Poetry: Freedom Unfound

White arc riding
a splatter on our shores.
A froth finding
the centre of earth’s moors.

Purpose is its direction
purposeless, let it be
the white twinkles like diamonds;
let it be.

Be the glass, my mirror
shatters, cuts the light
bars cage me.

Their edges the Bell Jar
we yearn for.

The world is a collection,
a mourning of what should have been.
Watch;
there are things skulking in the sea.

Poetry

                ,       Frag      meant   ed                                                                               ,

Poetry: Affection

The clouds come loiter together again,
a sapphire blue veiled so discreet,
now drained to sustain the coming rain.

Shelter not in front,
only dusk plains ahead.
Behind, shimmering,
waves open yawning
with inescapable safety
but numb.

The horizon then;
tumbling in lachrymose,
or rumbling timidly.
Peaking or falling;

I can’t tell yet.

 

Poetry: Untitled 1

Jogging against the sunset appears to thrill,

Until you reach the ocean and cant swim

Fast enough. To escape the hollow black hue

Endure the tormenting shivers of sombre Siberian nights

and wallow giddily with the creatures of light.

 

 

 

 

Sketchbooks and Writing Poetry In Them.

I often doodle where I write, or write where I doodle. They seem to work off of each other, help me to find direction. Never do I draw too ambitiously when searching for ideas, the things above took little more than ten minutes. However I implore anyone who writes to draw and vice versa, I’m certain you’ll do better for it. If nothing else it focuses your mind and starts to fill the daunting white page.

Poetry: Dots On A Timeline

A thousand revolts stuck in history
know and unknown alike.
Blood spilt to avoid our own injury,
To keep our minds childlike.

I could be a sweet sparrow
traverse the endless blue,
never have I felt the cloud’s arrows,
seen an owl or thanked a horseshoe.

Instead I’ll wander through an endless wood,
in search of past Gods, beasts and men,
feel guilt in not accepting my freedom
only to realise I’m stuck in a corporate den.

Poetry: An Epitaph For The Modern Age

Here lies he, eyes so wide,
a bright screen set aside.
Virtual self in decline
but can now touch earth and pine.
Leaping up, on the wind he rides.
In regression, he comes alive.

Haiku: Worms Of Doubt

Does the worm worry,

That once it is split in two

it is never whole?

 

 

Or does the worm laugh?

When it is split forever,

a friend will be grown.

 

 

Haiku:The Soul Of Consumerism

My ego is hungry.

I’ve been starving it of late;

my soul is still gone…

Haiku: Desire

         A sweet way with words,

an addiction to strangers.

                         

                          Oh to be alone…