Dark gathering cloud
Brooding and beautiful
Waiting for the flash of light
The spark
The piercing blue white crack
And the wind
The raw whipping wind
And the release of rain
and the rainbow
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Very tired and stressed out so today’s is an old one – but one of my favourite old ones.
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?
What lessons do you all forget?
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They trickle in
The protesters, the bitter, the dispossessed, the poor
They swirl in slow currents
Exchanging thoughts, views, ideas.
An oasis for the outcasts
The Man sits by the pool
And fishes
Taking what he needs
Watching the rest
The pool holds no threat
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Eleven fifty
Nine and almost out of time
Yet still ploughing on
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Hushed concentration
Then with a sudden surprise
His name is written!
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Pardon me for interrupting
But that was just a step too far
Not really a sporting move
Two years
Two years you have been playing straight
That is to say
Murdering
But with the proper tools
The ones from our markets
Hardware, hard and solid and paid for
That gas – tut tut – just too far
So hand it over
There’s a good chap
And we will let you
Get back to your war
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Clouds piling up dark
Lightning flashing – sky to ground
Rumbling all around
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Wandering the shore
Through new lands everyday
Ancient fishermen
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I am a mirror
Distorted
Even cracked
But a reflection still
I share with you my fear
And passion
My fear is blue
Deep dark blue
All sharp angles
Like shark fins
And knives
Fear that turns me
As white as a clown.
Alas, my fear is my passion
My love
I seek it out
To taste the thrill
Of the fear and the chase
And I share it out
While I play my games
with the orphan
the fear
the dark, dark blue
that bears
the sign of the bat
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Silver twines
intricate wires
thin and delicate
stretching from misty past
to infinite future
Each one a story
a thread of life
Twisting they come together
Winding, entwining
Further down the road
The twines form a rope
Stronger
Older
Wiser
Thicker
Stiffer
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No reality.
That’s what attracts them
No history, no baggage
Only dreams of the night
That’s the attraction of the mistresses,
the hookers and the one night stands.
No reality.
Better to live in real love
Than empty dreams
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The lights on the corners of the boxes of steel
Are giving me a pain in the head
Like the fools who drive slowly in the outside lane
They are driving but their brains are dead
They have a purpose those lights you see
And I expect them to flash
Maybe that is my big mistake
Forgetting people are so rash
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Imagine
Me
I kill without discrimination
for race, for age, for sex or sexuality
I take saints and sinners
I take your loved ones
in return
I deal you pain
without explanation
when asked
the answer is
that you cannot hope to understand me
As a man
you would lock me up
revile me
or label me insane
But I am divine
So that’s OK then
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Yet another wall
How many before we’re home?
Prevaricating
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Our voices are simply the shadows
Cast by our dreams and our thought
If the shadows become ineffectual
Then our voices will end up as naught
Yet shadows can give us the outline
Of what is looming above
If we take note of the darkness
We can give those dreams a shove
One thing we must yet remember
To give those shadows a shape
Sunlight is needed behind it
From brightness the dreams will escape.
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Back to work tomorrow. So much to do – so this is an old one today.
Do not lightly discard them
with tales of the foolish bold.
They sat for weeks, for months, for years
in trenches freezing cold.
Sometimes feet simply mouldered
in the sucking mud.
And now and then they’d rise and run
and spill their loyal blood.
Do not belittle the suffering
of soldiers now long dead.
With nothing but talk and songs and bombs
bursting in their head.
Bound together with chains of love
shattered by leaden death.
They ended as they had begun
with cries upon their breath.
Do not lightly remember them
with only paper flowers.
they faced the fear, the pain, the cold,
for hours and hours and hours.
They ran together and fell alone
upon those foreign fields.
Protecting those they loved
those frightened human shields.
Do not read these words and think
that these things are passed.
Do not think you will not hear
that deep and dreadful blast.
Do not sit in decadence
and take for granted peace.
You owe a debt to those who died
and that debt will never cease.
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Glistening silver
A delicate spider web
Fallen tree around
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Taut relationship
Strained over a bloody mess
Chemical fallout
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Worn out, knackered, done
A brimful of boxy fun
In old Legoland
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Sound, sound, drumbeat hard
Too loud, who cares, light flashing.
Thumping beat, hot air, alcohol haze.
Saturday nights of days gone by
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So it seems to me that beyond the news
Beyond the web of the media spin
There are places still where the only views
Are battlegrounds full of unearthly din
I see the most pious places burning
Where the holy words still hold high accord
Where simple souls for peace are still yearning
The peace that those holy words won’t afford
Yet here where reason and science abound
We live comfy lives secure in our ways
No bombs rain down on our manicured ground
There is no revolt, no passion ablaze
There’s something wrong with this picture I see
Is it really this way, can you tell me?
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Been busy with DIY today and now my back is aching bad. So this is one I prepared previously – but new on here.
Winter’s wind blows fierce
through silk and wood it does pierce
a lonely howling
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Splashing on the beach
Throwing pebbles in the surf
With red sun sinking
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A pain in the back
Plus lack of sleep is the bane
Of relaxation
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So here’s my announcement!
[Insert fanfare of your choice here]
And some shameless self promotion.
[Scratch the fanfare]
But seriously. After lounging in a drawer for fifteen years or so I have finally dusted it off, edited and now self published my first début novel – available now on Amazon Kindle.
Please feel free to re-blog and let the world know!
Another attempt at collaborative fiction.
This one is just a scene – that anyone can carry on. I was thinking that anyone who contributes can then vote on the best next part and that goes forward – and then we all write the next bit and so on. (If that makes sense?)
Well it’s worth a try.
This was the thunder roll time. The heartbeat of the hunted time. The dawning of infinity.
Sweat beaded on her neckline. Her hands shook and she felt sick. It was the time of truths, of bare reality. The weight of life bore down on her, dragging her inwards yet compelling her forwards.
Time brooked no delay.
She opened……..
So as promised I am posting a short story. It’s a strange little philosophical tale that can be added to by anyone.
The premise is an indeterminate number of friends in a fantastical situation and their response to it.
So to add to it simply add the response of another friend. Keep it short and simple – just a few lines. I have added four responses but even as I was writing them was aware of the myriad of other responses there could be. I am interested to see if there are others I had not thought about.
So here it is.
Lunch Hour
Started by Scott Bailey
There were some friends. And a hall. An infinite hall, with marble walls and pillars that stretched forever into the distance.
And there were tables. Row after row after row of tables. On each table was a never-ending supply of a single dish. In that hall, on those tables there could be found every dish that had ever been imagined, concocted and served up in all of human history.
With a thought you could be sitting before any dish you could think of. Or you could ask your neighbour for a recommendation and try something new. The name of the dish was enough to take you there.
It was time for the friends to eat. They entered and they took their paths through the hall. They commenced their lunch.
As they knew – it was a once only meal.
An hour later they reconvened, look each other in the eyes and assessed their time beneath the infinite arches.
The first spoke.
“I tried as many different tastes as I could. I jumped from table to table and I can honestly say that I know of no one who, could have filled their time here with as many different flavours as I. Yet. Now I am here – wonder why? I stand here before you proudly stating the quantity of meals I have partaken off – yet I wonder why does that matter? Not one was complete. Have I missed the joy of a meal.”
He hung his head, deep in thought and regret. But second friend spoke.
“You make me wonder. What taste did I miss? I did not try many different meals, For quite soon I found one that I really enjoyed. I sat down and savoured the taste. People around me did the same and we discussed the meal and more besides. I do not regret that – no it was heartwarming – but I wonder at the tastes I missed. Was there a better meal still that I could have savoured with more relish?”
The third friend looked haunted.
“I did not eat. I wanted to try everything but I realised this was not possible, that it was a dream that could only fail. Yet I felt that to just sit down and eat was an insult to the great hospitality and variety that had been laid before us. I fell in with a group of other like-minded people and we were determined to resolve this dilemma with the gifts of reason we have been bestowed with. I have been a fool.”
“You are all fools!” said a fourth friend.
“I knew the way – I understood the correct combination of meals that would allow perfection! I tried to tell you but you would not listen! So many people did not listen! Fools! But there were some and we understand that we have eaten correctly and that we will be rewarded for that. I pity you – you have wasted your lunch hour.”
From Liz Bryant (via Facebook)
“I knew that every choice I could possibly imagine was available to me if only I could be sure to think of my heart’s desire but I couldn’t trust myself to be sure my imagination would conjure my one enduring favourite dish so I watched everyone else and enjoyed observing them choose and enjoy and I admired those who took time to consider, enjoyed and left happy that they had made the right choice”
Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 