Wouldst thou call
on love’s embrace
and its clumsy cuffs
of flimsy lace
to wrap warmly
and surround thee
when spectral lights
adorn the sky,
and snow ghosts,
haughty, loom at night
only to come and haunt thee,
and if thou were touched by such
as she and her lustrous trumpery,
wouldst thou still forswear
under this black maire,
our undying love, but yet vow
to leave me?
Wouldst thy call on it?
As the blackest consequences fall,
dimly, the lights do cower.
Wrap a sling on what is happening,
a soothing for those deeds most dour.
Cities ruminate and eagles spread,
bare chested crests have fallen,
gliding still on uneasy shifts
in tumultuous winds and their calling.
Growling, angry, red faced fire (‘fire like you’ve never seen’,
there’s never been such a fire; a good fire!)
seats the ferment of a land’s
crackling glories and scattered chances
all swept by a wretched, wounded hand.
In today’s time of glorified turmoil,
we see full horror at first glance;
faced with egomania, now a common aura,
and with this disease, we have no chance.
Summer is hushed now
Autumn’s lowly howl murmurs
Bring on the chatter?
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.
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.