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
The timid beasties scatter
With tiny racing hearts
The scent of blood approaches
The herd all ways it parts
For here
The red fox roams
The scent of fear it rises
And fans the fox’s fire
Into enslaving passion
To raise the killer higher
Thus
The red fox roams
Filled with hate and ire of
Where the white wolves dance
The dance the fox desires
Denied its golden chance
Everywhere
The red fox roams
The world has grown accustomed
To fear of tooth and claw
The world has grown so weary
Of lives lived short and raw
Still
The red fox roams
The timid beasties scatter
Will never make a stand
They’ll not accept the secret
To gain the upper hand
So proud
The red fox roams
No one knows the course
Where the fox’s road is heading
All they see is darkness
The cast of all the spreading
Death
Where the red fox roams
On a barren plain
Where food and joy are sparse
The desolate packs wander
Watching slow time pass
Here
The grey wolves grieve
With rose stained eyes
Patrolling their border wide
Preserving what is left
Of what they hold inside
It’s why
The grey wolves grieve
They gaze across the delta
To far off distant times
Where game and ease were plenty
Than in these austere climes
And so
The grey wolves grieve
Disgusted by the carnage
Where the red fox roams
On guard for rebel spirits
Keeping safe their homes
Where
The grey wolves grieve
Yet what they seek in earnest
Deep within their hearts
They know is far beyond them
Beyond their stilted arts
Endless
The grey wolves grieve
The packs struggle onwards
Huddled in their gloom
Their hearts so full of anguish
For hope there is no room
In this land
Where the grey wolves grieve
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
The world in a book
For my son
To show him the places
Across the seas
That he dreams of.
The colours,
The creatures,
The cultures and the clashes.
The world in a book in his hands
As one day
The world will be in his hands.
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
Modern life is frantic – filled with demands and crammed with stress.
We forget to tend to the mind – the part of us that has to deal with it all – balance all the spinning plates.
What if we could take a holiday each day – just a short one – a few minutes, half an hour – whatever it takes. Everyday.
Well, there’s a way.
Read a poem, absorb it – explore it, let it take you somewhere else. Think about other thoughts for a while.
And I have some – 365 in fact – one for each day for a whole year.
Check it out – give it a go and give your mind some R&R
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
In an unremarkable flat
Next to a noisy tapas bar
Is where, perhaps, Hawkins might die
Folded in his chair
It will not be remembered
Unlike his remarkable mind
Such are the vagaries of life and death
Both ridiculous and sublime
Read more in A Spring of Dreams
That kind of sums up my approach to 2020, particularly to writing.
2019 was not overly productive for me. I curated and edited some old work into a new collection – Andervayne’s Dream. I also continued to try and market my existing books, Mankind Limited, A Spring of Dreams and Thirteen Tales of Ghosts. Not to much success.
All this has mean that along with the demands of life, many family illness and dealing with a son with Autism, I have not had much time to actually write anything new. I have kept my blog alive by reposting old work daily.
I tried NaNoWriMo, but again, due to life commitments and stress, did not complete it – though I did come out of it with five drafts of short stories.
So. New years resolutions!
Firstly, it should be noted I have 100% failure rate on these. I can make goals and get there, just not new years resolutions. I think this is because I tend to try and make big life changing ones.
So this year I am going to do two things. One, I am making them public, here and now. Hopefully that will give me kick up the backside to actually complete them. Secondly, I am making them a bit more modest.
So this is my plan for 2020.
One poem a week.
One short story a month
Enter one competition or submit to one publication per month.
These are reasonable and well within my capabilities. 52 poems and 12 short stories. I have done far more that that in a shorter time before.
The other big difference will be that I will not be posting them on my blog. I am keeping them unpublished so I can use them to submit to competitions and publications.
Which means, this blog will be a lot quieter this year.
Less noise, more action.
In golden age where steel was king
Rich voices of great bards there ring
The rising pride of knights there swells
Around the ring where justice dwells
Behind the throne where power lies
The dark intent deep in his eyes
The ancient druid gathers spells
Around the ring where justice dwells
The jealous son holds his dark ire
Until it rises to a fire
Bells of doom ring their deathly knells
Around the ring where justice dwells
And so the cracks came from within
Mens’ convictions so very thin
Shattered by those doom laden bells
Around the ring where justice dwells
Another spirit lost
Awash in the swell and foam
Anguished over lost love
Anger dealt him the blow
Arising from the sea
Alighting on the air
A bright bird arises
Behind the door?
Was it something moving?
Someone?
Just ignore it. Dive back under the covers, carry on reading…
A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.
Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.
Check it out on Amazon and other online e-book retailers.
A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……
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
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
Sir Richard Francis Burton
For who life was so certain
He was a master of disguise
Caught Mecca by surprise
Primary colours or simple fruit
Clickety click click and point.
Open the way to a blind deluge
Illuminate the mind
Bright blinding highway – superfast.
On a never-ending roll
Swallow it all until we drown
Where is the straw of truth?
Turn upon turn upon turn upon turn
Green upon green upon green upon green
Tracks and tracks and shining silver
Decision-making machine
Can it take the pressures
Of expectations on board
Will I
Laughter echoes
In rarefied halls
Between clinks from glasses
Raised in champagne toasts
While expensive soles
Walk heavy
On broken dreams and despair
Another one lost
Too short, too precious, and gone
Little heart flown high
The vessel is cracked
Still holds the sacred blooms
Still revered
Though the blooms are without root
Rootless. Dying.
Still revered.
Water though refreshed,
Still stagnates
Dead blooms replaced
With freshly cut.
Repetition
Builds a patina of respect
Authority
Habit.
The vessel is cracked
Empty of life
Yet forever filled
and revered.
Bug me, drug me
You’ll never touch my mind
Not that you want to
Afraid of what you’ll find
Afraid of the secrets
of someone in the know
Afraid of the exposure
of your elaborate show
So go on with your programme
Sticking to the script
Until the day you are aware
You’re playing in a crypt
Starlight is silent
Waves crash and roar on the shore
Then there is matter
The new can’t replace the should have been
The should have been haunts us forever
Though the new will be a healer
And receive all our love just the same.
It’s pointless being angry at fate
But that doesn’t stop the burn
The frisson on top of everyday stress
For the should have been we always yearn.
The new will have its own should have been.
So maybe we will understand.
And make a happier life will be.
At least that is the plan.
Coloured bricks
Red, blue, yellow, white
and many more.
Many shapes
Many sizes
No limits
Many surprises.
Build a fire engine,
A house, a school,
A lake, a park, a city, a town.
A space station and spaceships and an alien host.
A castle, a bridge a knight and a ghost!
All this and more build it all
And never ever build up your wall.
Published in A Spring of Dreams
#RebuildTheWorld
You people don’t understand.
It’s tradition.
It’s sport.
It’s in our genes.
Blood.
Jobs are created
By the sport we choose.
By the blood we shed.
Surely that’s enough.
Of course
The same can’t be said
For you
And your cock fights.
Sir Terry Pratchett
His humour – well no one could match it
Now his pen is laid down
Death’s grin now a frown
#TerryPratchett
#Poetry
A sad shadow falls
Casting gloom over our dreams:
Sparks dispel the dark!
Originally published in A Spring of Dream
See the original here or read below.
I was very eager to acquire and read Thirteen Tales, by Scott Bailey, as I’m familiar with his writing from his blog. I like everything about his book–the cover art is spectacular, suggestive of Poe’s “Raven”; and the stories read quickly as you hunger for the next one–but try to slow down, and savor each one! I’m glad to have added Scott’s book to my home library–and highly recommend it. It makes a great gift too!
Check it the book for yourself here and see if you agree.
And many thanks to R Ryan – also known as Ennle Madresan over at Abandoned Amenities for the review and kind words.
Fox detests the stream
Barring the way to her prey
Favour for the hare
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #258 Favor&Detest
#Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge
Many thanks to everyone who downloaded my latest poetry collection during the launch promotion. If you get the time for a review that would help greatly. The good news is that it manged to break into the top 10 in its genre both in the UK and US, reaching no. 7 and 8 respectively.
Let’s hope it continues to attract attention and climb now it’s off promotion.
If you still interested head over to Amazon and get your copy.
I make cars
I always have
As did my father.
Prestige cars.
The most famous in the world
Made with pride.
Made with precision.
Made to last.
To shine and glide!
Every working day.
All the working hours.
My trusty hands create.
I may be steeped in habit
Tradition and old ways
But I trust in my own fate.
I support my family.
I support the plant.
And I support the land.
I pay my way my dues
while on my shoulders weighs
the burden that I support.
After all these years of toil
All my many dues.
Imagine my surprise, my boss.
I have given more than you!
In response to the daily prompt Famous
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
So I have had another go. after the three below.
I came up with this one:
Which I think is the one I will be going with.
Astonished
By the lacking
The stupidity
The greed
More astonishing still
Are we
And our
Compliance
By which I mean – here is the proof copy!
Woohoo!
Already spotted three mistakes 😦
All progress though.
So, trying to design the cover for my upcoming poetry collection. So here’s a quick poll – which of these looks best? Are any of them any good? Or should I try again? Let me know in the comments.
Tired of all the confusion?
Worried about Brexit?
Want answers in all this chaos?
Read this book.
You will be none the wiser but you will have one more good story in your head. And a break from all the madness.
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.
Trapped. In a world where everything is measured and control pervades every area of life, four people begin to break down. Instead, they break through the walls of deceit and propaganda and into a world of revolution.
Each, in their way, vow to overthrow the established order. They embark on a journey against the forces arraigned against them, forces of state and self-doubt.
Ultimately their paths converge on a dangerous road and the discovery of an ancient secret.
Four people, four rebels. Four journeys of self-doubt and discovery that converge on the road to revolution and the discovery of an ancient secret.
Shall we march?
Shall we shout?
Or kneel
And take it
As always
A turn our eyes away
To bright distractions
In response to my daily prompt March
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 