Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
I need a quiet place in my mind where I can be free,
Where there’s room to grow if the anger lets me,
I’m not a monster or an overly complicated man,
I just have my own problems, and I cope the best that I can.
When the night comes dark and cold, and I lay here awake,
I’m invaded by negative thoughts that I cannot shake,
Morning comes, no change of mind, no great revelations,
Just trains of thought leaving their inhospitable stations.
I even try to distract myself with guided meditation,
But my thoughts are so loud all I get is frustration,
With all this negative thinking, I’ll never be content,
Because at day’s end, it’s with my thoughts alone I have spent.
There’s a numbness and confusion upon me this morning,
Racing thoughts now follow, last night’s poison absorbing,
To feel human, to laugh, smile, and feel unrestrained,
Were the weak excuses that lead to this morning’s shame.
But today that numbness and guilt weighs on me like stone,
So, I’ll do my best to write a few words to bestow,
How I felt yesterday; angry, ugly, frustrated, useless and old,
And I gave in, drank the poison, and swallowed the story I sold.
Deep within yourself
Break the waves of a vast black ocean.
It stretches beyond time and space,
Beneath a sky strewn with distant stars.
In its fathomless depths
Slumbers the end of mankind.
Doom lies waiting there,
Tentacled and terrible,
Silent beneath the waves
Since the day it fell from the heavens.
Yet something stirs within the darkness.
An ancient awakening.
The waters are ice-cold,
And countless are their secrets.
Nothing remains lost forever.
The titan dreams no longer.
Soon it will rise from the depths,
And the world will remember its name.
For you are no longer
Its keeper.
