Inspiration from Anne Deneau at The Darkest Art. Superb dock for ‘art of the dark and morbid variety’.
A visit by wicked angels
with ashen arms spread
in righteous but indigent pose
left me gorged, deflated.
I told them, ‘Speak to me only if repentant,
do not tower over castles long forgotten
or drive hoards to fantasy in dire times.
Do not tempt, shame or brainwash
with false gods and saviours.
Go, messengers – singer of slow songs
and harbingers of death
and let me sleep.
Thank you Robert Greig for some stirring of inspiration. Please check out his blog for fascinating, quirky insights.
Autumn has beckoned us
just as summer shies into those dark corners
hitherto unkempt and upswept
but only until wild winds kiss the days to come;
blustery and full of bronze talk,
they will clear the woebegone but sultry, silvered
spider’s webs still dancing,
and wondrously, in traces of summer’s
dissipating air and vanishing affection –
and taking with her – leaves, light, warmth,
Now the seasons will begin to drape
like three quarter sleeves
of time’s tireless scarecrow,
who smiles when he remembers
the long drawn nights of winter’s
like arching, aching shadows
thrown over us,
we have become static and unresponsive
like cold, unfeeling surfaces
when days become just habit.
We spread like blackened dustsheets
to catch drips of light
that might show
the chaos happening inside this tiny
A quadrille is a 44 word poem.
When all hope has died
And dreams pale against the night
There is always spring
I think I overlooked him
breathing under garment.
And I dared to flick away that neon boldness,
‘You’re too late for this.’
I think I was,
but, nevertheless, I dove in –
for within us lies a far distant screech.
And who knows what love really is,
and ultimately what is out of reach?
Braced only for the ultimate collision,
I put my foot down.
Pricks, not unlike the fall of grief,
have no sunshine and wonderment.
Nevertheless, they caress my throat
like the sun – once upon a time.
And caresses, like autumn’s fall of leaf,
Hear the whispers creak
See the tokens around you
Breathe a warm autumn
I am the keeper of lost things,
those intangible imprints of wasted life,
destined to become the destroyer of goodness
and maker of sadness.
I am the collector of vast hauls and hoards,
since time is thievery and accomplice to cruel
love; both take from me, in swift exchange,
my things for harsh space, only to become
entangled in remnants of incomplete thought,
and ‘til sunken eyes and gestures sweep a vile ground –
where lies all a memory cannot contain.
Don’t blunt me with spells and vain speech,
or artistry, somewhat incomplete – you’re of foul tongue.
So consider that, all of these splattered blanks
make this canvass bare –
wouldn’t thou pain if my picture lay there?