Category: Poetry

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The Cry Left Unheard

I feel myself unfolding,
As the life that I am holding
Slowly slips away.

The demons that I’m fighting
Pull their ropes, forever tightening,
And I drown a little more each day.

Into the depths I’m sinking,
Endless darkness leaves me thinking
That I’m better off this way.

I cannot pull myself back out
From this pit from which I shout,
At demons I can never slay.

But nobody hears me calling
To the depths of hell I’m falling,
Deaf ears are my life’s dismay.

I do not wish to struggle anymore,
Beneath the weight of those who left before,
I cannot go on this way.

So I say goodbye to you,
My descendants, tried and true,
“I love you” is all that I can say.

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The River of Lies

The gaping mouth of the waterfall
Is fed by the River of Lies,

A black current flowing endlessly
With the tears of the suffering.

Its waters never cease,
Cascading day and night,
Even beneath the surface,
Where unseen currents drag the unwary downward.

Above the torrent,
Liars drift effortlessly,
Feeding greedily upon their victims,
Then basking fat and bloated
Upon the shore.

Below them,
The deceived are swallowed by white-capped waves,
Held fast by chains of loyalty
That bind them to their fate.

Their broken bodies
Are burdened with stones of deceit,
Dragged beneath the current
And swept over the falls.

Cast upon the rocks below,
They awaken from their dreams

And face the terrible reality
Of a new day’s sun.

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Just Another Tuesday

With one last exhale, he steps from his doorstep and into the inky black darkness outside,

His body begins to rise gently in the warm black scentless air, slowly drifting up into space.

He always felt that his front door led to the end of the world, and he was correct.

Crossing his feet together, then arms across his chest, he closes his eyes and lets the drift take him,

Within moments he’s in the atmosphere, still, no longer rising, there above the earth he hovers,

Invisible currents gently tug at him as his body floats in orbit above a bright glowing world below,

There is a serene internal warmth, a comfort, no more pain, stress, or sadness, a feeling of relief.

The glowing warmth of the sun reflecting from the earth below him doesn’t last however,

He feels himself violently tugged into the darkness behind the earth, cold and anxiety fill his system.

Now in complete darkness, he begins to fall back into the dark world below him.

There’s no heat as he re-enters the atmosphere, but he begins to freeze, blinded by ice and darkness,

Rocketing downward like a human missile aimed at his own rooftop, at impact he opens his eyes. He finds himself standing inside his home, hand on the front doorknob as he prepares to leave

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Sleeper Beneath the Mountain

Asleep, yet never truly sleeping,
She lies within the Black Range.

Her breath is a distant rumble,
Felt deep within the bones of the earth.

For six thousand years she has waited,
Coiled beneath stone and darkness,
Her fury subdued by the mountain
That serves as both prison and tomb.

Every crack of thunder
Is a cry from the heavens,
The voice of a distant prince
Longing for the one denied to him.

Beneath forests ancient and deep,
Beneath peaks crowned in shadow,
The Serpent Princess slumbers.

Above her,
Lightning bridges earth and sky,
A fleeting touch between lovers
Separated by the ages.

She is worshipped by the Cult of the Serpent,
Whose rites and offerings
Keep the ancient sleeper bound.
For they fear the prophecy.
They fear what will happen
Should she awaken.

Far beyond the stars,
Her leviathan prince waits.
His heart is forged from stardust,
Shadow,
And grief.

With every passing century,
His sorrow grows.

Two mighty serpents,
Fire-eyed and scale-clad,
Kept apart by those
Who fear their union.

But no prison lasts forever.
A day will come
When the mountain cracks,
And the ancient princess rises.

Then her prince shall descend from the heavens,
And together they will unleash
Doom upon the world that divided them.

Oceans will boil.
Mountains will fall.
Cities will vanish beneath fire and flood.
All life shall perish
In the wake of their reunion.

And when the prophecy is fulfilled,
The Serpents will depart.

Beyond the stars they shall return,
To the realm of the Ancient Ones,
Where time has no dominion
And darkness stretches without end.

There,
Far from the lifeless husk of Earth,
The lovers will coil together once more,
Never to be parted again.

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Ocean of the Dreaming Mind

Closing your eyes, you exhale the stale air of the day’s hurt,
The clean, cool new air of home replaces the sickly, anxious heat,
You are wrapped in your safe darkness, your sanctuary of solace,
The darkness behind your eyes begins to erupt into a misty haze of colour,
You feel yourself begin to lift, and light as air, your mind begins to drift,
Your journey to the kingdom of colour, across the ocean of dreams, has begun.

You float slowly, facing the stars, as time, planets and reality slip from sight,
You feel the breeze as you speed across a calm ocean surface,
Eventually slowing as your mind makes landfall, crossing a coast into fields of azure,
You drift slowly above fragrant flora, and a pink sky spirals into cool blue clouds above,
As the warmth of the sun embraces you, caressing your skin,
You begin to rise, the stars reveal themselves, sweet fragrances fill your senses.


Gently, you begin to spiral, drifting through space, your toes leading the way home,
Time passes, the drifting gently ceases, and you float weightless, motionless,
Below you lies your sleeping body, open and peacefully awaiting your return,
You gently roll, floating back into yourself, your mind cleansed by the journey,
The colours cease, you open your eyes, and once again breathe the cool air of reality.

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Beyond the Screaming Arch

Just one slip into unconsciousness.
Beyond a screaming archway drowned in ocean water,
Razor-sharp thorns pierce the skin and draw the blood.

Black blood drifts from the wounds like storm clouds in salt water.
Serpentine tentacles grip, tug, and constrict,
Dragging the world down into the darkest shadows of sleep,
Ito the realm of desolation and despair,
Doom absolute, engulfed by the blue-green deep.

Here we sleep,
Floating,
Lifeless,
Motionless.
Struggle is over.
Everything here is silent,
Cold,
And still.

Yet the stars above continue to shine
Upon that false calm surface.

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The Clockwork Boy

There was a clockwork boy, with a clockwork heart,
He tried to be like the other kids,
But he felt different from the start.
They would run and play together and seemed to be as one,
But the clockwork boy could not join in,
For he felt sad and that was not much fun.
He’d wear a different mask each day to trick his clockwork brain,
But his clockwork heart was broken,
And he soon felt sad again.
He met a girl with a golden key, that she used to wind his heart,
And the boy never wore a mask again,
For she was clockwork just like him, and they would never part.

I thought I'd try my hand at a poem for younger people, I grew up with the poems of the late Doug Macleod, whom I got to know in later life.  This was inspired by his book  In the Garden of Bad Things, the very first poetry book I ever owned as a small boy. I like the rythm and the fun of this type of simple poetry, and while I'm doing my best to develop my writing on this site,  I think I'd like to explore this area further.
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One Step Away

My mind feels too much pressure, the outside world has gone insane,
There’s information overload being crammed into my brain.
No matter how I try I cannot turn off the constant digital grind,
Of useless information that will never nourish my mind.

I’d like to disconnect permanently from information age damnation,
To just enjoy some days of peace, without constant irritation.
I’m unlike those out there, without a clue or a personal identity
I have always known who I am, and what is best for me.

I’m a quiet man, in a quiet place, with the person that I love,
Yet outside opinions won’t be silent, down my throat they want to shove.
All their points of view, and constant need for instant gratification,
Just keep it to yourself, I don’t care about your social misinformation.

I’m stepping away from screens where I can, and the bitterness they spread,
I’ll spend time with art, books, and music, interposing a little peace inside my head.
Technology is a creative tool for good, not a projectile to spread social dissension,
From now you’ll find me one step away, in my quiet place, while your mind is in detention.

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Why 6 is a lonely number

The device in my hands writes to distraction as my stomach awaits nourishment,
A swirl of competing sounds battle with foreign voices from another room,
A stove top crackles as a radio competes for audio supremacy against a crying infant,
The radio noise is soon defeated, as voices rise and fall comforting a now content baby,
I feel heat, as fire belches from the stove top while the contents of a large pan are tossed.

As I write, Customer number 6 is shouted aloud in a thick accent not typical in this area,
A surprise to me considering I’m the only person waiting patiently in the shopfront. 
I check the small receipt in my hand and notice the number ‘6’ crudely printed in blue ink,
And wonder why I’m only the 6th diner to call into this quiet place on such a busy Street?
This is a struggling family, but the low number is on my mind while I stand and pay for my meal.

Once collected, I thank them for their custom, my smile is genuine, as is theirs in return,
On dark days like these, I wish all who work hard for so little reward, the brightest of futures,
They strive to create a new world for themselves, not unlike their infant, they also seek contentment.

I bid them farewell, the husband smiling, the wife exhausted, the infant crying once more.
Beneath darkening clouds, a cool wind blows, so I find a quiet place to sit and dine,
I eagerly open my food, and again ponder the lonely number six printed on my receipt,
A mouthful confirms what the plastic lid can no longer conceal, yet the rubbish bin now knows.
Hard work, smiles and hope, do not always make a good cook.

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Isle of the Dead

Adrift upon a silent lake,
A lone figure lay bound
In gossamer shrouds.

The cloth that wrapped them
Had embraced countless others before.

Cast out by unseen hands,
They floated upon an oarless boat,
Carried toward an unknown shore.

Mist smothered the water,
Blanketing the sky above,
Heavy and pale.

Their senses were as blind to the stars
As the dark water was
To the moon’s reflection.

Then, through the gloom,
An island emerged.

Ancient trees crowded its shores,
Held at bay
By a weathered stone gate.

The vessel’s course had been true.

It glided into dark wet sands
That silently welcomed its passenger.

The gate slowly opened.

Great thorned trees bent and creaked aside,
Revealing a hidden path
Into the heart of the island.

Then the figure moved once more.

No longer by boat,
But borne aloft
By the invisible hands of the mist.

Through the shroud,
Dark branches stretched overhead,
Like great cracks
Across the moonlit sky.

Behind them,
The distant gate groaned shut.

The trees creaked back into place,
Erasing the path they had travelled.

The moonlight faded.

The mist thickened.

And the lone traveller drifted onward
Into nothingness.

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