Bleeding Selfish

main_gp0stoe9i_meitu_1                                            Indonesian rainforests-Writingasitcomes

A rumble of silence creeps
into the veins of
tangible pain, numbing senses
temporarily
while corruption still tortures.

Our touch contaminates
until we sicken
nature’s soft noise –
drowning against
humanity’s sonorous roar –
animals need to sleep
amid our mess.

Tribes and wildlife and ecosystems need to exist –
amid our mess, not endure enforced extinction.
We have made some
of the biggest mistakes
of our existence.
But we are who we are,
and mistakes will happen
until we are no longer here…
amid our mess.

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In Remembrance

160714125244-9-11-memorial-exlarge-169Roses were placed by the mother of an architect who died during the September 11 terrorist attacks

 

Their darkness has no end
or majesty,
and when visions,
blurred by hatred,
cloud our judgement
or ability to heal;
there creeps still a lonely
dust.

Seven #Quadrille

 

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Quadrille for dVerse.  Other entries can be found here.

Black gossamer strands,
like grasping fingers,
pitch against
the brightest moon glow,
reaching and writhing
effortlessly, beckoning
wild, tepid winds of the night.
Silence bore chaotic sounds,
nature’s heartbeat
quickened as thunderous hooves
brought seven stallions
majestically to the bough of a leafy bend.

 

Sappho: a small tribute

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I speak rightly –
set not my words to music,
nor douse them in tune to vast breaths
of  tempests’
contemplative praise.

I am among you as mortal,
still.  But, please, breathe freely –
at least for a time,
then let me be to eager rests’
devoted arms –

of course your strewn petals,
benign at my feet,
speak calmly of foe and friend –
draw me close to your wondrous
adoration;  so separate me not from music’s glow

when such fragments tear you
into fractious, scattered pieces –
and so it is perhaps that great art’s worship
be confined to symbolic gesture.

I am not lost, and I am not gone
whilst echoes play
with such innocence
and voices call me.  I am translucent.
Gleaned from me is the skin you were denied.
I am always yours.  I am diaphanous.

Comment-a-Haiku Poetry Contest! – Submit Your Poem

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Baton

Summer’s scorched burnt tip
Pierces autumn’s bronzed winter
Till quenched by cool spring

Have a go!

Vita Brevis

You all loved the last Comment-a-Haiku Competition, so let’s give it another go! Here’s What You Need to Know:

Support Us Here.


Vita Brevis  is hosting another four-day haiku competition– taking place entirely in the comment section of  this post!

How to Submit:

1. Submit one 5-7-5 haiku as a comment on this post — all topics welcome

2. Reblog this post on your blog or write a post announcing that you’ve entered the competition, linking back here

3. Give good feedback on other commenters’ work! [This is what it’s really about–you’ll be receiving good feedback, so try to give it to others as well]

Reward: Honestly, this is less about “winning” and more about meeting and communicating with other poets.But we will choose some honorable mentions, and we’ll publish our favorite haiku on the front page of our online poetry magazine (with a link to the poet’s blog)

View original post 29 more words

Glossy Mounds

Roman ruins-Norse-conquest-castles-writingasitcomes

Where I live, we enjoy an eclectic mix.  It is an exciting blend of old and new, the ancient and ultra modern.  Walking through these ruins is normal; a day to day thing, which can easily bring thoughts to mind.

The history of Newcastle upon Tyne dates back almost 2,000 years, during which it has been controlled by the Romans, the Angles and the Norsemen amongst others. Originally known by its Roman name Pons Aelius, the name “Newcastle” has been used since the Norman conquest of England.

Glossy mounds undulate with a twink
of moonlight; our bleary eyes are drawn,
like it was a belly dancer,
whilst we are drunk on curves made of thin grass.

Interwoven in these slim nibs  –
dressing this long ago moat –
is the pungent whiff of Chinese supper
waiting downwind.

We pass through a maze of stepping stones
of old versus new build preservation –
thrilling as it is in historic glee –
it is incongruous.

Tall colleges stand,
proudly boastful of our burgeoning youth
and multi coloured accommodation, made of

clustered hives to radial cities, bungalow grids,
to streets in the sky.

‘I think it was a moat.
Now sullen, these sunken dips,
lend a sudden, glassy drop to a once watery bow.’

Fingers sink into refried chicken and potato wedges.

Sometimes, the erotic curves in those verdant hills
would creep out the bejesus in us;
those stealth foundations with concave battle scars
ramble through grass covered time –
just to please us.

‘Yes, it was a moat –
fit to protect sand and black scorched stone,
built to defend us –
slot eyed, fiery trebuchet eyes,
are now abandoned.
Pink Aubrieta grows from gaps in the stonework.
Its purple haze in springtime
replaces tough times and taught men,
but fails to conquer in the harsh daylight.

What happened here?
Why are you still here?
You’re surrounded!’

Surrounded by shopping precincts
and takeaways,
grungy shops, sales and annoying students
posing – unaware of history –
unaware of the iron cast helmets
photo bombing happily
beside toothy, selfie smiles,

never to be seen,
but still willing to bear the weight
just
to ghost your mirror images

mingling with us as we wander the city,
inebriated at tawdry o’clock; black cloud skies
illuminate us well enough, we Siamese twins
in couplet courtships
with evening’s drunken revelry
and wayward pranksters hurling crap
through the city after 11 o’clock
when the pumpkin crashes

collapsing into stale, regurgitated beer swilling in alleyways
where vomit wreaks.  And we are blissfully
unaware of the cobwebs that filter our
streetlights and in them, the spectres ogling
and smelling our high-street,
plastic, tubs of fried rice.

Parapets at the top of a wall,
that we regularly puke in
have regularly spaced squared openings
for shooting through;

we feel pain as mid morning approaches,
perhaps from the invisible arrows
of expert archers
darting randomly,
rarely missing our eyes,
always piercing our hearts – these stalwart wretches are still
fending off the barbarians –
early intruders to these
olde battlements –

weary warriors
always watching the river Tyne to the seas,
cloistered in heavy garb
as they fire and fight all night long,
trying to hold onto their ground
and secure the city walls…

but only until we, the true offenders,
go home and go to bed.

Apocalypse: the unanswered question (not)

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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?