Category: Poetry

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A Thousand Dreams

A thousand memories, and a thousand dreams,
Hurtful ingredients adding sound to my silent screams,
Too long buttoned up, and for too long held down,
Battling imagined usurpers hunting my imaginary crown,
I fight alone through wastelands left barren,
Used and ridiculed, my mind is starved, left to famine,
After those who sort something from me all drank their fill,
I remain here in the dark, fighting apparitions still.

To save my heart and mind, I must be completely withdrawn,
I seek peace as I grow older, used, battered, and travelworn,
I lick my wounds, and I try to heal deep scars left within,
Those unseen by the world, not those left on my skin.
All these wounds that I speak of have come at a cost,
They are not badges of honour, but evidence of those lost,
Too many friends and loved ones have now left this place,
Leaving me unequipped to cope with the world that I face.

You read this now in a time of turmoil and of inner unbalance,
Where I drink poison to assist paying unknown psychological penance,
Filling my need to be numb, to fake happiness, to no longer care,
A thousand emotions, from a thousand thoughts I can’t share,
About things I can’t change, nor do I want to bring back,
From the lifetime of sadness, I’ve carried on my back.

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Starfall

Falling from the distant stars through time itself,

Into the deep cool waters of an ancient land,

Lost to all memory, a forgotten numen beneath the waves,

As eons pass the subsiding waters form a vast wasteland,

Miles of desolate emptiness, and beneath these ancient sands of time,

The star fallen sleeps, imprisoned within the dark restraints of dreams.

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Panic in the Dark

A second darkness falls with the night,
Slipping behind my eyes from the afternoon shadows.
A thick, greasy film that stinks of fear and sorrow,
An unwelcome parasite wearing the face of sickness.
Though its symptoms are familiar,
By night they become monstrous.
It comes when I am alone,
Painting fearful images upon the walls of my mind.
No matter how I try to cope,
The torment continues.
It enters my sleep,
Pouring thick black nightmares into my dreams.
Voices tell me I am dying,
Whispering sweetly into my ear.
A pain here.
A cough there.
Each another claw in its icy grip.
The only things that weaken it
Are company,
Distraction,
Or morning.
Tomorrow it will regroup
And return with renewed hunger.
My mind cannot rest.
The darkness feeds upon fear.
I know countless others welcome this stranger nightly,
Yet that knowledge offers little comfort
When I lie awake in its grasp.
It pokes,
Prods,
And toys with my emotions.
Morning light finally banishes the beast,
Forcing it to retreat.
Until tomorrow night,
When we battle once more
For control of me.

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Ode to Springtime

I’m thankful for the springtime
And how it brings our garden to life.

For the morning scent of eucalyptus,
The dew upon the grass,
And the warmth of country nights.

For afternoon sun showers
Drifting across freshly cut lawns,

And for the vibrant colours of flowers
That make me cherish the season more.

The songs of busy insects
And brightly coloured birds
Fill the air with gentle music.

And the sounds of springtime in the country
Are the finest I have ever heard.

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Below the Queen Tree

I cross my front garden to my favourite tree and sit down,

She has a thick leaning trunk and a beautiful green crown,

Soft grass at her base, welcomes my feet like an old friend,

The queen tree is the kind, a younger me would often ascend,

I’d climb to the top and feel the sun on my smiling face,

Above the world in her castle, my secret green hiding place,

Times have changed, and now I must admire her from below,

My bare feet in the grass, and the greying face of an old fellow.

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Path of the anxious mind

Forest walking,
Self talking,
Rain falling,
Birds calling,
Breath taking,
Hands shaking,
Alone feeling,
Strength stealing,
Anxious being,
Death seeing,
Tree crashing,
Claws slashing,
Teeth biting,
Beast fighting,
Blood dripping,
Mind tripping,
“I’m dying!”
Anxiety lying.

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On the Road Again

Well, here we are again, a new day, a new week, a new outlook,

The back of my mind wonders, ‘more from of the same old handbook?’,

There is a self-expectation that things will be better this time,

But each new day seems more energised than this mind if mine,

So, I make coffee, I pen these words, and I start to feel better,

I shuffle, not run at my morning, coffee’s the fuel in my carburettor.

I’m like an older car now, that takes more effort to start each morning,

I need to start with low revs, to avoid a red engine light warning,

I must be gentle and kind to my brain or I’ll suffer for it later,

Because there’s no roadside assist if I drive myself into a crater.

My engine’s still ok, but the bodywork certainly has a few dents,

I’m practiced at my job, and I can deal with what it presents,

I must remember I’m an older car now, and not a young spaceship,

So I strap in and slowly set out on this week’s mental road trip.

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The Drift

When the season in which you were loved fades,

When your worth is no longer considered,

When your importance to the world has withered,

The flowing water of life no longer cascades.

You will first feel there is a widening rift,

Your new exclusion speaks unseen deception,

Your once loved arms now starved of all affection,

This is what I refer to as the drift.

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Forest of the Mountain King

A great mountain looms above these antique lands,
Mysterious and proud, the stone giant stands.

Its snow-capped peaks possess a perilous grace,
Their icy crowns beyond the reach of any race.

Behind its back stretches an endless ocean blue,
While green and pastoral valleys flourish in its view.

Within its ancient forests, the air hangs thick and old,
Where towering ferns and giant mushrooms grow untamed and bold.

It is said the trees walk slowly across the forest floor,
Gathering in sacred groves to deliberate forest law.

If you remain unseen, you may hear their roots creep by,
The groan of ancient timber, the whisper of branches high.

But should they find you wandering beneath their emerald canopy,
Their wooden limbs will drag you down and crush you mercilessly.

Few creatures dare to enter this forgotten, shadowed place,
And those who do are seldom seen returning from its embrace.

So, choose with care before you tread the Forest of Dreams,

For the Mountain is King,
and the Trees are his soldiers.

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A Moment of Dreaming

In the distance, a crystal ship adorned with vivid white sails glistens against an azure sky,

The tranquil surface of the clear blue ocean invokes a serene feeling of comfort and home,

Soft white sand underfoot shimmers like powdered diamonds in the warm midday sun,

Closed eyes feel the radiating warmth, while a fresh ocean breeze caresses the hair,

The gentle washing of water onto the sand accompanies serenading white seabirds overhead,

The earthy scent of lush green grass and sweet wildflowers dances on the breeze,

This moment of dreaming, with its peace and serenity, is alien to the dreamer’s waken world