Poetry

The knife in the dark

Soft. I hear the toes spread, carpet fibres fill the spaces.

Weight gently shifted, one step as even as the next.

The air ripples along to where I am. The scent of blood, or is it merely iron?

My legs want to bolt, give away my position. I cannot let them.

Else the sharp will find the soft, and not even the dark can stop it.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Poem from snatched lines of a book

So much for the outer defences.¬†Suppose he hadn’t failed. Tried to hint at some of the reasons for the fact in its naked reality? They went together unanimously though shyly, without the need for explanations. Swans like to rest in this position. He got up quickly, but it seemed to him slowly, and went behind the other side of the tree.¬† The white flakes of wood lay all about him. He was one of those people who would never be a follower or a leader, but only an aspiring heart, impatient in the failing body which imprisoned it.

 

(Lines were taken from random pages in The Sword in the Stone by T. H. White)

Poetry

A little tale

Dark lets down its itching feet

to wriggle its toes in the springy grass.

It waves to Moon, who winks her encouragement,

and then it rushes down the hills to dance in the glades,

to leap onto roofs and chimney pots.

All night long, it can be seen merry making,

laughing with owls and chittering after bats,

but after so many hours of leaping about,

weariness rushes over it

and up to its bed it goes, dragging its feet back

under the orange sky.

Poetry

The Darkened Heart of Thra (inspired by The Dark Crystal)

Once, they were white roots that spread

from the heart of the world,

seeping life while chanting song.

The song of the earth, the song of the people,

connected, one. Sprouts no matter the ground.

But then the heart was trampled, torn

from what it loved

to hold up what it despised.

Shadows crept into it, whispers of malice

disguised as pure intent, and it was too gullible not to see.

The roots morphed into bulging veins

filled with poison, and there they bled out.

Poetry

Commute

They line up at the cliff edge, eyes on the storm clouds ahead,

nervously opening the umbrellas they’ve just been handed by the young assistant

about to direct them.

He asks a few questions, answers of which are stolen away by the wind

as it crawls through their mouths and hair.

Then he takes out a combined watch, compass and barometer, counts down

and gives a short pip of his silver whistle.

As one, the first group steps off the cliff

and catches the draft down to the city below,

floating serenely as their suitcases dangle by their knees,

carrying everything they need for arrival.

Another pip sounds behind them, and

briefly they wonder

how many the assistant has to guide today.

 

Poetry

Spirit Walker

The silent children nod their heads as it approaches,

jumping from the thin branches to hitch a ride on its reaching antlers.

Green spreads from each step it takes, vines spiralling

into unicorn horn points to warn off man

if he should venture too close to the gateway.

It kisses the flowers in the mushroom ring

when the moon spills down, greets the waiting oak,

and passes through with its precious cargo safe and free.

Poetry

The Walking Tree

The tree gazed at the disappearing ground.

It couldn’t stay there,

its nourishment would be gone.

So it gathered up its roots into vast legs

and stumbled its way across the

evaporating forest

to an area of neat grassland,

digging down to plant itself beside

the hive of two-legged beings

who spilt their freshly poured coffee

and ran to their moving metal boxes

to get out of its wake.