Apocalypse: the unanswered question (not)

images1X4ZRK71

apocalypse-desert-wreck-car-writitingasitcomes

On this touchstone, torch lit night,
vast painted echoes, blue and bright,
are released in the Sun’s explosion of mistrust –

long apt to ignite… sending us back to dust…

 There is silence from the suffers of old,
who now come in from the dextrous cold,
forming porous, multiple, textured lines,
in hues of subtle forms and lies,

inside grand, coarse grained schist
that keeps us from burning warmth and myths,
and who hold this evil darkness over us –
ever at our resting souls.

Should we be so bold?
What does this all mean,
‘never to be cold?’
But, fiercely, we are armed still,
but, sadly, tis only with misery.

I must not wonder –
as I wonder most of all –
what the future,
and destiny
has in store for us all.

And I must not venture,
as I must not stray and fall.
Is this really
Heaven?
Has any of it been real at all?

Advertisements

Dreaded Whispers

AF0EEDD8B65EF78E39DD438AD8C90519.jpg

Cotinus Young Lady-SmokeBush-writingasitcomes

Been gardening again… love this plant.

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush

wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams
while pondering the water,
pondering depth and death.

Subdued, hushed panicles warp,
subtly interwoven
inside black steel ripples
made by water splashed sedge warblers
flung across the sheen of bleak, black,
stretched canvas

where streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of water
and of life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

Screaming Shame #Quadrille

screaming windscreaming wind-tree-asitcomes

Foul words on screaming winds
attach to me vicious lies.
Soft in approach,
loud in defiance –
suckers lavish wounds
already frayed –
betrayal saps my strength.
Let its scorched touch
be enslaved by innocence,
and mercy unknown to me,
drop gentle from heaven.

A Quadrille is a new poem form consisting of 44 words.

Parallaxed

splash.png

Memories are slim chance shadows
That glide between the light and darkness

Imagination is a fat cat
Waiting to swell our indifferences

Hope is a ritual seizing of every chance we have
Breathing is an exercise performed daily

Waiting is a nervous habit, what are we waiting for?
Doom is nearby and calling cards are left

Defiantly… What are we going to do?

If you don’t believe the earth is not flat
Or that it revolves around the sun…

Go away.

 

The Future Ablaze

Climate Change.jpg

climate change-weather-elephants-writingasitcomes

Heatwaves make us reach
Frost’s fingers plunge into earth
In search of relief

Fire after fire, drought after drought, fires in Antarctica! – Remove the fossils and keep the other fossils underground…  then our young might breathe with ease.   Do your part in your own bubble and fight back.  Just say No!  Stop the plastic tap.  Help stop fossil fuel pollution (acclimatise to find other jobs).  Wake up to tyranny (trade wars and counter productive subsidies).  Enough is enough, all at the expense of our future and global harmony.  Cretins come and go, make this one go!  Deniers are brainwashed zombies… just wake up!

Red Dust En Masse

En Masse

Extinctions-elephant-poachers-writingasitcomes

A quiet bake off –
shades of amber
under scorching sun,
are strewn in the dirt

as the skies relent,
a tumult of steel drills
dive into parched clay,

exploding ant relays
are left for dead
whilst treading water.

Raindrops reach for the red dust,
butterflies frantically tango –
jazzing the mid air –

taking hits like bullets
on this fresh, new day.
Changes come with new rain,

warm blood runs in rivulets
merging with the ruddy soil
where no change brings real bullets

driven by merciless, greedy hoards,
hitting sentient, voiceless creatures –
leaving them for dead.

Stealthily, their souls are stolen –
trophies and trinkets are carved
into fractal nightmares.

Thieves in the night
make days on soft, Serengeti plains
the longest nights of their lives.

We are the change that overshadow
fresh rains, driven by greed and guns –
with not enough room to move –

not enough money to lust after,
we need more, and more –
so we make their blood run –

we make it run until
carmine shades, under scorching sun,
are strewn in the dirt,

These long, long nights
are never ending, and will be the end
of their world… today.