Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Awaken. Rise.
From the silence,
A deep droning horn blast echoes.
The grey sky fills with beating wings.
Chaos takes wing,
As countless ravens darken the heavens.
The Thunder Road splits and bleeds.
Ash rides upon the wind,
Concealing ancient secrets.
And a new traveller is born into purgatory.
Destined to wander.
Destined to learn.
Destined to follow forgotten roads
Through,
The Valley of Ashes.
The Thought Pond’s waters lie tranquil.
Its serene surface ripples
As large blue and yellow dream-fish
Kiss the water’s surface.
Golden sunlight dances across the pond
With a soft and lustrous glow.
At the water’s edge,
A dreamer sits.
They feel the warmth
Of the Dream Continent,
Gentle and embracing.
Content,
They empty the burdens of the day.
Thoughts pour from their mind
Into the pond below,
Filling it to the brim.
And the dream-fish feed.
Thought Ponds such as this
Appear when they are needed,
Offering dreamers a place
To sit quietly,
And release their troubles.
When their mind is clear,
The journey continues,
Through the wildflower fields,
Across the dunes,
Past the lighthouse
Upon the peninsula,
Into the Ocean of Dreams,
And beyond,
To waking.
Becoming successful in life
Is a deeply personal journey.
Like the sleepwalkers in my tales,
Each path differs.
No two lives are the same,
And so no two measures of success
Can ever be alike.
To keep my mental ship steady,
I rely upon simple things.
Routines.
Small achievable goals.
Daily milestones.
They are my safety net.
For me,
Success is reaching them.
Anything joyful or unexpected
That arrives beyond those routines
Is a gift.
A welcome bonus.
It may seem small,
But it brings a sense of achievement,
A quiet feeling of success.
I have learned to be wary
Of lofty ambitions.
The spirit grows weary
Chasing dreams
That were never meant for it.
Success for me
Is maintaining focus.
Meeting attainable goals.
Expanding them when the time is right,
Without overloading myself,
Without burdening my mind,
Without clogging the flow of thought.
If your foundation is contentment,
Everything else works more easily.
Life becomes manageable.
And from that foundation,
Other projects,
Other dreams,
May grow.
And remember:
Never do things
Simply because others are.
As Oscar Wilde wrote,
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”
Therefore any success you create,
Will be uniquely yours.
Beyond the roads of living men,
Where silence hangs like ancient mist,
Two great hounds keep eternal watch.
They neither sleep,
Nor hunger,
Nor age.
Their eyes remain fixed
Upon a single threshold,
The gateway
To the realm of the dead.
Some days I sit and hope
That somewhere in the world,
A little magic still exists—
Something capable of making
Cold science pause
And shake its head
In disbelief.
Little inspires wonder anymore.
Even the word itself
Feels worn smooth
From overuse.
The days of innocence and enchantment
Seem long gone,
As though the world
Has lost touch
With its inner child.
Yet the magic I seek
Is not found in tricks
Or miracles.
It is the magic of surprise.
The feeling that stirs
When you stand before
An ancient tree in a silent forest.
The energy that comes
From being among ancient things.
The magic of stories
Passed from one voice to another.
The magic of imagination.
I miss wonder.
I miss people
Who still believe in it.
I live in the real world,
But mine is very different
From yours.
Cordoned from the outside world by trees,
I sit,
A man beneath a blissful blindfold.
The rooms I keep are dark.
They leave no space
For distraction.
Windows cloaked in blackest velvet,
Drawn closed,
As I go about my business,
The business of imagining.
The scent of each room
Is as I wish it to be.
They look and sound
As I desire.
The artifacts of my life
Line shelves, cabinets, and walls.
Past lives and dreams recorded.
Every frame,
Every book,
Every ornament,
Holds a memory,
A fragment of dream
Extracted from me.
There is abundance here,
Yet beneath it,
Order.
Everything my eye settles upon
Serves a purpose.
As I shuffle from room to room,
Teacup and saucer in hand,
I am thankful
For the comfort and safety of
My home.
My sanctuary.
My castle.
My keep.
Fresh waters flow
From mountains high
To the valley below.
The winding Peace River
Threads through the valleys,
Through wildflower fields,
To the mouth
Of the Ocean of Dreams.
The wildflower meadows
Hold scents bold and beautiful.
Here the dreamer breathes
Freely and peacefully,
Surrounded by whatever fragrance
Their heart most desires.
By day beneath bright sunlight,
Vibrant colours bloom across petals,
Swaying gently in the sweet breeze.
At night beneath moonlight,
They shine just as brightly,
Glowing with unearthly brilliance.
Glistening mother-of-pearl stones,
White as starlight,
Rest within soft green paths
That wander through the fields,
From ocean shore
To mountain foot.
It is a place where the dreamer is content,
Grounded and whole.
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
Until they are ready
To journey home.
Upon the bank of a winding river,
That snaked its way
Through the Wildflower Valley,
Beneath the swaying branches
Of ancient willow trees,
A dreamer sat alone.
Glassy-eyed.
Silent.
Sullen.
Though songbirds filled the air with music,
And a brilliant blue sky stretched overhead,
Tears welled within their eyes.
Their bare feet skimmed
The river’s surface.
Large blue and yellow fish rose and splashed.
Waterfowl drifted gently upon the current.
Sweet floral scents
Rolled down from the meadows beyond.
Yet none of it reached them.
The dreamer wiped their eyes
And lay back among soft silver ferns.
Unable to take comfort
In the beauty of that moment.
For they had known loss.
And all the wonders
Of the Dream Continent
Could not outweigh
The sorrow carried within their heart.
For a time they remained there,
Listening to the river,
Watching clouds drift overhead.
Then slowly they rose.
With measured steps
They crossed the wildflower fields,
Trailing their fingers
Across blossoms of every colour.
The lighthouse stood waiting in the distance.
Beyond it,
A boat waited upon the shore.
A vessel bound
For the waking world.
The dreamer boarded silently.
And the Dream Continent faded behind them.
They soon awoke within their bed.
Morning light filtered through the window.
Their hand remained clenched.
Slowly, they opened it.
Resting in their palm
Was a single wildflower,
Brilliantly coloured,
And impossibly real.
I stood at a junction,
Knowing my fate.
Imprisoned within the Valley of Ashes,
There was nowhere left to go
But forward.
So I chose to explore.
Upon returning to the valley floor,
I was confronted with a quandary.
Before me stood Five Ways,
A junction where five roads
Split into five separate journeys.
At their centre rose a mound of skulls,
Bones and ash heaped into a small pale hill.
Seated upon its summit
Was an ancient creature.
Pale-skinned.
Legless.
Its face was withered and dry,
Possessing no visible features
Except for a vast black mouth.
Part hermit.
Part beast.
Long black hair hung across
Its bony chest
And swollen belly.
In one hand it held a long black pipe,
From which it occasionally drew a breath.
The smoke it exhaled
Seemed to thicken the surrounding mist.
Its other hand gripped
An ancient wooden staff.
Tattered strips of black and turquoise cloth
Hung from its length,
Hints of former splendour.
“Lost, are we?” the creature crackled.
“No,” I replied.
“I am beginning a new journey.”
The creature grumbled to itself
And drew deeply upon its pipe.
“Choose a path.”
A cloud of smoke drifted from its mouth.
“All paths from the Thunder Road
Return here eventually.”
It paused.
“When you return,
You will tell me of your travels.”
“Who are you?”
I asked cautiously.
“And why should I tell you anything?”
The creature laughed,
A sound like dry leaves scraping stone.
“I am the Keeper of the Path.”
Its staff struck the earth.
“I govern every journey’s end.”
A cold wind swept through the valley,
Lifting dust and ash into the air.
“From me,”
The Keeper said,
“You will learn why you are here.”
For a moment I considered the five roads.
Then I chose an eastern path.
Without another word,
I began to walk.
Behind me,
The Keeper drew once more upon its pipe.
Its eyeless face slowly followed my passing.
And so I embarked
Upon a new journey of self-discovery,
With the Thunder Road beneath my feet,
And storm clouds gathering above.
The mushrooms in our garden
Walk around at night,
Kicking over rubbish bins
And giving pets a fright.
Aggressive shrooms in gumboots
March beneath the stars,
Breaking flower stems for fun
As they stomp around the yard.
They poke them through the chicken wire
And wake the sleeping hens,
Then scamper off through moonlit grass
Before they’re caught again.
But they pay dearly for their mischief
When they fall asleep at dawn.
Where they tremble in their grassy holes
As I begin to mow the lawn.
