My Poetry

Hey, this is what blogs are for, isn't it? Unleashing upon the unsuspecting world scribblings and verses that none would deign to read elsewhere lol

These are a few little ditties I though up years ago (pre-uni days for most). But, before I commence, I just have to say - go out and buy:

THE PENGUIN OF DEATH

by Edward Monkton. You shall not be disappointed! :)

And so to my ramblings. I tend to either write ten-page epics or short little ditties, this is a fumbling together of the latter...

Paper Gods

In books on shelves my gods are stacked,
In sentences, words and lines,
On every page is sanctity wrote
Encased: the antiquity of time.
My helpful gods and Celtic heroes
Fill the highest shelves,
Whilst down below I keep the beasts,
Fomorii, goblins, elves.
I could not break the pristine covers,
To preserve them, none are read.
So although these books are weighed with knowledge,
There’s nothing in my head.

Cast Away Feather Bay

Beyond the rolling waves, in the corners of my mind,
The thunder rolls in ripples on the lake of all mankind.
Somewhere in the recess of my pupil dotted eyes,
You can almost see the purple dawn of those forbidden skies.
Those are the realms of all I am – the waters I baptised,
The sound of love, of lust and dreams, the grit of silent cries.
Through my flesh, my blood and bones, beyond all mental thought
The hands of gods and demons in fires white-hot have wrought
This glimmer of existence – my inner, ‘sacred spark’
The part of dawn that lingers on and never knows the dark.

Right Worker

Under the stars beneath shadows blue
You work through the night to the dawn misted hue
Carefully threading those gossamer strands,
Working the waters ‘twixt fingers and hand.
Spinning the threads into intricate webs;
Feeding these dreams inside of my head.

Tasting the Rain

Glass beaded sky, lapis lazuli high
As blue as the moon in Indigo Rangoon.
Throw down your tears, weep to my song
Lacerate my mouth, bleed words from my tongue.

Charloteen

It was in the summer blazon when I first beheld her face:
Fresh as dew and brazen like a vixen to the chase.
She licked her fleshy tongue around the moisture of her lips
I felt my phallus throbbing to amend her wicked tricks.
She walked on air and water, she sang like bird and bear
But all of this was second to the golden in her hair.
My Charloteen, my wonder, my hussy harlot whore,
I would have paid a thousand pounds to taste the dress she wore.
Yet the funny thing about the girl, the part I almost missed,
It was not talk nor chatter, nor the numbing of her kiss;
The only part about her that I always felt so wrong,
Was that she danced for summer, but by autumn she was gone.

The Kite Man

In the evening of each day, a man stands: nameless, faceless;
Grey against a grey backdrop sky. A silhouette in the park.
From my high rise window, looking out across the communal kitchen
In my mind's eye I see a great figure, no less than a magician
Twisting invisible threads in his weather-chapped hands
Whilst above great eagles soar with wings of glinting colours:
Scarlet red, darkest blue, vivid turquoise and sunshine yellow.

Every evening of every day, a man stands: namelessly, facelessly
Cutting great lesions in the dulled clouds, to allow the colour through.