cold pastel colours
the heliacal rising
a quiet morning
Tag: poetry
A Martian
that rust-red planet
from the moment he could walk
Mars was once his home
unable to sleep
watching the stars and the sky
longing to return
Sky Man, a Martian
with a soul made of red earth
longing for something
Echoing Shadows
The waning fire smoulders
They gather in the distance
voices from another time
deep shapes move towards the fire
shapeshifting metamorphoses
gather strength outside the circle
waves of gooseflesh stir the spirit
light and drums beat in the distance
from the cursed forest cathedral
Low Tide
Carrying a spade and a bucket,
towards the clear, shallow pool.
A baby crab kicks up some sand,
and a fish, startled, tries to flee.
Her small hands are not unkind,
for she does not wish them harm.
Running around the crystal pool,
squealing and waving her spade.
Magical Book Nook
Fairies and a forest live on the
walls of the reading book nook,
where imagination takes over.
She sits unencumbered by the
constraints of religion and ideas,
for the ancient ones know her.
Sitting surrounded by stories,
the nook comes alive in the rain,
and the painted forest is alive.
The Log
The warm embers of what was,
a smouldering log glows.
All around the log of you,
there lies the darkened ash.
You, continuing to burn,
the ash of what has been.
The Fireflies do support you,
dancing around your glow.
The log of you splits apart,
igniting your life fire.
The Associate
Bored to frowning at the desk,
another client on call and grumbling.
Driving to work with music,
a different side to this morose frump.
The office Teams message bell,
directing all staff to go and eat cake.
The Associate walks in,
we all know that you will become like us.
Neon Lights
The neon lights of the city,
1 am feels like 8 pm.
Moving and flashing adverts,
constant stimulation.
Another coffee in the city,
time is meaningless.
Sleeping when possible,
working long hours.
Dancing to sound bites,
constantly wired.
Paper
Born of wood, I became paper
steel keys imprinting ink upon my skin
signed with ink, and read for a while
folded over once, enveloped, posted
I come with no expectations
The reader was wise and opened my folds
Briefly, my words capture his gaze
Binned with used paper, I am no more: PULP
Faroe Dreaming
A picture of the Faroe Islands on the screen.
Work calls you back, yet the picture leaves you with a monetary conundrum: to walk away or stay.
Wind chiselled landscapes of rugged rock, green and the ever-present sea moving in and around.
You stay for your cat, yet long for the sea.
C & K 