.
And swore some more, it was quite rude.
But soon, once more, the cider spills.
I’ll sleep again with daffodils.
In response to the daily prompt Dash
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting
Words slurred
Danger
Thoughts blurred
Danger
Moral smudged
Danger
Figures fudged
Danger
Modern life
In response to the daily prompt slur
#DailyPrompt
Let the rhythm of the future
Not be
The rhythm of the past
Let us change it
Though the task be hard
And let it be
Beautiful
Let it be vast
Lest it be elegant
And true
In response to the daily prompt Rhythmic
#DailyPrompt
The glitterati glitter
While the paparazzi pack
Lines full of lies and libel
To shore up the moral we lack
The world wide web weaves wonders
Hyperlinks hypnotise
The people they rage and thunder
Swallowing all of the lies
So watch the things that glisten
Watch the lustre and shine
And remember that nobody listens
Any of the time
In response to the daily prompt Glitter
#DailyPrompt
A lukewarm life
Mine could be considered
Is that a bad thing?
Or maybe
The heat
Is deep and concealed
Who can tell?
In response to the daily prompt Lukewarm
#DailyPrompt
Futility, the child of awareness
Perhaps ignorance is bliss
Not a choice I would make
Action begins in awareness
Except in rivers and clouds
In response to the daily prompt Aware
#DailyPrompt
It’s hard to be heard in the herd
The shared shards of pain shred
The glass glistens but no one listens
To the words of bards and the birds
Yes, it’s hard to be heard
In response to the daily prompt Heard
#DailyPrompt
Clean sweep
Clean start
Clean up
On a clean page
Clean sheet
Clean bill of health
Don’t they know?
Things grow in dirt.
In response to the daily prompt Clean
#DailyPrompt
Resistance is futile
So they say
Sometimes
It certainly feels that way
But from resistance
We get the heat
Without which
We would be
Incomplete
Heat is energy
That turns into action
Action and reaction
The turning of the engine of
Revolution
In response to the daily prompt Resist
#DailyPrompt
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fight or Flight.”
Flight or fight
They say
But that first day
The looming shadow
The bully
I was pinned
Couldn’t run
Couldn’t fight
Jellified with fear
Neither response available
For many years
That shadow stalked me
Until one day
I fought
And it fled
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Audience of One.”
By Scott Bailey © 2014
To my younger self
Don’t be so bloody afraid
Have fun and prosper
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “In Good Faith.”
In good faith they took
Their covenant most holy
Is killing good faith!?
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Oasis.”
A storm is brewing
Clouds gather
Crowds coalesce
Grief and anger
Answer hate
Where’s my oasis
Of peace
Taunting thunder
Bring on the storm
Rail against the rain
Scream at the sea’s form
But the storm rages on
The rain lashes skin
The sea eats the land
And sweeps on in
Still and steadfastly
Stands the ancient oak
Stretched beneath the sun
Or a frosty cloak
Weathers every storm
Watching briefer lives
Rushing by at work
Like bees in hives
Yet even this strong trunk
Well one day bend and break
As time drinks strength
A thirst it cannot slake
So rail on against the rain
Rage against the storm
Swim against the tide
While blood still runs warm
The robin in his nest
Perched in the naked branches
Of the blasted tree
Three winds blown
Over the black, sore plain
Wisps of smoke rise
And stings his eyes
Faint embers glow
All around
The hot storm has howled
Now the beast is grounded
Never to rise again
A hard winter will fall
The nest will freeze
No more tears
Will wet the plain
In response to the daily prompt Nest
#DailyPrompt #iamwriting
Amber brown bristles
Fletched true
Sighted
On the smooth straight shaft
Knocked
Creak of wood
And leather
Tense flesh
Strength of arm
Years
Of hard work
Hard life
Peaked
In tense flesh
Aimed
Deep russet red
Undulating tight
Over perfect form
Moving with surety
Strength and grace
Slender neck
Proud eyes
High points
Antlers spectacular
Slow high-speed
Flight
True
Through high trunks
Ancient towers
Sturdy and rough
Flicking leaves
Pungent smell
Of spilt sap
Over lazy ferns
Struck
Sunk deep
In perfect flesh
Deep russet red
Covered in bright
Fresh crimson
Hunter
Has hunted
Dusk
Deep red sky
Flecked with sparks
Orange
Embers fly
On aroma
Of roasted flesh
Venison
Consumed
Hunter sated
For now
Started awake
Cold
Stone and straw
Shit and piss
And chains
A dream
Of a memory
Despite all
A happy dream
Amidst horror
And darkness
Weakness
Flesh wasted
In forgotten depths
Waiting
For nothing
Time drips
Away
Into nothing
Sodden straw
Stronger arms
Clad in chain
Dragged from darkness
Down cold
Stone corridors
Into light
Hammering eyes
Screams and shouts
Hammering ears
Then rope
And wood
Strong scent
Of wet rope
Rough against
Weak neck
And wood
Creaking underfoot
Screams and jeers
A clunk
Freedom from weight
From the wait
Exhilaration
Then……
Explore the beauty of words in their various forms. “A Spring of Dreams” is a poetic treasure trove, offering a glimpse into the author’s moods and emotions over a year. Dive into the world of haiku, sonnets, and more.
Three hundred and sixty-five poems in all shapes and sizes, sprung from dreams and emotion. Published day after day for a year. There are haiku, sonnets, katauta, lanturnes and many other forms – including free form. The moods are as varied as the forms and often reflect my mood on the day. There is sadness and grief, joy and love.
If nothing else – these can provide a small moment in everyone’s stressful lives to stop and contemplate the world in a different way.
He would never see his son again.
Unless…
Unless he went made it through today. Found the strength from somewhere. Put aside his pain.
The trauma his son had suffered had not been at his hands. Logically there was no responsibility for it on his shoulders.
Logic was a weak fence against raw emotion. Emotion that told him that he had failed as a father, that the protection he was supposed to give had been lacking, just that once.
Nobody agreed with him.
That made no difference.
So, he would not compound failure with failure. This was his last chance. He would take it.
He had tried all other avenues. Therapy, prayer, medication. Nothing worked, Yet what it had done was show him the way. It had made clear the path he needed to tread.
So he took a deep breath and rose from his seat. He nodded to the doctor signalling his readiness. The doctor frowned but kept his piece. He opened the door and let him enter his son’s room.
The room was sparse, clinical. His son lay curled on top of the bedsheets, motionless. Awake but unresponsive. He did not look up or acknowledge his father’s entrance.
There was a small bedside table to the left of the bed on which sat a plastic beaker of water. The bed was positioned by the window. Sunlight tried to make an impression on the coldness of the room but failed. The only other furniture was a white chest of drawers and some empty white bookshelves.
Then there were the books.
The books, many many books, that should have rested on the shelves or strewn on the floor. An impressive collection for one so young.
They hung impossibly in the air.
He sighed. He knew what came next. It had all become familiar to him. This time though he did not avoid it. He did not flinch or try to defend himself. This time he smiled at his son.
The books flew at him. As if thrown by immense strength and anger. The hard spines whacked into his flesh like dull nails. Again and again and again. Raining pain upon his body. The books that hit him fell to the ground limply, twitched like dying flies, then were suddenly whisked up and flung again.
There was no let-up.
He could feel his body being pummelled into a bloody bruised mess. But he took it. Stood calmly, raised his arms towards his son and kept smiling. Gave all he had left to him – gave him his unconditional love. Took the punishment not meant for him.
The books whirled faster as the rage grew. Like a tornado of leather and card, they descended on him, pounded him. The pain passed over what was bearable to no longer being processable – so he no longer felt it. He knew he would not last much longer – if this continued his body would fail him. Darkness crept inwards along the edges of his eyes. He kept smiling, locked his legs and stood, arms out.
The whirl became a darkness that was trying to beat his flesh from his bones. He felt like the bones themselves were splintering beneath.
Then it stopped.
Suddenly all the books fell to the floor. Sunlight sprang into the room as if a lock had burst.
His son looked up and held out his arms for his father.
Always descending, never ascending.
Moving downwards, moving down.
I can’t get used to this feeling
Moving downwards, moving down.
Is it really like this? What are we doing?
Do we really want this?
Is this the thing to be?
The chains that pull the valves and the levers,
That drive the steam through pipes of dreams.
Dream worlds falling, morning calling,
Pull the chains on, shoulder the yoke.
Down to business. Down to labour.
Moving downwards, moving down.
I don’t like this, what am I doing?
I don’t really want this, what is to be?
Enter the shaft that takes us downwards.
The light is dimming as our dreams descend
Calm your qualms
It’s all change
It’s all good
Still
The trembling
Still
Keep them on the verge
Of being panicked
Keep them unsure
And afraid
Whip them into a frenzy
Then collect the coin they make
Prod them where you need them to go
None can understand me
Our inner teen cries
And so the world hurls
And churns
On and on and on
If ever you are looking for a good and somewhat different biography to read them try Burton: A Biography of Sir Richard Francis Burton by Byron Farwell.
I am not one for biographies myself – I only read this one due to the fact that he was featured in one of my favourite old time Science Fiction series – the Riverworld books by Philip Jose Farmer. A series where every single person who ever lived is resurrected on one world all at once – just a fantastic premise in itself.
Farmer uses Burton as the main character of the first book (and others later on.) He writes him with such passion and paints him in such an interesting way that you can’t help but find out more about him.
So I delved into this biography. Farmer had only painted a small part of his life!
Sir Richard Francis Burton, in reality, was – complicated.
He was a man of extremes. In many ways, he was extremely admirable. On other extremely reprehensible! Unforgivably so.
He achieved more in his lifetime than many of us could on six, seven, eight lifetimes! But is beliefs were bigoted and selfish, to say the least.
For example:
He was an avid supporter of slavery! He believed women’s places were in the home or the bed! He was vehemently anti-semitic and wrote several books that still cause controversy today!
You could argue he was a product of his time but he was an intelligent man and there were plenty of contemporaries who were seeing past the constraints of their society and challenging the established views.
He was a womaniser – had affairs, frequented brothels. He was a brawler – fought at the drop of a hat earning him the nickname Ruffian Dick. He disregarded authority of all kinds and went his own way, expelled from University and often AWOL from his army career.
However:
On the flip side.
He was one of the foremost fencers of the time inventing some new moves.
He was a masterful linguist – he was fluent in 24 languages – and in many of the different dialects of them. So much so he could pass himself off as a local in many places. He learnt much of it from prostitutes!
He was a master of disguise – not just in the fact he could dress up, makeup and talk like the locals. But that he understood them, he took the time to know their customs and etiquette, the foibles without which he would have been betrayed as an outsider. He immersed himself in their culture.
He made seven pilgrimages in his life. Studying and being accepted into various religions – understanding their teachings while not believing any of them.
He was the epitome of an explorer, making dangerous journey in strange lands, suffering illness and injury, going back for more and pressing on.
He explored and brought to light the many sexual practices from around the world. He brought much middle eastern and eastern culture to our consciousness. He brought us translations of the Thousand and One Nights, the Karma Sutra and the Perfumed Garden.
So as I said, complicated.
It brings up a problem we often have with heroes. We want them to be perfect. We want all those good qualities without the bad. But life is not like that – people are not like that.
We kind of know that – we try and accommodate it. Modern day fictional heroes have their flaws, they are dark and brooding and have emotional baggage. But nothing we can’t handle – nothing really reprehensible.
So it got me thinking. I have a real problem with Sir Richard Francis Burton. I admire what he achieved. I dislike what he was as a person. I certainly would not like not have known him personally.
And I see a reflection of modern men in this dilemma. I have written here about how men (and everyone in fact) are demonised in modern media. On the other side, we are brought up with a set of ideals about what a man should be what we should strive to be.
We end up with conflicting views – an ideal – heroic man to strive for, and the wretch the world tells us we are.
The conflict I feel when thinking about Richard Francis Burton is the conflict we feel about modern men – he is a kind of reflection of us.
We should, I think – start to accept our flaws more, try to improve and eliminate them, yes, but give ourselves a break. They are a part of us, a part of our nature. Nobody is perfect – natures abhors perfection as much as a vacuum. Perfection does not exist so let’s stop trying to achieve it.
Anyway, ramble over.
We
are blind
to the truth
Everyday
Suffering goes on
And we deny it all
Unable to find a way
Through the maze of our modern lives
To a place where we can be ourselves
And hold out that hand that helps our neighbour
Instead we clench our hand in a tight fist
Holding tight onto what we have gained
Not seeing what we are losing
What slips away from our grasp
Diminishing our souls
Focused on our goals
With such passion
That we are
simply
Blind
We have handed over our passport
Battered down the hatches
In a siege of our own designing
Some feeling smug justification
Others wondering if they should have done more
All responsible
All of us
Remember this
Huddled behind our walls
When the hunger strikes
Fortune favours the bold
Risk equals success
People stop seeing risk
And hand over their cash
Their time
Their labour
Their lives
The minority shine
The majority are mesmerised
While they fall
Territory shrinks
As the walls rise again
And the drawbridge is raised
The world is smaller
The worst of times
From long ago
Are opium
Entertainment
Sleight of mind
Meanwhile
Terry the Tory
Sniggers behind
Fake pride
And cheap beer
Protest
Is the latest sport
Avarice
The virtue of power
The Elixir
Swept through the void
Hunting
Stars glinting off the
Silver skin
The peak of human invention
Empty and silent
In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Sweet 16
When I was just sixteen
I wanted to change the world
Bring peace, fix all the problems
By twenty one I knew that was not to be
Instead, I would leave a legacy
Something by which the future would remember me
By thirty, the world was down and dirty
I was fighting for my place
By forty I was planning for those to come
By fifty I was fearing the legacy we were leaving
Now
I only crave peace
In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Breaking the law
I have lived in fear of breaking the rules
While the party of fools
Partied
Why
Did I fear
Adhere
Keep clear
In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Apply yourself
Run up and down the scales
Patience they say is the key
To be a master of music
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
Repetition and I don’t agree
It’s just not how I learn
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
I like to hop, skip and soar
Produce something bad and improve
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
It’s still not a tune
Not even pleasant to the ear
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
When will my guitar gently weep?
When will the crowd cry for more!
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
I think you are getting my point
Patience. Patience is the key.
Run up and…. sod this! It’s brain surgery for me.
In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, free association.
The rain on the soil Leads us to the homeward road Where roots are deepest
Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 