Blue Room

I just want to sit in the darkened room
dwell with the shade until I find my way
through the valley of the faces,
eyes boring down to the basin’s bleed.

I’m biting down hard on my arms now,
trying to find a way to export the pain
but the surfaces are missing,
the waterline has risen,
every contour a threshold in ribbons.

My mind is a carpet of dry grass
leaving me with a sense of unease.
I’m following the tracks of tumbleweed
because thoughts ride tails of upbraided leaves.

I’m reclining on the mattress of eggshells,
shards from the birth of a great disease,
the sickness gives me rest
I am stretched upon the crest
anointed with the tar of a virgin breath.

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Idioglossia

Speak to me, for you’re the only one who could.
My wavelength bleeds into your spectrum
and wordlessly I send for you to receive.
These signals are flares beneath night’s facade.

I look into your eyes and echo your gaze;
manifestations of light dancing on your face.

I turn the shadows into sound
and sing as you look around;
the response is harmony
shared sonic symmetry.
This is the chant that shall abound.

Seeds into flowers planted from our tongues;
a chorus of petals painting cathedral walls.
Language is a prison and our voices are the key
but straightjacket alphabets cloak our thoughts within.

Music from our minds can propel us through the breeze,
we’ll thread the calling hymn from within our reverie.

I see your smile without the gift of sight;
register a presence with no spark of light.
I listen with a sixth sense,
the silence breeding suspense,
before I’m awash with your aural might.

Close your eyes and lay back on the ground,
reject every sense except incoming sound.
I will call out for you into the open air,
sing me notes of pleasure, fervour and despair.

Reverberating from me; a promise to always care.

Don’t Bring My Body Home

One thousand worlds stare down;
we don’t really matter at all.
But in that moment I could have sworn
we were a microcosm of colliding stars.

Crash against the rocks, exist again as a sea mist.
Pull me from the stream, the water then shall have me.
Don’t bring my body home.

Passing through the centuries;
this Earth imbibes all time.
The ground on which we stand
is saturated with moments.
We don’t really matter at all,
but matter’s not on my mind.

Stand beneath the sun, stain shadows on the stone.
Wrap me up in arms, I shall burn within my blood.
Don’t bring my body home.

Transcending all but time
was a world that mattered not.

Cruelest Hope

This is pathetic. I am pathetic. I am in love.

Like an angel perched atop the greyest cloud,
my heart in it’s hands to which I have avowed.
I promised not to long for joy and love,
lest I displease the holy Gods above.

The scales of judgement offer me no mercy.
My mind is clouded and my view is dirty,
but when I promised that I’d be good and true,
I never anticipated falling in love with you.

Now it’s a story repeated many times before;
we never know what these feelings were for.
But it’s a hot desire replete with adoration
with the underlying coolness of admiration.

Can you tell that I tremble when I talk to you,
balk with humiliation when you leave the room.
But I’m left with such a deceitful possibility
that you might be invested in it for me.
These thoughts are treated with incredulity
but every single day I still hope that you’ll see
that I’m pining so pathetic and obviously,
for you.

Beyond The Stained Glass

This is a poem about someone who has been fascinated by what they have read about the Renaissance in books and what they have seen in paintings. They are totally entranced by the beauty of it and they would like to go five hundred years back in time to Italy and see it for themselves. This poem imagines that they have found themselves there and have found it to be a more complicated place than the picture they have been presented with. A place of danger and persecution, as well as artistic and intellectual enlightenment.

I’ve only seen the Renaissance in books and frames,
and in my mind this is such a great shame.
If I could charter a ship and sail through time,
I would talk with all of the great thinkers and minds.

Be a muse for Da Vinci and even more for Botticelli,
then return and wonder ‘have I lived once already?’
See a face in a painting that’s awfully familiar,
yet I’d just put it down to someone similar.

Dante’s circles may not be quite my thing
but neither are the angels that do sing.
Florence is hot in this Summer of flame
I must take care to not join this game.

I gaze in wonder at the grand ships of trade
but I remember the woes of those enslaved.
Who paid for the splendid basilica dome?
How much blood was sold to construct Rome?

I bring to mind what Machiavelli said,
keep yourself alive and bow your head.
These are the cities where the saints do sleep,
I should go home lest I wander too deep.

Spider Silk Stars

This poem is something of a reflection of myself but I also believe that it is a reflection of society and it’s expectations in general. We dress up ambition and encourage it as much as possible but then refuse to talk about the pit-falls that may come with it. There are some that achieve their dreams, but it’s undeniable that some don’t get to do what they want with their lives, and it’s not for want of trying.

The constellations are made of spider silk;
a phantasmal web of alluring illusion.
Held in place by ephemeral orbs of light,
before the glittering beast consumes your delusion.

Phosphorescent was the monster who did beguile
with predation beneath a shroud so shimmering.
With deals of deceit and an alchemy so false,
the beginnings of a downfall were simmering.

The contract tethers you to a pendulum chain,
oscillation within the pull of a black hole.
The dice are rolled on the board of exploitation,
the cosmic expanse is playing for your soul.

You hold a queen of hearts and a peasants’ revolt,
no match for the marionette masters’ royal flush.
The puppet-string stars all stop to laugh;
it was a magnetic deal at first blush.

Gilese and Europa held sway over Summer,
but the snow globe of Winter was the Earth.
For the collapse of ten thousand fading stars,
only one shall reach it’s bewitching birth.

Melting Walls

Maybe some may say that his sounds like a strange acid trip, but I have never actually used such a substance. This is my sober mind, high on thought (I suppose), and perhaps reaching out into darker recesses of the potential of dreams. Where can they take us? And, more importantly, do they themselves have limits? How far can they bend the structures of sense, or does sense exist as a concept within the strictly unconscious mind?

I take footsteps down a hallway that doesn’t feel so solid.

Every move forward supported by condensed shadows,

as if I balance on a balcony of darkness.

A soul guided by a direction not yet chosen;

every second, I could plunge into unfamiliarity.

—-

Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

—-

Paintings are weeping the spectrum’s breadth,

the tears spiralling through the floor.

Where do the colours go when they flow?

Is there anything lying beneath me?

All I can touch upon is a staircase of air,

must I hold on? What will it be to fall?

Every move upwards makes the black sea rise.

—-

Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

This hallway’s a serpent, swallowing me,

but in the acidic darkness, this is a dream.

I daren’t move backwards, then I shall fall,

fall through the vortex and the melting walls.

—-

No one else inhabits this world.

I can see human figures glide past,

they’re just hollow reflections of a memory.

Entrapments turn into a wade of tar,

with naiads tempting me to wade further in.

—-

Liquefy my boundaries, splinter the doors,

if I fall to the dark then I will dream no more.

Without dimension, these are the moves I make,

don’t freeze the walls lest I am to wake.

This hallway’s a serpent, swallowing me,

but in the acidic darkness, this is a dream.

I daren’t move backwards, then I shall fall,

fall through the vortex and the melting walls.

The Man In The Sky

I wrote this about imagining the face of my boyfriend, almost projected into the sky. Even though he was far away, he could be behind the clouds and I could feel as if he were there; I could just look up and find him.

And it looks like a face,
in the centre of the sky.
Through a translucent space,
in the middle of the night.

You reign as cosmic lord,
in the valley of the dark.
Through a nebula fjord,
you’ve shot me that spark.

Through the prism you gleam,
with the spectrum you throw.
Enigmatic you seem,
you are the colours aglow.

Giving rise to the morning,
with clouds of snow lace.
For a love that is dawning,
over the wash of the waves.

Antemeridian

Although I cannot say I had a clear theme for this poem upon writing it, I now know how it evolved under the stroke of my pen.  It started out as a description of midnight, and the ephemeral worlds of dreaming, but then it took a historical slant; I empathised with those who could not afford candlelight, and without the modern invention of streetlamps, lightbulbs and other sources of artificial light. The day had to end with the dusk, and rise with the dawn.

The dusts of dreams released me into,
a time under celestial hegemony.
An embroidery of midnight velvet
bedecked with rhinestone scattering.
This is my reception to consciousness.

I’ve awoken to a reign of night.
I lie and face a tapestry,
animate in seraphic energy.
A fire flower travels the sky,
hot from the bow of Apollo.
Nobody knows where it shall go;
but they wish good fortune on it.

The darkness has veiled our land;
the sun has closed it’s petals of gold.
So we wait for the bronzing dawn,
and learn to fear the moon.