Passenger Pigeons

Matted and stygian feathers refuse to spread
in a sable surcoat of doom.
Bearing the emblems of ascendancy too soon;
How could our hubris have led
to such a portentous death?

Oracles abound with their looking glasses clear
and offerings on a plate.
But we consign them to the soothsayers of hate;
handicapped by our fear
we blind all of our seers.

Darkness is comforting when it works to cloud
a disruption soon to emerge.
A feigned surprise when the path shall diverge
unto roads unannounced
beneath constructed shrouds.

When steel-tipped wings shall graze the sun,
transient as a cresting wave,
all is consumed with no attention paid
to the damage we have done;
the bullets from our smoking guns.


Avowedly Private but Didactically Public

It’s a statement of grace,
it’s a show of good taste,
it’s a badge pinned to your shift;
of compartmentalised hurt.

Tell all about your energies as a result of your fine pedigree.
Turn away from what lies beneath with an inheritance of serenity.

It’s a fortune left untold,
it’s a story forged to be sold,
it’s a benchmark set too high;
a pack of institutional lies.

Mired in abject disassociation we create personas meant for emulation.
The aim is not for education but of idols for due supplication.

It’s physical and serene,
it’s digitally based doctrine,
it leans upon your thoughts
like you’re a train run off course.

Through the night into the day
there is a practice that must remain.
Into the dissonance of the chase
plunged into a public disgrace.

Pass The Burning Glove

This baton is made of burning steel,
searing with haste to pass it through
to another spoke upon the wheel.
The hand that holds is ice concealed
with a melting core just out of view.

To whom that bears the orb and scepter
or of the solemn gavel and mantle,
turn away and reject the spectre,
vaunt not the pick nor the prospector
to ensure our world is not dismantled.

For those who fall among the mass
who feel as would a grain of sand,
whatever shall be will come to pass.
Not a soul to think that they’ll be the last
to pass the burning glove to the next frozen hand.


I see a metropolis of swarming bees
with confiscated humanity
yet a hive of activity.
Within a necropolis of entropy
sundered from all ecstasy;
the heaviest of realities.

The horizon reveals another way;
the blue breaking of dawning day
shrouded in Summer’s haze.
The anchorite’s mantle begs me to stay
among desert sands ablaze
devoid from every passing gaze.

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.

The Estrangement of Fortune and Justice

I’m sorry that this isn’t anything to do with the ‘Deadwoods’ series that I had planned. I had written some things out for it, and even created some maps, but my life is a little bit too compressed at the moment to really write anything but patchwork poems that are unrelated – and even they are few and far between. However, here is one I’ve been writing over the past two days.

Adversity presents all with a domain
irrespective of the tools in our hands.
Weathered by time, remnants shall remain
of the creeping overgrowth we sought to restrain.
A fable charred into all living lands.

Some wear circlets of evergreen laurels,
others, crowns of willow that weep in Winter.
The fate of the garden of denizens floral
gravely imperiled; when the breeze turns boreal
petals shall fall watching sentience splinter.

And the passage through needle barbed woods
is transfigured by a footstep’s press.
Whether the path is patently understood
or just the phantasm of leaden falsehood
lies beyond the flair the traveler possessed.

On the pauper’s trail gnarled roots converge
when aspen leaves shelter the gilded few.
Concealed is the ground to which one shall emerge;
a verdurous meadow, perhaps a sweeping verge,
perhaps a scorched grove to be ambled through.

Extolled are all by a birdsong choir.
Hear the goldfinch cry or the starling sing,
unless the clouds darken and songbirds retire
for the vultures to come with a ballad of fire;
a strain to scourge every element of Spring.

Now bridged must be the whispering waterside,
where a vessel is docked for the sake of some.
The ferryman demands a levy to ensure your ride;
lest secure passage be sorely denied
leaving Stygian depths to chill you numb.

The wave’s crest caresses citadel stairs;
ascend, for you’ve completed your crusade.
Evading constantly a glorious glare;
a city within eternal solitaire,
bathed in the august pantheon’s shade.

Justice holds the seed in her hand
bequeathing each to a single soul.
Fortune plants it within soil or sand
fertilising flowers with odds unplanned,
as we fix our dreams to celestial poles.

A Nightfall Shared By All

This poem is Part I in the Deadwoods series. You can read more about the series in general here.

Usher forth the inversion of the clouds,
the sky shall now sleep underground.
Without reason is this ceaseless night;
the missing beacon that is moonlight.

When the sun slept it refused to rise
and the same was said for the other side.
Some say it resides with the dead,
dormant upon its grey funeral bed.

Trees in the breeze now shiver sadly
where they once danced all too gladly.
Animation in nature has come to a close
as the petals begin to fall from the rose.

Seething superstition has come to a simmer;
a saint has been made of every sinner.
The heathen now withdraws their disbelief
in the fear of whatever shall lie beneath.

It seems that our Gods have been lulled to sleep;
silence shall resound as the angels weep.
The church halls face now the abyssal doubt
when the chill of stark forsakenness abounds.

For now we watch the candles burn
because all clocks have refused to turn.
Time is told by the perishing wick
rather than the second hand’s faint tick,
as our minds cannot help but think
‘when shall we wither and become sick?’


I need something to get me back to you
when it seems that every call drifts within an echo;
when language finds the limit
and my heartbeats will pulse a chill.
I don’t want to lose you to the darkness of distance
but lessons I’ve leaned tell me silence is wisdom
so voiceless I must project my signal.

Lanterns in the sky
or a phoenix in flight.
I beg you to look up,
please just see the light.

The ocean is the world’s greatest thief
and you were no exception as you rode upon its wings.
I guess I was just borrowing you from the sea.
What’s taken’s now returned but don’t think I don’t believe
that you could see about the mountains and trees.

A single fleeting flare,
the moon’s dappled glare
flickering bright in the sky,
is seen from everywhere/
They’re asking you that question;
whether you could still care.

I’ve been burned by my beacons before.
I left them by the line of my shore.
I waited for the crest of each wave.
hoping it would return you again.


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.