Awake, but still dreaming, his eyes open to the sound of an ocean, Unable to move, paralysed, his bed is afloat on a vast churning sea, His face is cold and wet from wind and ocean spray, as he drifts, The bed is unsinkable, it rides atop undulating waves, As it mounts the crest of an enormous wave, the ocean falls still below it, The waves quickly dissipate, and the bed comes to a halt, Now in still waters, the bed finally begins to sink, falling away from him, Leaving his buoyant body floating unaided on a waveless sea with no land in sight, The sun rapidly falls, and is replaced by the brilliant light of a full moon, After what feels like an eternity, his body slowly begins to sink, As if gently pulled below the water by invisible hands, As his face submerges, the water surface freezes over instantly, His paralysis suddenly releases, and he begins to struggle, fighting for his life, He is pulled along by an undercurrent, as he bashes against the inescapable ice layer, Panic washes over him as he battles to access the air above the ice, But he soon succumbs to the cold and the water, his body floats motionless, His glazed eyes peer through the cloudy ice, up at sparkling stars above, As his body begins to silently sink down into the black ocean depths, His arms and legs float up before him, as he plummets into the deep, All light eventually fails, but he realises something isn’t quite right, He becomes calm as he realises that there is no longer a need to breathe, He slowly rolls his body over to face the ocean floor, As he sinks, he faces a black nothingness that disappears in all directions, He continues his descent, as countless time passes, Far down in the inky depths below, he can see an orange light glowing, He closes his eyes and allows the weight of his body to carry him down to the light, Upon opening his eyes, he sees light pouring from the mouth of a massive skull, The gaping mouth burns with an unnatural flame, that engulfs him as he enters, After passing through the enormous burning cavity, He’s now surrounded by the cool flame, and he continues to descend, His speed increases, as the underwater flames lick at his face, The cavernous space narrows into a small opening ahead, He manages to angle himself enough to pass through it, He soon feels himself burning through light and time, before being regurgitated, Spewing forth from a giant waterfall, that spills into a fine clear lake, After an ungraceful landing, he swims for the shore, As he pulls himself on to the stoney bank the ground begins to rumble and shake, The earth begins to collapse around him, landscape and lake fall into nothingness, A desolate world being swallowed by a black emptiness, The ground gives way beneath him, and he tumbles into the darkness, He falls screaming, his face is peppered by surface remnants, This new descent lasts so long that the cool air has time to completely dry him, Suddenly, a pure burst of white light erupts from below like an explosion, He averts his eyes to protect them, but the brightness engulfs him, Now blinded by light, his spinning fall comes to an abrupt stop, and he opens his eyes, To find himself staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom.
Sunday evening has arrived, rain lightly falls, and I find my mind adrift, Thinking of places to soar to, and using my imagination to write, ‘Hmm, this may take a while today’ I say to myself, My thoughts aren’t as pliable today as I would like them to be, It is being inflexible, a cloudy numbness and racing of thoughts combine, Creating a grey, washed out thought process, that isn’t producing, So, I’ll sit with it a while and observe, I need to change my energy, Perhaps a little music, Medwyn Goodall, the time of ‘new age’ isn’t over here, Drifting keyboards, a constant drum, beautiful, slow and methodical, A trilogy of albums begins, I lean back in my chair, I think and listen, The sound is soft, medieval, Arthurian, and luxurious, This is where my mind has been hanging out lately, Escaping from a stressful reality, self-loathing and worry, Lost in a pagan dream of early English folklore, Pan flutes and a soft synthesized choir swell, Yes, this feels ok, I won’t be crafting anything fancy tonight, Just documenting my thoughts and actions, which is ok, My racing thoughts remain viscous; however, I feel calmer,
Should I even attempt verse within prose? I’m not really sure how that would transpose, After the observational typing of thoughts, Jumping straight into a lyrical fire of sorts, Well, I’m doing it now and there’s no going back, I’ll just have to keep typing, and try to keep it on track, Medwyn’s music helps me with rhythm and rhyme, Softly and slowly his drum is keeping time, I should switch back to prose now and finish this ramble, Frankly, this entire poem has been a bit of a gamble.
Just writing thoughts is also creation, and my mind breathes easier, As Druid, Merlin, and Excalibur, Goodall’s Druid Trilogy, comes to an end, My mind jumps back to 1990, I’m 16, ordering these cassettes from a catalogue, That same year I found my first tarot deck, dressed in black for the first time, And I found a me that I was comfortable inhabiting, I didn’t quite hate myself then, My family were all living, it seemed peaceful, life was simple and uncomplicated, My mother had just been diagnosed with an illness, in four years, she would be gone, And after that, just like in Humpty Dumpty, all the Kings horses, and all the Kings men, Couldn’t put things back together again.
Although this may not be very imaginative writing, typing it was personally instructive. The power of music, and searching for the right words, managed to dislodge some suppressed and kind of uncomfortable memories. The surprise for me was having control over closing that door of consciousness before the train of thought ran itself off the rails like usual. That control is quite an achievement for a Sunday evening for me, so, although not imaginative, I do feel better for writing it.
When I close my eyes, there’s a place I go, Far beyond the dreaming sea, Where the calm still waters ebb and flow, And ancient druids call to me.
There’s a great circle of sarsen stone, Arranged to greet first solstice light, Where ancient secrets of the earth are known, And shared with followers draped in white.
In a lake of wonder a lady sleeps, Clutching a sword upon her breast, The water hides the tears she weeps, Waiting for her King to begin his quest.
I open my eyes, and I’m back in my own skin, I no longer feel the sickly weight of panic, I’m calmed by my kingdom of ancients within, And my thoughts are now less manic.
The mystery dreamland calls me now, As I try to stop my eyes from closing, I write this verse through furrowed brow, Time to sleep and stop composing.
My morning mind is lost in dreaming, Wandering forests where the creeks are streaming, Where the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people reside, Across a sprawling ancient countryside, Through forests up to Camels Hump, above the Geburrh ranges, And back down to Ngannelong, or Hanging Rock to visiting strangers, Where Kangaroo’s live in grassy fields, and their mobs all peacefully graze, Along-side foreign livestock who eat away unphased, By these original inhabitants who gracefully bound around, While the laugh of Kookaburras, fill the valley floor with sound, My mind wanders home again, across open farming lands, Back to my own small town, where my tree filled sanctuary stands.
I just wanted to post a quick thank you to those of you who have been supportive by leaving encouraging ‘likes’ for my writing, it is a really nice surprise. I’ve always kept myself very private, however through writing, I’m learning to voice some of my more chaotic moods, in addition to some fun creative writing that reflects my calmer moments. So thank you for your support and encouragement, I’m learning every day.
An anonymous thank you:
I thought I’d share the results of a recent book hunt, my thanks go to ‘anonymous’ for leaving a kind donation, it was lovely of you. As a result, I have procured a more robust copy of John Keats’ Poetical Works. My trusty old copy from 1895 has been loved to death, so this new (old) copy from Collins Clear Type Press will provide it a well-earned rest.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its lovliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Today I sat on the bank of a cool forest stream, And under lush green tree ferns, I began to dream, That I lived in this forest wild and free, And my home was the trunk of an ancient tree, I spent the day searching the forest far and wide, Returning home that night to comfortably hide, And admire the jewelled treasures I’d discovered, Then, the next morning when fully recovered, I followed the stream right up to the mountain, Where from its rocky edge a waterfall fountained, After drinking its waters and healing my soul, I read magical words from an old paper scroll, I thanked the mountain for its bountiful gift, Before sitting quietly to let my mind drift, To get home I imagined that I’d shrunk down so small, That I could float on a leaf, powered by the waterfall, I was delivered home safe, gentle and true, With a leaf for a boat and mountain stream as my crew, When I opened my eyes to the real world once more, I smiled seeing tiny footprints, and a leaf on the shore. Forests have a special magic, and as this daydreamer knows best, They’re a good place to put imagination to the test, So, lock up my daydream in your mind like a jewel, And may your trees grow tall, and your waters run cool.
Dan Verkys 