Dawn sneaks over the hills
Light spills through the vales
And the veils of the window
I see beauty at last
Complicated, unfathomable, mystery
But right and true
Most the world walks by
Seeing a different way
This morning gives me hope
But the light washes out
Shadows darken veils
Traditions bear down
The beauty and the mystery
The reason and the truth
Are left behind again
The door is closed again
As ancient lore and law
Return us to the night
Firefighting
The act of fixing someone else’s
Mistakes
With little
Reward
Or
As it’s also known
Life
Early sun rises
And a lazy eye opens
Alligator wakes
We create darkness
Where we can’t explain
Powerful darkness
Dark Matter
Holds the universe together
Dark Energy
Expands it fast
But most powerful of all
Dark Ignorance
This will tear us apart
Originally published in A Spring of Dreams
The gulf between us grows and grows.
I wonder were we ever close?
Is it a myth we tell ourselves?
To give us false kudos.
One looks on one with envy
the other with disdain
But neither can leave the contract
for nothing is to gain?
Still the gulf grows wider
bridges tumble down
Yet the ties are tighter
Deeper runs the frown
Round and round this story goes
Will it ever end
The futile fixing of a problem
That will never end
So we have to ask ourselves
For richer? For poorer?
Silk sliding
Fingertips brushing
Lightly
Warm breath
Close
Tingling
Lips shining
Eyes widening
Hush
Moist close
Pulsing closer
Moving
Calcification
And aches, these creaking old bones
Have seen better days
Copper
The poor relation
In the metal family
First to be used
Didn’t even get an age
Rich, lustre
That draws you on
Emboxed
Entrenched
Inside our own little
Echo chambers
Not hearing
Views
Not seeing
Sites
Shouting
Only our way
The world wide web
Tightens
Promised to widen the world
Instead
Narrowed our minds
They undertake
The task of taking
Us from one world
The the other
When we are finally
Overtaken by life’s
Final act
A grave undertaking
If ever there was
Fastidious and precise
You know
Like the song
Only not nice
For no Queen here
Just the killer
Trawling in the dark
The icy deep
The urge to straighten
Is the craving for perfection
The mark of human striving
The inspiration
And the curse
That will save or damn us
Every hug given
Imparts a part of you
In return for a piece of another
Those who embrace the world
Shall be more of it
The carnivores
Cruising
Among the vegetarians
Only the toughest
Weeds will survive
This
If I am a student
Of life
The lessons
Are lost
On me
As I can change
Nothing
Stuck
In the proverbial
Mud
Tyrant storm rages
Lashes the land in fury
Still, the flood brings hope
Age lends hindsight depth
Wisdom accrued painfully
It still doesn’t help
I am the hunter
The bringer down of prey
The destroyer
The shadow
The bringer of fear.
I am the master of war
The hoarder of riches
The steel lord
The holder of lightning
I am strength and glory
So why do I still struggle in vain
There was a white fleck on that dark skin. Tiny and mysterious. Despite his situation, despite his thirst and an undetermined, lurking threat Dan was drawn to that fleck.
It sat on his captor’s left cheek, just beneath the deep well of his eye. Neither the man’s sweat or occasional movements seemed to shake it.
What was it? A fleck of stone? A crumb? It did not belong there and it was starting to annoy Dan.
His captor did not appear to notice it.
That annoyed him even more and he did not understand why.
Was it correct to think of the man as his captor? He was not preventing Dan from leaving.
He was not helping him either. That was the point. Without help, he would die out here in the bush. He was spent. He did not even have the energy to struggle any more.
He had lost his way in his arrogance, thinking he could travel the outback like those explorers he loved to read about.
He was no explorer. He should have stayed behind his desk. But he had wanted to see something of the land he had been helping to administer for so long. He had wanted to see the fruits of his work.
He had wanted to feel first-hand the pride of taming this uncivilized wilderness.
That was what had drawn him over the wide seas to the other side of the world. The promise of adventure. The chance to relive the dreams of a young schoolboy. The final chance to push the last frontier. To achieve man’s mastery of the world and complete the map.
His dreams had outstripped his abilities. He realised that now. If he had not been so dry he would have shed tears.
At some level, he supposed he had always known this. That’s why he had spent his life here behind his desk. Dispensing mastery through letters and paperwork. Bringing the world to order, bringing knowledge to the dark places of the earth.
His stare once more returned to the man before him and his fleck of white. He sat on his rock, waiting patiently.
What was he waiting for?
He had arrived yesterday. Dan had already been collapsed where he was for several hours at that point. Already resigned to defeat. He had walked in calmly and sat down. He had not acknowledged Dan in any way.
Dan should have felt relief, a renewal of hope. Yet he had not. He felt no surprise, no hope, nothing but a vague sense of threat.
He could not explain why he felt that.
The stranger was an aborigine. He was barely clothed, barefooted and dusty from his travels.
Dan had clothed himself with the very best outdoor gear he could get. He also had every travelling device you could ask for. Compass, knives, maps, glasses and much more.
In little more than a loincloth, the stranger looked infinitely more comfortable than he ever would.
He had sat there for a day and a half and still looked as composed as when he arrived.
Dan had stared at him for what felt like hours. He had no idea how long it had really been. Finally, he had summoned the energy to speak. He dragged a word from his throat as if regurgitating sandpaper.
“Help.”
The man stared back at him now. He had deep, dark irises on yellow pools. His face was wide and gentle.
Yet Dan still felt the threat peeking over his shoulder.
He seemed to study Dan for a long moment. Then he spoke.
“Where are you going?”
Dan had frowned. What was that supposed to mean? He was going nowhere right now.
He had swallowed hard and gathered his strength.
“How far?” It was all he could manage. He had wanted to ask where the nearest town was. The nearest house would have been enough!
The stranger stared again for a longer time. He had seemed to understand though and eventually, he said.
“It is four days walk.”
They had fallen silent then as Dan absorbed this. He would not survive a four-day walk. Not without help.
This stranger did not appear to be inclined towards aid.
There was another long silence. The stranger appeared relaxed as if he were sitting in his living room on a Sunday afternoon, reading.
Dan doubted he could read, doubted he had a living room.
Now he thought about it he didn’t even know where these people lived. In caves? In hovels?
He should really know that he had enough dealings with them. With their children at least. But they were always brought to him, he received them into civilisation.
Civilisation! The thought of it brought back memories that made him thirst, made his throat burn. He found himself involuntarily moaning – though it sounded more like a rasp.
The stranger stirred.
“What do you do?”
Dan did not understand. The man’s accent was thick but he understood the words, not the meaning.
“I am thirsty,” was the best reply he could manage.
The man looked at him with a measuring stare. Then he stood and strode to a nearby bush. With a flash of sunlight, he whipped out a knife and slashed off a thick, fleshy leaf.
It dripped with green liquid.
Any other time he would have been repulsed by anything other than tea or water. Now, this was nectar to him.
The man brought the leaf to his mouth and squeezed.
The taste was acrid and perhaps would have made him sick if he hadn’t been so desperately dry.
He swallowed and it gave him respite. His throat felt slick again and he could talk.
But he knew it was not enough – not enough to let him walk out of here and back home.
“More,” he pleaded.
The man simply sat back down calmly.
He repeated his question.
“What do you do?”
Confusion swirled around in his mind. Why did he not help him? Why didn’t he give him more of that liquid? It was a big bush – surely there was more in there.
What was he asking him? Did he want to know what his job was?
He should keep the man talking. Gain his trust, maybe then he would help.
In faltering sentences, he tried to describe his role in the education system to this native. He tried to keep it simple, in terms he might understand.
He wasn’t sure he succeeded. The man gave no reaction as he spoke. Eventually, Dan trailed into silence, exhausted by the effort.
After a short silence, the man said,
“You are a teacher man.”
It was not a question but Dan nodded.
Then the man spoke again.
“You take our children.”
It was spoken in the same calm tone he had spoken since he arrived. There was no anger or threat in them.
But Dan felt a chill nevertheless.
“We educate them, give them a better future.” He protested.
“They are not with their mothers.”
“But they are given knowledge they would not get otherwise. They will be greater for it. In my country – we do it too.”
“Did you miss your mother?”
That struck him, dredging up memories he thought he had buried long ago. Pain that he had considered childish and worthy of contempt.
“Mothers cannot teach what we know,” he said angrily.
The man gave him that measuring gaze again. Then he nodded.
Dan turned his head, not without some pain.
Nearby he saw a deer. It appeared to be completely unaware of their presence.
There was a younger one by its side. The older one nudged the younger to a bush where it proceeded to nibble.
Dan snorted. Did this savage think things were that simple?
“The world is changing. Your children need to know things, to be prepared.”
The man sat silently, calmly.
“The world is changing – you can’t stop it. There’s nothing you can do about that. Civilisation is coming.”
The man sighed. He picked the white fleck from his cheek, casually, and flicked it away.
“We can wait,” he said.
Every buzz and chime
On the phone
Is a worry
Something has gone down
Something is wrong
Another demand
On my time and my brain
Which are both drained
Something
Must change
In life’s tournament
There are Kings and Queens
For whom the suffering and pain
Is entertainment
There are fighters
There are spectators
There are hawkers of wares
There are thieves
But most of us
Are picking up
The horses shit
There
A girl called midnight
A fighter
A lover
A spy
Danced free and deep in the valleys
Beneath a dark starry sky
She hailed from the lands
Of our fathers
With hair as dark as the night
And eyes a grey as the water
Where the bones of her enemies
Lie
No knight would come to her rescue
The dragon she rode upon high
Would burn every dreamy lover
With the glance of a fiery eye
What became of
The girl called midnight
Led by her passion and hate
Some say that still, she is dancing
In the icy heart of the lake
Deep red
The varnish of old wood
Worn by years
Of rested elbows
And beer mats
As red as the liquid
In the glasses
Rich with age
A new clutch of chicks
Awaken to a cold dawn
The fox scents a chance
Potential new life
Excitement when waters break
New life brings us cheer
Six forever hours
Caressing a fading pulse
All cheer drains away
A deep green canopy
Back-dropped by a swathe of gold
Corn
Swaying in the wind
An overwhelming urge
To dive into that green sea
The climb and swing
And scream
With primal joy
But there is a mountain of time
Between me and that green
Eden
Made of commitments and constraints
Burdens and dependencies
So it dwindles
In my rear window
A deep green canopy
In mist
Shake!
Awake!
Shake!
Awake!
The sun.
Is up!
Rise up!
Rise up!
Open eyes!
Beneath
Blue skies.
Cast off
Sleep’s reins.
See!
The plains.
No sleep!
Breath deep!
Sun warms.
No storms.
Stretch arms.
Take arms.
Run!
In the sun!
Take bow!
Go!
Take spear!
Disappear!
When
Wind blows.
Lift nose.
And scent
why they sent
for you.
They come!
They run!
See!
The birds.
Speak.
No words.
Watch
them lead.
They
will feed.
Feel
the land.
Trust
your hand.
See
grass sway.
They come
this way.
Feel
the ground.
Hear
the sound.
Thunderous sound.
All around.
A mound
of meat.
Trust
your feet.
Spear
and bow.
Blood
will flow.
With
one voice.
We
rejoice!
And the buffalo pass,
to greener grass.
It’s not fair. He started it, I didn't. He called me names. I had to do it to stop him. How come I get told off? It’s not fair. It’s a shameful waste. What they do to our world today. The forests they cut down, the whales they kill. The fields they destroy, the new roads they build. The way they leave their scars on the world. It’s a shameful waste. It’s a bloody liberty. I will not stand for it! I earned my money fairly. I will spend it pleasantly. I will not stand being ripped off! It’s a bloody liberty. It’s a downright disgrace. The way these youngsters behave. They will not heed my words. They will not do as they are told. I will leave my mark on the world. It’s a downright disgrace. He needs no name on his grave. He was a model man. He stood for what we all stand for. He spoke the words we all speak. He was me and you and all those to come. He needs no name on his grave.
Stand tall on the board
A breeze teases the skin; dive
Slapped by water cold
Winter is coming
Snow sweeps down from the cold north
Followed by the dead
Mare Nostrum
We don’t support it
They said
So it is gone
In other words
Let them die
Stopping people dying
Might encourage them to live
And after all
What are they
But the victims of war
And rape and torture
Who wants them cluttering up the place?
A fitting epitaph
Perhaps
For the West
The wolf pack is firm
In a superior class
Hunting the weaker
There is an ancient market square
Where we all spend our lives
And round and round the stalls we pass
Consuming precious time
The gates are closed to hold us in
While hawkers hawk their wares
Criers cry of doom beyond
The solid steadfast walls
In their towers high above
Lords and ladies gaze
Down upon the writhing mass
And counting out their pay
Where’s the farmer in his field
Where the traveller strange
Where’s the road beyond the gates
Or the key to let us out
So on and on forevermore
We circle round the square
In trenches deep from shambling feet
Beneath the icy stare
Rusty
Is the spring in my step
Lost its purpose
Lacking oil
And energy
Waiting
Coiled
Will it bounce again?
One can hope
Cold hearted calls
Behind cold stone walls
Directed at a late great clown
Filled with such hate
And vitriol great
Delivered with thunderous frown
But they do not see
That we are free
From what they term belief
But hatred and fear
Will never come near
To dimming the laughter and grief
So go back to your knave
To the submission you crave
Kneel with the weight of your hate
Lower your head
Grovel with dread
But you will never ever create
There’s a voice I know
From way down deep
Fuelled by wars
That never sleep
It’s warm but still will be
Ever lonely
It sings of thoughts
And curses old
Soothes the weak
And beats the bold
Finds us in our weeping
And our fury
It moves our walls
And wayward paths
Offends our truths
With staggered hearts
Weaves its way into our
Very grieving
I wonder now
At all the cost
And when at last
No wars are lost
Will the voice still find its way
Towards us
Or will it fall
In silence then
The broken harp
The dried up pen
Or will we hear the whispered
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
When was the last time
You really felt
The weave of a really
Good fabric
Wool or tweed?
Or the tickling temptation
Of lace
Over smooth, warm skin.
Or shivered in the dark
Back against the rough
Hard bark of a trunk?
The screen steals our eyes
And the other senses
Wither
These areas
Our neighbourhoods
Will become districts
Classified by wealth
Worth
Class
And faceless systems
Will place us
Where they see fit
Priests
Determining the will
Of their god
Deciding
Which lives will be sacrificed
To keep it from failing
And flailing its limbs in a frenzy
That will crash and smash
The mighty of the land
So the weak are thrown
To its lack of mercy
To spend their blood
At the will of the priests
Known as
Economists
From the slime, we came
To the slime
We seem to defer
A black and white film
About black and white issues
With grey morals on display
In our multicoloured 3D world
What has really changed
Injustice still looks the same
What’s behind the story
What is the reason for that news
Who gets the benefit, the prize
The envelope with the bread
The law successfully passed
The company tracked greased
Somebody’s life made easier
At the cost of somebody else
Cables tie us
Hold us tight
To one spot
Even invisible ones
Chains
Keeping us busy
Keeping us attentive
Keeping us productive
and consuming
So when they are cut
We are lost
Unable to produce
As we once did
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Background contempt
Background fear
Background doubt
Background shame
It’s there
Undetected
Subtle
In the everyday babble
Insidious
Designed
To keep us down
So
Find the right song
To drown it out
And live
A better
Life
Swirling in the mists of history
Mystic figures whirl
Dark silhouettes of dangerous men
Stride along with pride.
A flash of a sword, the chord of a song
the clash of a shield, the beat of a drum.
The roar of a fire in a welcome hearth.
The hearty sound of the comrades’ laugh.
The scent of a feast, the warmth of the soup.
The strength of the beams over the hall
The smoke rising up into the straw
All of this and still there’s more.
A cold wind blows, the mist rolls back,
To show the cold hard facts.
In response to my daily prompt Archive
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
The beginning
And the end
Where we start
Into the web
Where we end
A story
If you are stuck for ideas – here are a few. They are original and different – plus being ebooks they have the advantage of not being hindered by delivery issues 🙂
Marc trudged on with life, marching in line with his fellow workers. Weighed down by the everyday burdens of life, the pressure to conform, to succeed or face destitution.
Yet he knew, in his heart that it was all wrong, the questions squirmed like fiery dragons in the pit of his heart, beneath his deepest darkest doubts.
Until they grew and burst his sanity, set him on a path of defiance and rebellion. A path that would cross three others – all like him seeking answers.
A path of danger and adventure that would see him marked as a terrorist and fleeing for his life. It would see him find love and heartbreak, hope and despair, Most of all, it would open his eye to the possibility of an ancient and powerful secret that might answer all his doubts and fears.
If he survived.
As the title says – thirteen tales about ghosts. Yet, while ghosts feature in them all – not all are traditional ghost stories.
You will find the vengeful spirit but also the plaintiff one. The haunting message from the past and the playful spirits capturing the joy of their past lives.
Some of these visitors from beyond lead the haunted to peace and joy – others take them on much darker paths to places with no return.
Enjoy them – just don’t get too comfortable.
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.
In these times of quick gratification and short attention spans, I decided to try and buck the trend and present something not only with greater length but also depth.
The poems in this collection were written over a long period and for different purposes. They are varied but they are all long. And they all represent challenges. Each was a challenge to myself, to sustain a quality of writing for a long period and within tight constraints of form while still telling a story. They also represent and challenge to the reader. The challenge to throw off the pressure of everyday life, the pressure to hurry, hurry, hurry to take the time to read something, absorb it over time.
Such effort needs reward, these poems should not be a one-time quick fix. If the reader is going to put that effort in then there should be a payoff, they should be able to continue to get something from it afterwards. Whether that be from contemplation of what they have digested or from revisiting, rereading and seeing things they missed the first time around. So the final challenge to me was to provide this depth of content – not just quantity.
I was perusing my poetry collection with the intention of putting together a collection of new, largely unpublished poems. This collection is not that. As I was going through all my poems I noticed that I have a tendency to use colours in the titles, and even when I do not the poem is often rooted in the idea of colour.
So, I decided to do a second collection while I was at it. A collection of poems bound together by the theme of colour. A spectrum of thoughts and moments reflecting the infinite colour and variety of the universe in which we dwell.
This collection is presented here.
Being a middle-aged aged man – I do middle-aged man things. Sometimes. One is meeting with my middle-aged friend and getting nostalgic over a pint or two of beer.
Like many others.
We contemplate how things were better, how the youth of today are missing out on what he had.
Out of these conversations came a realisation, one that we found was articulated with frightening clarity by Mark Fisher in “Capitalist Realism, Is there No Alternative”. He makes the observation that we are of a generation that was sold a dream, a dream that did not come true. We were told that if we worked hard, and dedicated ourselves we would do well.
Well we did, work hard, for many years. Blood sweat and tears making our employees successful, generating profit and success.
But not for us. We still struggle in the day to day reality. We fight the rising cost of living and the shadow that were a few bad weeks away from homelessness or worse.
The dreams was a lie. And there is nothing left we can do about it.
This collection of poems is a reflection of my thoughts about this and other darker aspects of modern life. In my other collections I like to balance this side of my ruminations with more optimistic explorations. This did not seem appropriate here. This is my equivalent of a grunge phase.
It also contains largely previously unpublished works that have not appeared anywhere else.
So, stick on those goth tunes and wallow in the well of sunken dreams.
Sit
And write
In response
To the prompt
Sit
If only
I could find the time
To just sit
And think
And write
Instead of fighting
Life
I enjoy revisiting old favourites. Especially music. Bands, songs, albums that have lain dormant for ages – years sometimes. Neglected and forgotten about. Legends!
For the car recently I created a new playlist – a bit more mellow that normal. Instead of picking songs I just added all the songs I have from four different artists. These were Clannad, Enya, Pink Floyd and Leonard Cohen.
As I listened there was a song that I have probably heard many many times before Leonard Cohen’s The Window. It passed me by, in the background – I liked it but didn’t really notice. This time it was different. This time it was one of those occasions when suddenly – for inexplicable reasons the lyric reached out and plucked at me, played me, struck me as beautiful, strange and haunting – just how they are sung. They were.
Oh chosen love, Oh frozen love
Oh tangle of matter and ghost
Oh darling of angels, demons and saints
And the whole broken-hearted host
Gentle this soul
I wonder why. I wonder what it is that made me hear those lyrics properly for the first time after I don’t know how many times before.
One of the mysteries and wonders of really good music.
Handicap
A word defunct
As we remember
Difference
Is strength
Not
Inferiority
Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 