Poetry – Page 3 – Dan Verkys

July 9, 2026July 10, 2026

The Adventures of Henley Marcus-Walker

On the twelfth night,
When crimson lamplight
Burned quietly
Against the rain,
And Selwyn Lane
Remembered
What daylight always forgot,
A familiar figure
Came stumbling
Out of the mist.

Not quietly.
Never quietly.
His stained safari trench coat
Hung from narrow shoulders
Like a weather-beaten tent.

A battered pith helmet
Sat defiantly
Upon a head
That had spent
Far too many years
Arguing with jungles.

Whether trousers
Lay beneath the coat,
No soul
Could honestly say.

Only long beige socks,
Mud-caked gaiters,
And great brown hiking boots
Introduced themselves
To the cobblestones.

Across his chest
Hung a worn leather satchel,
Heavy with impossible things.

A feathered serpent
No larger than a sparrow.
A taxidermied rodent
Bearing six glass eyes.
A butterfly
With transparent wings
That refused
To collect dust.

His silver hip flask
Appeared
Every few minutes.
Its curious contents
Smelled faintly
Of formaldehyde,
Mentholated spirits,
And regrettable decisions.

He swallowed deeply.
Smiled.
Then announced
To nobody in particular,

“They’re close tonight.”
“WHAT?”

The shout echoed
Along Selwyn Lane,
Disturbing only rainwater.

Daniel Hargraves,
Watching from his velvet alcove,
Did not flinch.

He simply inclined his head.

“Good evening,
Mr Marcus-Walker.”

The old explorer
Studied him suspiciously.

“You’ve not seen
The Moustached Guenons,
Have you?”

A pause.

“They’ve become
Exceptionally organised.”

Another pause.

“They’ve formed committees.”

Hargraves merely opened
The heavy black door.

“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”

Marcus-Walker
Saluted gravely.
Then leaned close.

“There are alligators
Beneath your floorboards.”

“There are not.”
Hargraves dryly responded

“They’re extraordinarily patient.”
Henley snapped back,

“They are also imaginary.”
The bemused doorman responded

“So are taxes.”
“WHAT?”
He shouted as he wandered inside.

The library welcomed him
As it always had.
Books changed hands.
Secrets travelled softly.
Collectors gathered
Around velvet tables,
Examining impossible curiosities
By candlelight.

Marcus-Walker
Produced his latest treasure.

“A melancholy mongoose
Discovered
Near the upper Congo.
Notice
The expression.”

The assembled members
Examined it
With scholarly seriousness.

One offered
A first edition.

Another,
An ivory sextant.

A third,
A bottle
Containing rainwater
Collected
During an eclipse.

The bargain
Was concluded
With solemn nods.

“WHAT?”
Marcus-Walker shouted suddenly.

Nobody reacted.
Everyone had grown accustomed
To the interruption,
Like an old clock
Striking
At entirely the wrong hour.

From somewhere nearby
Came the unmistakable sound
Of an entirely deliberate
Explosion of flatulence.

Marcus-Walker
Turned furiously
Towards an empty chair.

“There!”
He cried.

“I warned you!
The Guenons
Have followed me again.”

Several members
Looked politely
At the vacant seat.

One even frowned,
As though
The invisible monkeys
Had committed
A genuine breach
Of etiquette.

Edgar Brillows
Placed a fresh glass
Before the old traveller.

“I trust
Your treehouse
Remains secure?”

Marcus-Walker nodded gravely.

“Twenty-six feet above ground.”

“The alligators?”
the barman offered

“Ah ha! powerless.”
Henley replied,

“And the Guenons?”
Brillows continued,

“They’ve mastered the bloody ladders.”

Brillows
Considered this carefully.
“Disturbing.”

“Profoundly.”
Marcus-Walker laughed.

Not a chuckle.
Not a smile.
But a roaring,
Wild,
Untamed eruption
That rolled through Nocturna
Like jungle thunder,
Leaving every candle
Momentarily uncertain
Whether to continue burning.

Hours drifted by.
Stories were traded.
Impossible maps unfolded.
Curious specimens
Changed custodians.

The night,
As always,
Passed unnoticed.

Then,
Without warning,
Marcus-Walker
Spotted
An elegant figure
Crossing the foyer.

Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Impeccably dressed
In black.

“My dear lady!”
He declared,
Removing his pith helmet.

“Might I interest you
In supper
At my treehouse,
Followed by…breakfast?”

The room
Became
Exceptionally quiet.

Daniel Hargraves
Slowly turned.
Marcus-Walker
Peered more closely.

“WHAT?”
A silence.

Then another.
“My profound apologies.”

Hargraves sighed,
The sigh
Of a man
Repeating
A familiar ritual.

Once again,
He escorted
The distinguished explorer
Towards the entrance,
One enormous hand
Resting gently
Upon his shoulder.

Marcus-Walker
Accepted his fate
With surprising dignity.

“Those damn Guenons
Set me up.”

“I’ve no doubt.”
Hargraves smiled

“They’re awfully vindictive creatures.”
Marcus-Walker was
becoming disorientated,

“So I’ve heard sir.”
Hargrave replied politely.

Outside,
The rain
Had begun again.

The crimson lamp
Burned steadily,
Watching the old eccentric
Disappear
Into the sleeping city,
Laughing wildly,
Arguing
With invisible monkeys,
Pausing
Every hundred yards
To shout,
With absolute conviction,

“WHAT?”

July 9, 2026July 9, 2026

The Mystery of Draker and Ververs

The two older gentlemen sat together,
Clad in velvet smoking jackets,
Their pipes sketching wild flourishes
Through the candlelit air
As though conducting
An invisible orchestra.

No subject was ever considered too peculiar.
The phases of forgotten moons.
The etiquette of ghosts.
Perfumes bottled from thunderstorms.
The proper attire for melancholic ravens.
Dreams that refused to belong
To the dreamer who dreamt them.

Outside,
Moonlight silvered the garden.
Inside,
Candles painted warm gold
Across polished timber,
Crystal and brass.

A great, black-framed bay window,
Overlooking Nocturna’s private exotic garden,
Had long ago become
The exclusive preserve
Of Mr Draker and Mr Ververs.

Once each month,
Without fail,
They occupied these armchairs
For the entire evening.

They would speak for hours,
Their conversations wandering
Like old forest paths,
Interrupted only by bursts
Of irrepressible laughter.

Whenever their teacups emptied,
They summoned Mr Rook,
Who appeared with quiet precision,
Bearing fragrant teas,
Fine spirits,
Or whatever curious refreshment
The evening happened to require.

Seamus Draker wore colour
With unapologetic enthusiasm.

His dark hair was cropped short,
His blue velvet smoking jacket immaculate,
His slippers embroidered
With his own monogram,
His white shirt crowned
By a paisley blue cravat.

His eyes possessed
The rare gift
Of smiling before
His mouth ever did.

Dante Ververs
Was fashioned from darker cloth.

Black from collar to cuff,
Broken only by
A discreet grey polka-dot pattern
Upon his collar.

Brow rimmed spectacles sat,
Above his curled silver moustache
And neatly pointed chin beard
Which rarely remained still,
For laughter constantly persuaded it
Into motion.

Throughout the evening,
Mr Draker would occasionally
Drop a tiny morsel
Onto a small silver plate
Resting beside his chair.

Moments later,
A black nose
Would emerge cautiously
From beneath the heavy tablecloth.

A morsel vanished.

Then so too
Did its mysterious recipient.

No member of Nocturna
Could confidently say
What breed
The tiny brown dog belonged to.

Nor did anyone know
Its proper name.
Mr Draker addressed the little creature
Only with “bella dolce”.

As with many things
Within Nocturna,
No one thought it wise
To ask why.

This evening’s discussion
Concerned an exceedingly delicate matter.

Whether abandoned umbrellas,
Left to weather beneath cemetery trees,
Eventually forgot
The names of the people
Who had once carried them.

Mr Draker maintained
That every umbrella retained
The final conversation
It had overheard before being abandoned,
And that, during sufficiently heavy rain,
One might still hear whispers
Escaping between their ribs.

Mr Ververs disagreed entirely.
He insisted
That forgotten umbrellas
Did not remember voices at all,
But instead became
Custodians of misplaced coincidences.

Lose one beside a grave,
He argued,
And somewhere else in the world
A stranger would suddenly remember
A birthday
That had never truly happened.

The debate continued
With extraordinary seriousness.
Notes were taken.
Diagrams were sketched
in pocketbooks.

Three impossible theories
Were proposed,
One carefully withdrawn,
And another unanimously condemned
As being
“Entirely too sensible.”

At last,
The candles had shortened,
The pipes had cooled,
And the garden beyond the glass
Had surrendered itself
To the final hours before dawn.

The two old gentlemen rose together,
Smiled warmly,
And embraced
With the familiarity
Of cousins
Who had shared
A lifetime of impossible conversations.

Their hats were collected.
Their coats buttoned.

Outside,
Two polished black carriages
Waited patiently
At the kerb.

Mr Draker climbed into one.
Mr Ververs into the other.

With a final exchange
Of cheerful waves
And promises
To continue the argument
Next month,

The carriages departed,
Rolling into the sleeping city,
Each disappearing
In opposite directions,

Leaving only the fading sound
Of horses upon wet cobblestones,
And one unanswered question,

Had the umbrellas
Been listening all along?

July 9, 2026July 8, 2026

Somnamublist

For five consecutive nights,
They have risen.
Dressed.
Left the house.
Moving with quiet certainty,
Functioning
Like everyone else.

The city never sleeps.
Its streets remain alive,
Bathed in the cold fluorescence
Of trains,
Streetlights,
And convenience stores.

Humanity continues,
Relentless.
Insanity,
Open all hours.

Among the midnight crowds,
The Somnambulist walks unnoticed.
They board public transport.
They wait at crossings.
They wander forgotten laneways
Until dawn begins
To soften the skyline.

Nobody questions them.
Nobody suspects
That although they left their bed,
They never truly woke.

The body walks.
The dream continues.
The sleeper exists
Within two worlds at once.
The waking world.
And the dreaming one.

When the Somnambulist
Finally opens their eyes,
Morning greets them
With unfamiliar streets,
A racing heart,
And hands
Still wet with blood.

They cannot explain
The crimson stains,
Nor why a fifth broken body
Lies silently
At their feet.

July 7, 2026July 11, 2026

The Frenchman

Sharp-eyed,
With a slender cigarillo
Balanced effortlessly between his fingers,
Marcell Carreau
Surveyed the room.

Nothing escaped him.
Not an empty teacup.
Nor an unopened bottle.
Nor a guest
Waiting patiently
For quiet assistance.

From the rear of Nocturna,
The dashing Frenchman
Conducted the evening,
Not with music,
But with people.

A subtle gesture.
A raised eyebrow.
A quiet word.
An attendant appeared.

A book was delivered.
A glass of wine replenished.
A question answered.
The evening flowed,
Almost unnoticed,
Exactly as intended.

No member could say
How long Marcell Carreau
Had managed Nocturna.

Long enough,
It seemed,
To become part of it.

Patrons delighted
In his company.
His wit was effortless.
His manners impeccable.

His conversation
As carefully measured
As a fine vintage.

He dressed
With unmistakable precision.

A tailored black
Three-piece suit.
A black silk shirt.
A black bow tie.

Upon one hand,
A heavy gold signet ring,
Its ruby catching
The lamplight
As he greeted another guest.

His neatly groomed
Handlebar moustache,
Dark pomaded hair,
And the tiny crescent moon
Tattooed beneath
His left eye,
Made him unmistakable,
Even among
Nocturna’s colourful members.

Around him,
The club breathed.
Books changed hands.
Artefacts found
New custodians.

Soft laughter drifted
From behind velvet curtains.

Ideas,
Dreams,
And impossible stories
Moved quietly
Through the room.

Carreau glided effortlessly
Between the booths,
Greeting old friends,
Welcoming unfamiliar faces,
Directing his attendants

Like a seasoned maestro.

He knew precisely
When to interrupt,
And more importantly,
When not to.

Exceptional attendants,
Such as Gideon Rook,
Required little guidance.
A glance
Was enough.

Satisfied that every guest
Had what they required,
Marcell returned
To his customary place
Near the rear of the room,
Where he paused,
and straightened the cuffs
Of his jacket.

He drew thoughtfully
Upon his cigarillo,
And with a quiet smile,
Watched another evening
At Nocturna
Unfold exactly
As it should.

July 6, 2026

Chaos Dreaming

Daily writing prompt

Is a little chaos actually good for us?

View all responses

There was a time
When every night,
I closed my eyes
Only to dream
Of chaos.

It taught me
To welcome
The daylight.
To be grateful
For another chance.
To be with
Those I love.

Those nights
Changed me.
They drove me
To create.
To question.
To rebuild.
To become better.

Without that chaos dreaming,
or that time of reinvention,
I would not be here today.

July 6, 2026

Encounter

Her eyes flashed brightly in the moonlight,

A hungry stare,

White fangs

Behind hollowed mouth,

Then,

The devouring.

July 5, 2026

Maybe Pains

Maybe it’s the late night,
Perhaps it is the headaches,
The anxiety.
Or simply,
the silence of winter.

I am struggling with melancholy,
It sits on my chest,
It weighs down my shoulders,
It grinds my teeth in the night,
And fills my lungs each morning.

Maybe it’s the late night,
Perhaps it’s all in my head,
All I know for sure is,
It’s time to go to bed.

July 4, 2026

Girl

Fourteen years ago,
in a tiny, crowded bar,
She looked back at me with a smile,
She was everything I was not,
Free, happy, and unafraid.

While Americans celebrated,
She taught me to be myself,
That being loved or loathed by others,
Meant nothing.

Even when arm in arm,
Beneath my umbrella
In the pouring rain
I knew.

That girls smile,
would be the quiet measure
Of my life.

And to this day,
it remains my only goal.

July 3, 2026

An Ending

At last,
The beast screamed,
Old black blood flowed,
From mouth and wound,
until its body fell still,
silent and lifeless.

They lay together.
Broken.
Silent.
Her staring eyes
Fixed upon the abyss.